 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
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EPISTLES.
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EPISTLE TO JAMES KING.
ON RECEIVING A MORAL EPISTLE FROM HIM.
May, 1802.
Please accept the thanks and praise
Due to your poetic lays;
Wisdom aye should be rever'd,
Sense to wit be aye preferr'd.
—Just your thoughts, in simple guise,
Fit to make frail mortals wise;
Every period, every line,
With some moral truth doth shine.
—Like the rocks, which storms divide,
Thund'ring down the mountain's side,
So strides Time, with rapid force,
Round his unobstructed course;
Like a flood upon its way,
Sweeping downward to the sea:
But what figure so sublime
As describe the flight of time?
Yesterday is past an' gane,
Just as it had never been.
—Life 's a dream, and man 's a bubble,
'Compass'd round with care and trouble:
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Soon o'erwhelm'd, for ever lost;
Like the short-liv'd passion-flow'r,
Blooming, dying, in an hour;
Like the tuneful bird that sings,
Flutt'ring high on sportive wings,
Till the fowler's subtle art
Drives Death's message to its heart,
While, perhaps, Death aims his blow
Swift to lay the wretch as low.
—Now, since life is but a day,
Make the most of it we may;
Calm and tranquil let us be,
(Not in drinking to excess—
Drink the spirits will depress)
Still resign'd to Fate's decree:
Let not poortith sink us low,
Let not wealth exalt our brow;
Let 's be grateful, virtuous, wise—
There 's where all our greatness lies;
Doing all the good we can
Is all that heaven requires of man.
—Wherefore should we grieve and sigh,
'Cause we know that he must die?
Death 's a debt requir'd by nature,
To be paid by every creature.
Rich and poor, and high and low,
Fall by Death's impartial blow:
God, perhaps, in kindness will
Snatch us from some coming ill;
Death may kindly waft us o'er
To a milder, happier shore.
—But, dear Jamie! after a',
What I 've said's not worth a straw;
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What we never can practise?
As for me, with a' my skill,
Passion leads me as she will;
But resolves, laid down to-day,
Ere to-morrow 're done away.—
—Then, let 's ever cheery live,
Do our best, and never grieve;
Still let Friendship's warmest tie
A' deficiencies supply,
And, while favour'd by the Nine,
I your laurels will entwine.
EPISTLE TO JAMES SCADLOCK.
ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A SMALL MS. VOLUME OF ORIGINAL SCOTTISH POEMS.
April, 1803.
While colleged bards bestride Pegasus,
And try to gallop up Parnassus
By dint o' meikle lear,
The lowe o' friendship fires my soul
To write you this poetic scrawl,—
Prosaic, dull, I fear!
But weel I ken your gen'rous heart
Will overlook its failings,
And where the poet has come short
Let friendship cure his ailings.
'Tis kind, man, divine, man,
To hide the fault we see,
Or try to men't, as far 's we ken't,
Wi' true sincerity.
And try to gallop up Parnassus
By dint o' meikle lear,
The lowe o' friendship fires my soul
To write you this poetic scrawl,—
Prosaic, dull, I fear!
But weel I ken your gen'rous heart
Will overlook its failings,
And where the poet has come short
Let friendship cure his ailings.
'Tis kind, man, divine, man,
To hide the fault we see,
Or try to men't, as far 's we ken't,
Wi' true sincerity.
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This last observe bring'st in my head
To tell you here my social creed—
Let 's use a' mankind weel;
And ony sumph who 'd use us ill,
Wi' dry contempt let 's treat him still—
He 'll feel it worst himsel'.
I never flatter, praise but rare;
I scorn a double part;
And when I speak, I speak sincere,
The dictates o' my heart.
I truly hate the dirty gait
That mony a body tak's,
Wha fraise ane, syne blaze ane,
As soon 's they turn their backs.
To tell you here my social creed—
Let 's use a' mankind weel;
And ony sumph who 'd use us ill,
Wi' dry contempt let 's treat him still—
He 'll feel it worst himsel'.
I never flatter, praise but rare;
I scorn a double part;
And when I speak, I speak sincere,
The dictates o' my heart.
