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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE WINTER DAY.

ADDRESSED TO R. S---, ESQ.
Now Jove in flaky snow descends;
A sounding storm the welkin rends;
Fountains and pools are all congeal'd,
And frost doth bristle hill and field;
Then, boy, with fuel heap the hearth,
Excite th'illumin'd room to mirth,
Spread on the board the smoking feast,
And from the wine-crypt bring the best.
See, see! how spatter'd thick and white,
The snow up-chokes the window's light;
Glass panes within are bright embost,
With pretty forests carv'd by frost:
And, hark! how o'er the chimney raves
The wind let loose from Norway's caves,
Scowling, as if with anger mad,
That we within should be so glad.
Come, come, my friend, and leave a while
Day's soul-absorbing endless toil;
Within, without, each sight invites
T'enjoy the chamber's boon delights;
The candles on the table glow,
The damask cloth outshines the snow;
Cup, wine-glass, platter, all are bright,
The very chairs shine out with light.
Without, the tempest lords it high,
As if his own were all the sky;
The snow-fraught clouds, low-hung and black,
O'er-scud the world with rapid rack;
Scarce in the streets a shiv'ring wight
Is seen, with nose all blue and white;
Scarce in the fields may Robin find
A refuge from the drift and wind.
Then come, my friend, and as thy part,
Bring to my feast a jocund heart—
A soul dispos'd to join with me,
In talk of dear philosophy;
No slanders shall our speech pollute,
No noise, no long and proud dispute,
Such as fall out in faction's brawls—
Where wisdom muses, folly bawls.
Away with these, but in their stead,
Be our discourse of sages dead,
And how their wisdom hath refin'd,
And crown'd with god-like grace mankind;
Themes talk'd of many years agone
By Solon or by Solomon—
Themes wherewith Plato, at his feasts,
Made jovial, ev'n as Jove's, his guests.
But should it hap to be our mood,
T'alight from wisdom's altitude,
Why, we can childish-sportful be;
Who have so good a right as we?
Though learn'd and grave, at times we can
Keep up the glee with any man,
Nay—none alive I know or see
Can nonsense talk like you and me!
32

SONG—MINNIE TO HER SPINNIN'-WHEEL.

[_]

Imitated from the German of Burger.

Birr on, birr on, my spinnin'-wheel!
Spin on, spin on, my birrin' wheel!
The roofs and wa's are dash't wi' rain;
The wind doth gowl at ilka pane;
But here I sit fu' warm and dry,
And care na for the blasts out-by,
Aye birrin' at my spinnin'-wheel!
Birr on, birr on, my spinnin'-wheel!
Spin on, spin on, my birrin' wheel!
Hey, how the towslet tow comes down!
Hey, how the wheel rins roun' and roun'!
How merrily, hey, the tirlin' pirn
Snaps wi' its iron teeth the yairn,
Aye followin' fast the birrin' wheel!
Birr on, birr on, my spinnin'-wheel!
Spin on, spin on, my birrin' wheel!
Kate's bridal day will soon be here,
And she maun hae her pairt o' gear;
The weaver's hands are toom o' wark,
He's crying loud for sheet or sark,
And flytes you, lazy spinnin'-wheel!
Birr on, birr on, my spinnin'-wheel!
Spin on, spin on, my birrin' wheel!
Haud aff, ye bairns, touch nae the rock,
Play farrer aff, wee Jean and Jock;
For Minnie is taskit, and set to hae
A braw linen wab ere sweet May-day,
Wi' birrin' at her spinnin'-wheel!
Birr on, birr on, my spinnin'-wheel!
Spin on, spin on, my birrin' wheel!
The roofs and wa's are dash'd wi' rain;
The wind doth gowl at ilka pane;
But here I sit fu' warm and dry,
And care na for the blasts out-by,
Aye birrin' at my spinnin'-wheel!

ODE TO PEACE.

1814.

Daughter of God! that sits on high
Amid the dances of the sky,
And guidest with thy gentle sway
The planets on their tuneful way;
Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again
The smile of thy most holy face,
From thine etherial dwelling-place,
Rejoice the wretched weary race
Of discord-breathing men?
Too long, oh gladness-giving Queen!
Thy tarrying in heav'n has been;
Too long o'er this fair blooming world
The flag of blood has been unfurl'd,
Polluting God's pure day;
Whilst, as each madd'ning people reels,
War onward drives his scythed wheels,
And at his horse's bloody heels
Shriek Murder and Dismay!
Oft have I wept to hear the cry
Of widow wailing bitterly;
To see the parent's silent tear
For children fall'n beneath the spear;
And I have felt so sore
The sense of human guilt and woe,
That I, in Virtue's passion'd glow,
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)
The shape of man I bore!
Then come from thy serene abode,
Thou gladness-giving Child of God!
And cease the world's ensanguin'd strife,
And reconcile my soul to life;
For much I long to see,
Ere to the grave I down descend,
Thy hand her blessed branch extend,
And to the world's remotest end
Wave Love and Harmony!

ON MY MOTHER'S DECEASE,

NOVEMBER 1831.

My mother dead! what weight of grief
Lies in these little words to me!
Again, again, I am a child,
And fond affection's tears flow free!
Back, back, into my school-boy days,
Rushes my eager memory,
And stirreth up the various scenes
A mother's love endear'd to to me.
Again I see her anxious look,
When childhood's sorrows on me lay;
I hear her voice, which, full of hope,
Sooth'd all these childish ails away;
Each word she spoke, each kindly deed
That from her fond hand flutt'ring came,
All rise afresh to sanctify,
Still more a mother's sacred name.
When from on high affliction came,
And fill'd my father's house with tears,
For her alone I felt—for her
My unconfessing soul had fears;
When joy came like an angel down,
To wipe the sorrows God had giv'n,
'Twas for her sake alone I bless'd
That gladness which came down from Heav'n.
Alas! from day to day I saw
Her feeble frame grow feeble more,
Whilst winter, that to youth gives joy,
His deadly gripe lay on her sore.
I mark'd her tott'ring step—I tried
Kindly to chide her into glee;
Yet scarce at bed-time could her lips
Utter the old “Good-night” to me.
At last the yet unwither'd bloom
That dim upon her face did lie,
Sunk, sunk at once to mortal pale;
I saw it—saw my mother die!
And, though her eye beheld me not,
Her features look'd tranquillity,
And from behind the veil of death
Sent her last blessing unto me!
Thanks, thanks, to Heav'n! my wish, my pray'r,
Hath been for many a changeful year,
That God might spare my life for this—
For this—a mother's heart to cheer.
And now that I have seen her age
Made glad, have seen her die in peace,
Careless and tranquil I await
The term of this my mortal race.

TO MY MOTHER'S SPINNING-WHEEL.

WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER HER DEATH—NOV. 1831.

Lo! silent now and motionless
Within the corner stands
The busy little engine, once
Mov'd by my mother's hands.
I bought it for her, low and light,
To turn in easy wise,
Thereby t'invite her aged feet,
To gentle exercise.
How gladsomely she sate her down,
Her self-set task to ply!
How lightsomely beside the hearth
Did winter evenings fly!
I question'd her of thrift, and all
Her linen-making toils,
And she inform'd my ignorance
All readily with smiles.
Idle a while the engine stood,
In autumn's jolly reign;
She chid herself for idleness,
And sought her wheel again.
33

She spread the flax all smooth, she warp'd
It round the distaff fair;
Alas! her hand ne'er touch'd the work—
She died, and left it there!
And now another hand must spin
The flaxen remnant out;
A foot of greater energy
Must force the wheel about.
No more my chamber with its hum,
At eve shall shaken be;
A housewife's thrift, a housewife's toils,
No more have charms for me!
Yet, little engine! though thy sound
No more shall please mine ear,
Yet ever to mine eye thou shalt
Be a memorial dear.
Ev'n for her sake that exercis'd
Her aged foot on thee,
I'll look on thee with love, and thou
Shalt never part from me!

THE TANGIERS GIANT.