I truly hate the dirty gait
That mony a body tak's,
Wha fraise ane, syne blaze ane,
As soon 's they turn their backs.
In judging, let us be right hooly;
I 've heard some folks descant sae freely
On other people's matters,
As if theirsel's were real perfection,
When, had they stood a fair inspection,
The abused were far their betters.
But gossips aye maun ha'e their crack,
Though moralists should rail;
Let 's end the matter wi' this fact,
That “Goodness pays itsel'.”
The joys, man, that rise, man,
To ane frae doing weel,
Are siccan joys that hardened vice
Can seldom ever feel.
I 've heard some folks descant sae freely
On other people's matters,
As if theirsel's were real perfection,
When, had they stood a fair inspection,
The abused were far their betters.
But gossips aye maun ha'e their crack,
Though moralists should rail;
Let 's end the matter wi' this fact,
That “Goodness pays itsel'.”
The joys, man, that rise, man,
To ane frae doing weel,
Are siccan joys that hardened vice
Can seldom ever feel.
O Jamie, man! I 'm proud to see 't,
Our ain auld muse yet keeps her feet,
Maist healthy as before;
For sad predicting fears foretauld,
When Robin's glowing heart turned cauld,
Then a' our joys were o'er
(Ilk future bard revere his name,
Through thousand years to come,
And, though we cannot reach his fame,
Busk laurels round his tomb):
Yet, though he 's dead, the Scottish reed
This mony a day may ring,
In Livingston, in Anderson,
In Scadlock, and in King.
Our ain auld muse yet keeps her feet,
Maist healthy as before;
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When Robin's glowing heart turned cauld,
Then a' our joys were o'er
(Ilk future bard revere his name,
Through thousand years to come,
And, though we cannot reach his fame,
Busk laurels round his tomb):
Yet, though he 's dead, the Scottish reed
This mony a day may ring,
In Livingston, in Anderson,
In Scadlock, and in King.
“The Tap-room”—what a glorious treat!
“Complaint and Wish”—how plaintive sweet!
“The Weaver's” just “Lament.”
“The Gloamin' Fragment”—how divine!
There nature speaks in every line—
The bard's immortal in't!
Yon “Epigram on Jeanie Lang”
Is pointed as the steel;
An' “Hoot! ye ken yoursel's”—a sang
Would pleased e'en Burns himsel'!
Let snarling, mean quarr'ling
Be doubly damned henceforth!
And let us raise the voice of praise,
To hearten modest worth.
“Complaint and Wish”—how plaintive sweet!
“The Weaver's” just “Lament.”
“The Gloamin' Fragment”—how divine!
There nature speaks in every line—
The bard's immortal in't!
Yon “Epigram on Jeanie Lang”
Is pointed as the steel;
An' “Hoot! ye ken yoursel's”—a sang
Would pleased e'en Burns himsel'!
Let snarling, mean quarr'ling
Be doubly damned henceforth!
And let us raise the voice of praise,
To hearten modest worth.
And you, my dear respected frien',
Your “Spring” 's a precious evergreen,
Fresh beauties budding still.
Your “Levern Banks,” and “Killoch Burn,”
Ye sing them wi' sae sweet a turn,
Ye gar the heart-strings thrill.
“October Winds”—e'en let them rave
Wi' nature-blasting howl,
If, in return, kind heaven give
The sunshine of the soul:
The feeling heart that bears a part
In others' joys and woes,
May still depend to find a friend,
Howe'er the tempest blows.
Your “Spring” 's a precious evergreen,
Fresh beauties budding still.
Your “Levern Banks,” and “Killoch Burn,”
Ye sing them wi' sae sweet a turn,
Ye gar the heart-strings thrill.
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Wi' nature-blasting howl,
If, in return, kind heaven give
The sunshine of the soul:
The feeling heart that bears a part
In others' joys and woes,
May still depend to find a friend,
Howe'er the tempest blows.
Yet, long I 've thought, and think it yet,
True friends are rarely to be met
Wha share in others' troubles;
Who jointly joy, or drop the tear
Reciprocal, and kindly bear
Wi' one anothers' foibles.
Even such a friend I once could boast,
Ah! now in death he 's low;
But fond anticipation hopes
For such a friend in you.
Dear Jamie, forgi'e me
That last presumptive line;
See, here 's my hand at your command—
Ye ha'e my heart langsyne!
True friends are rarely to be met
Wha share in others' troubles;
Who jointly joy, or drop the tear
Reciprocal, and kindly bear
Wi' one anothers' foibles.
Even such a friend I once could boast,
Ah! now in death he 's low;
But fond anticipation hopes
For such a friend in you.
Dear Jamie, forgi'e me
That last presumptive line;
See, here 's my hand at your command—
Ye ha'e my heart langsyne!
EPISTLE TO JAMES BARR.
WHEREVER HE MAY BE FOUND.
March, 1804.
Gude Pibrocharian, jorum-jirger,
Say, ha'e ye turn'd an Antiburgher?
Or lang-fac'd Presbyterian elder?
Deep read in wiles o' gath'ring siller?
Or cauld, splenetic solitair,
Resolv'd to herd wi' man nae mair?
Say, ha'e ye turn'd an Antiburgher?
Or lang-fac'd Presbyterian elder?
Deep read in wiles o' gath'ring siller?
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Resolv'd to herd wi' man nae mair?
As to the second, I 've nae fear for't;
For siller, faith! ye ne'er did care for't,
Unless to help a needfu' body,
And get an antrin glass o' toddy.
But what the black mischief's come owre you?
These three months I 've been speiring for you,
Till e'en the Muse, wi' downright grieving,
Has worn her chafts as thin 's a shaving.
Say, ha'e ye ta'en a tramp to Lon'on
In Co. wi' worthy auld Buchanan,
Wha mony a mile wad streek his shanks
To ha'e a crack wi' Josie Banks
Concerning “Shells, and birds, and metals,
Moths, spiders, butterflies, and beetles”?
For you, I think you'll cut a figure
Wi' king o' pipers, Malc. M'Gregor,
And wi' your clarion, flute, and fiddle
Will gar their southron heart-strings diddle.
For siller, faith! ye ne'er did care for't,
Unless to help a needfu' body,
And get an antrin glass o' toddy.
But what the black mischief's come owre you?
These three months I 've been speiring for you,
Till e'en the Muse, wi' downright grieving,
Has worn her chafts as thin 's a shaving.
Say, ha'e ye ta'en a tramp to Lon'on
In Co. wi' worthy auld Buchanan,
Wha mony a mile wad streek his shanks
To ha'e a crack wi' Josie Banks
Concerning “Shells, and birds, and metals,
Moths, spiders, butterflies, and beetles”?
For you, I think you'll cut a figure
Wi' king o' pipers, Malc. M'Gregor,
And wi' your clarion, flute, and fiddle
Will gar their southron heart-strings diddle.
Or are you through the kintra whisking,
Accoutr'd wi' the sock and buskin,
Thinking to climb to wealth and fame
By adding Roscius to your name?
Frae thoughts o' that, pray keep abeigh!
Ye 're far owre auld, and far owre heigh;
Since in these novel-hunting days
There 's nane but bairns can act our plays.
At twal-year auld, if ye had tried it,
I doubtna but ye might succeedit;
But full-grown buirdly chields like you—
Quite monstrous, man, 'twill never do!
Accoutr'd wi' the sock and buskin,
Thinking to climb to wealth and fame
By adding Roscius to your name?
Frae thoughts o' that, pray keep abeigh!
Ye 're far owre auld, and far owre heigh;
Since in these novel-hunting days
There 's nane but bairns can act our plays.
At twal-year auld, if ye had tried it,
I doubtna but ye might succeedit;
But full-grown buirdly chields like you—
Quite monstrous, man, 'twill never do!
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Or are ye gane, as there are few sic,
For teaching of a band o' music?
O, hear auld Scotland's fervent pray'rs,
And teach her genuine native airs!
Whilk simply play'd, devoid o' art,
Thrill through the senses to the heart.
Play, when you'd rouse the patriot's saul,
True valour's tune, “The garb of Gaul”
And when laid low in glory's bed,
Let “Roslin Castle” soothe his shade.
For teaching of a band o' music?