In Tangiers town, as I've been tauld,
There liv'd intill the times of auld
A giant stout and big,
The awfuest and the dourest carl
That on the outside o' this warl'
E'er wallop'd bane or leg.
When he was born, on that same day,
He was like other weans, perfay,
Nae langer than a ladle,
But in three days he shot sae lang,
That out wi's feet and head he daug
Baith end-boords o' his cradle.
And when the big-baned babe did see
How that his cradle, short and wee,
Could haud him in nae langer,
His passion took a tirrivee—
He grippit it, and garr'd it flee
To flinders, in his anger.
Ere he was spain'd, what beef, what bane,
He was a babe o' thretty stane,
And bigger than his mither;
Whan he for 's parritch grat at morn,
Men never heard syn they were born
A yowl sae fu' o' drither.
When he'd seen thretty years or sae,
Far meikler was his little tae
Than meikle Samuel's shouther;
When he down on a stool did lean,
The stool was in an instant gane,
And brizz'd clean down to pouther.
When through the streets o' Tangiers town
He gaed, spaziering up and down,
Houses and kirks did tremmle;
O' his coat-tail the vera wap
Rais'd whirlwinds wi' its flichterin' flap,
And garr'd auld lum-heads tummle.
Had ye been ten mile out o' town,
Ye might hae seen his head aboon
The highest houses towrin'.
Ilk awfu' tramp he gave the ground,
Garr'd aik-trees shake their heads a' round,
And lions rin hame cowerin'.
To shaw his pow'r unto the people,
Ance in his arms he took the steeple,
Kiss'd it, and ca'd it brither;
Syne from its bottom up it wrung,
And in the air three times it swung,
Spire, bell, and a' thegither!
And when he'd swung it merrily,
Again upon its bottom he
Did clap it down sae clever,
Except a sma' crack half-way round,
The steeple stood upon its found,
As stout and straucht as ever!
Ae king's ‘birth-day, when he was fu',
Twa Tangier chaps began to pu’
His tails; when, on a sudden,
Ane by the richt leg up he grippit,
The tither by the neck he snippit,
And sent them skyward scuddin'.
On earth they ne'er again cam down;
Ane in a tan-pit i' the moon
Fell plump, and breath'd his last;
The tither ane was jammit ticht
'Tween twa stars o' the Pleiads bricht,
Whair yet he's sticking fast.
Ae day, when he stood near the sea,
A fleet o' Tyrian ships in glee
Was sailing gawey by—
He gript ae frigate by the mast,
And frae the deep wi' powstie vast
He rais'd her in the sky:
And then the great ship up he tumml'd—
Her mast was down, her hulk up-whumml'd,
Her keel high i' the lift;
Captain and cargo down cam rummlin',
Marines, and men, and meat, cam tummlin'
Down frae her decks like drift.
He had a mammoth for his horse,
Whairon wi' michty birr and force
He rade baith up and down;
My certy! whan on him he lap,
For hill nor tree he didna stap—
For tower, nor yet for town.
From Calpe to the Chinese wa'
He travell'd in a day or twa;
And as he gallop't east,
The tower of Babel down he batter'd—
For five miles round its bricks were scatter'd,
Sic birr was in his beast!
But whan he cam to Ecbatan,
A terrible strabusch was than;
He soucht na street nor yett,
But hurly-burly, smash, smash, smash,
Through wa's and roofs he drave slap-dash,
Down-dundering a' he met:
What wi' his monster's thunderin' thud,
And what wi' brusch, and smusch, and scud,
O' rafters, slates, and stanes,
Ten thousand folk to dead were devell'd
Ten thousand mair were eirthlins levell'd,
Half-dead wi' fractur'd banes.
He travell'd, too, baith north and south,
Whiles for his hunger, whiles for drouth
At Thebes he brak his fast;
And at the far Cape o' Good Houp,
He took his denner, and a stoup
O' wine for his repast.
He tried, too, on his fearsome horse,
His way up to our Pole to force
To spy its whirlin' pin;
Up to the arctic ice-ribb'd flood
Nicherin' he cam, as he were wud,
Wi' dirdom and wi' din.
As north he rode, he didna wait
To mak a brig ower Helle's strait,
Like Persia's pridefu' king;
He loupit from Abydos' strand,
And thwack! on Sestos' beach did land,
Makin' hail Europe ring.
34

As up through Thrace his beast did scour,
He kick'd up sic ane cloud o' stour
From his gambadin' hoof,
The king o' Thrace, where he in's ha',
Sat dinin' wi' his princes braw,
Was chokit wi' the stoof.
But when he reach'd Siberia's shore,
His monster wi' a grousom roar,
Down sank amang the snaw;
The beast was smor'd, and ne'er gat out;
The rider, wi' ane damnet shout,
Sprang aff, and spreul'd awa!
His end was like his lawless life;
He challeng'd Atlas in some strife,
T'uphaud heiv'n on his head;
He tried the starry heiv'n t'uphaud—
Down cam the lift, and wi' a daud,
It smor'd the scoundrel dead!

MORAL.

From this dour giant we may see
How little, michty limb and thie,
The human race bestead;
A wee bit man wi meikle sense,
Is better than ane carle immense
Wi' nonsense in his head!
 

For this giant of ninety feet or more, we have somewhat like classical authority. “Gabinius, the Roman historian, makes mention of the sepulchre of Antalus, near Tingi [or Tangiers], as also of a skeleton sixty cubits long [some better copies have six], which Sertorius disinterred and again covered with earth.” —Strabo lib. 17, cap. 3.

Egyptian Thebes.

An enormous animal of the Mammoth class was disclosed by the melting of the snow in 1801, upon the snow-buried confines of Siberia. How the monster got there—how it was entombed there—appeared inexplicable to the philosophical inquirers of that period, and is only, and to our satisfaction, explained by the story of the text.

TAMMY LITTLE.

Wee Tammy Little, honest man!
I kent the body weel,
As round the kintra-side he gaed
Careerin' wi' his creel.
He was sae slender and sae wee,
That aye when blasts did blaw,
He ballasted himself wi' stanes
'Gainst bein' blawn awa.
A meikle stane the wee bit man
In ilka coat-pouch clappit,
That by the michty gowlin' wind
He michtna down be swappit.
When he did chance within a wood
On simmer days to be,
Aye he was frichtit lest the craws
Should heise him up on hie;
And aye he, wi' an aiken cud,
The air did thump and beat,
To stap the craws frae liftin' him,
Up to their nests for meat.
Ae day, when in a barn he lay,
And thrashers thrang were thair,
He in a moment vanish'd aff,
And nae man could tell whair.
They lookit till the riggin' up,
And round and round they lookit,
At last they fand him underneath
A firlot cruyled and crookit.
Ance as big Samuel past him by,
Big Samuel gave a sneese,
And wi' the sough o't he was cast
Clean down upon his knees.
His wife and he upon ane day
Did chance to disagree,
And up she took the bellowses,
As wild as wife could be;
She gave ane puff intill his face,
And made him, like a feather,
Flee frae the tae side o' the house,
Resoundin' till the tither!
Ae simmer e'en, when as he through
Pitkirie forest past,
By three braid leaves, blawn aff the trees,
He down to yird was cast;
A tirl o' wind the three braid leaves
Down frae the forest dang,
Ane frae an ash, ane frae an elm,
Ane frae an aik-tree strang;
Ane strak him sair on the back neck
Ane on the nose him rappit,
Ane smote him on the vera heart,
And down as dead he drappit.
But ah! but ah! a drearier dool
Ance hapt at Ounston-dammy,
That heis'd him a' thegither up,
And maist extinguish't Tammy:
For as he came slow-daunderin' down,
In's hand his basket hingin',
And staiver'd ower the hie-road's breidth,
Frae side to side a-swingin',
There came a blast frae Kelly-law,
As bauld a blast as ever
Auld snivelin' Boreas blew abraid
To make the warld shiver.
It liftit Tammy aff his feet,
Mair easy than a shavin',
And hurl'd him half a mile complete
Hie up 'tween earth and heav'n.
That day puir Tammy had wi' stanes
No ballasted his body,
So that he flew, maist like a shot,
Ower corn-land and ower cloddy.
You've seen ane tumbler on a stage
Tumble sax times and mair,
But Tammy weil sax hundred times
Gaed tumblin' through the air.
And whan the whirly-wind gave ower,
He frae the lift fell plumb,
And in a blink stood stickin' fast
In Gaffer Glowr-weel's lum.
Ay—there his legs and body stack
Amang the smotherin' soot;
But by a wonderfu' good luck,
His head kept peepin' out.
But Gaffer Glowr-weel, when he saw
A man stuck in his lum,
He swarf'd wi' drither clean awa,
And sat some seconds dumb.
It took five masons near an hour
A' riving at the lum
Wi' picks (he was sae jamm'd therein)
Ere Tammy out could come.
As for his basket—weel I wat,
His basket's fate and fa'
Was, as I've heard douce neighbours tell,
The queerest thing of a'.
The blast took up the body's creel,
And laid it on a cloud,
That bare it, sailin' through the sky,
Richt ower the Firth's braid flood.
And when the cloud did melt awa,
Then, then the creel cam' down,
And fell'd the town-clerk o' Dunbar
E'en in his ain good town.
The clerk stood yelpin' on the street
At some bit strife that stirr'd him,
Down cam' the creel, and to the yird
It dang him wi' a dirdom!

THE EPITAPH FOR TAMMY.

Oh Earth! oh Earth! if thou hast but
A rabbit-hole to spair,
Oh grant the graff to Tammy's corp,
That it may nestle thair:
And press thou light on him, now dead,
That was sae slim and wee,
For, weel I wat, when he was quick,
He lightly prest on thee!
35

EPITAPH ON DAVID BARCLAY,

CHURCH-WARDEN IN ANSTRUTHER EASTER.

Here sleeps, from noisy mirth and laughter free,
The happiest man o' th'eighteenth century;
One who sat merrier on his cobbler's stool,
Than Louis Capet on his throne of rule;
He, who more harmless and with greater glee,
Made graves for corpses at the digger's fee,
Than proud Napoleon, for th'imperial spoil,
Made graves for millions o'er all Europe's soil;
What bliss heroic crown'd poor Barclay's state!
His very littleness did make him great!
Day chased day with pregnant laughter fraught,
Or some new joke, or some new old-shoe brought;
Night chased night with cheek-relaxing mirth,
And with fresh frolic made resound his hearth;
When brain-mad Europe reel'd from shore to shore,
And kings and peoples battl'd long and sore,
He on his stool, which no commotion shook,
Sat imperturb'd, nor of the rage partook;
What day the head of murder'd Capet fell,
And kingdoms shudder'd at the tocsin's knell,
He, in his cobbler's chamber fearing nought,
Sat whistling to his shadow as he wrought;
What day Napoleon from his height renown'd,
Was shook by Europe's earthquake to the ground,
His bloodless awl with unconcern he plied,
And sung his ditty by his ingle-side!
What day reformless Wellington was chas'd
Home to his barricaded house in haste
By England's men, that banded far and wide
To beat him down that beat Napoleon's pride,
Our Barclay, unannoy'd by earthly thing,
Cock'd in his clean snug chamber like a king;
He, rather as a cobbler blythe and free,
And as himself, chose sapiently to be,
Than, as the prop of kings and man of pride,
To terrify and to be terrified.
Peace, peaceful David, to thy shade, I say;
And, when thou com'st forth at the judgment day,
Whilst conqu'rors rise with shudd'ring and with pain,
Afraid to face the ghosts of those they've slain,
Thou shalt uprise with gladness in thy face,
To claim the prize of innocence and peace!

ON THE SAME—(Scotice.)

Here lies ane wight, ca'd David Barclay,
Weel sepulcher'd amang his hard clay;
Sma' man he was, whan he did flourish—
He was but beadle o' this parish,
And mendit soles, and chimlas soopit,
And blew mouse-wabs frae aff the pupit;
But now, when cramm'd in this wee partie,
He's just as great as Bonaparte!
Nae difference, save that David here
At hame sleeps 'mang his kindred dear,
Wi' ilka star, that kent him livin',
Blinkin' upon him blythe frae heaven:
Whereas the Emperor rots afar
At the warld's end, 'neath Hydra's star,
'Mang foreign worms that keen devour him,
And the cauld south-pole skytin' owre him.
This Barclay was a canty chappie,
Skull-handlin' made him nae less happy:
'Twas but his trade was melancholy,
His spirit aye was blythe and jolly.
King George the Third that ruled this land,
Wi' a braw sceptre in his hand,
And George's ilka son and daughter,
Ne'er took sic hearty gaups o' laughter.
I meikle doubt if a' the thrang
O' kings that in braid Europe rang,
Frae that black-starr'd year achty-nine,
E'en till the day I write this line,
Enjoy'd their lives wi' sic ane gust,
As David wha sleeps here in dust;
Sae, to be merry in this widdle,
Ilk station serves—heigh, laigh, and middle:
Its a' ae woo—king, lord, or beadle!
And let a man be mean or glorious,
Owre armies, or auld shoon, victorious,
Wield swords on fields, or awls on stools,
A' dree alike Death's dreary dools,
And land at length amang the mools!
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