O, hear auld Scotland's fervent pray'rs,
And teach her genuine native airs!
Whilk simply play'd, devoid o' art,
Thrill through the senses to the heart.
Play, when you'd rouse the patriot's saul,
True valour's tune, “The garb of Gaul”
And when laid low in glory's bed,
Let “Roslin Castle” soothe his shade.
“The Bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,”
Its every accent breathes despair;
And “Ettrick's Banks,” celestial strain!
Mak's summer's gloaming mair serene;
And, O how sweet the plaintive muse,
Amang “The broom o' Cowdenknowes!”
Its every accent breathes despair;
And “Ettrick's Banks,” celestial strain!
Mak's summer's gloaming mair serene;
And, O how sweet the plaintive muse,
Amang “The broom o' Cowdenknowes!”
To hear the love-lorn swain complain,
Lone, on “The Braes o' Ballendine,”
It e'en might melt the dortiest she
That ever sklinted scornfu' e'e.
Lone, on “The Braes o' Ballendine,”
It e'en might melt the dortiest she
That ever sklinted scornfu' e'e.
When Beauty tries her vocal pow'rs
Amang the greenwood's echoing bow'rs,
“The bonnie birks of Invermay”
Might mend a seraph's sweetest lay.
Amang the greenwood's echoing bow'rs,
“The bonnie birks of Invermay”
Might mend a seraph's sweetest lay.
Then, should grim Care invest your castle,
Just knock him down wi' “Willie Wastle,”
And rant blithe “Lumps o' pudding owre him,”
And, for his dirge, sing “Tullochgorum.”
Just knock him down wi' “Willie Wastle,”
And rant blithe “Lumps o' pudding owre him,”
And, for his dirge, sing “Tullochgorum.”
When Orpheus charm'd his wife frae hell,
'Twas nae Scotch tune he play'd sae well,
Else had the worthy auld wire-scraper
Been keepit for his deilship's piper.
'Twas nae Scotch tune he play'd sae well,
Else had the worthy auld wire-scraper
Been keepit for his deilship's piper.
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Or if ye 're turn'd a feather'd fop,
Light dancing upon fashion'd top,
Wi' lofty brow and selfish e'e,
Despising low-clad dogs like me;
Uncaring your contempt or favour,
Sweet butterfly, adieu for ever!
But, hold—I 'm wrong to doubt your sense,
For pride proceeds from ignorance.
Light dancing upon fashion'd top,
Wi' lofty brow and selfish e'e,
Despising low-clad dogs like me;
Uncaring your contempt or favour,
Sweet butterfly, adieu for ever!
But, hold—I 'm wrong to doubt your sense,
For pride proceeds from ignorance.
If peace of mind lay in fine clothes,
I'd be the first of fluttering beaux,
And strut as proud as ony peacock
That ever craw'd on tap o' hay-cock;
And ere I 'd know one vexing thought,
Get dollar-buttons on my coat,
Wi' a' the lave o' fulsome trash on,
That constitutes a man o' fashion.
O, grant me this, kind Providence,
A moderate, decent competence;
Thou'lt see me smile in independence,
Above weak-saul'd, pride-born ascendence;
I'd be the first of fluttering beaux,
And strut as proud as ony peacock
That ever craw'd on tap o' hay-cock;
And ere I 'd know one vexing thought,
Get dollar-buttons on my coat,
Wi' a' the lave o' fulsome trash on,
That constitutes a man o' fashion.
O, grant me this, kind Providence,
A moderate, decent competence;
Thou'lt see me smile in independence,
Above weak-saul'd, pride-born ascendence;
But whether ye 're gane to teach the whistle,
'Midst noise and rough reg'mental bustle;
Or gane to strut upon the stage,
Smit wi' the mania o' the age;
Or, Scotsman like, ha'e tramp'd abreed
To yon big town far south the Tweed;
Or douring in the hermit's cell,
Unblessing and unblest yoursel'—
In Gude's name write!—tak' up your pen,
An' how ye 're doing let me ken.
Sae, hoping quickly your epistle,
Adieu! thou genuine son of song and whistle.
'Midst noise and rough reg'mental bustle;
Or gane to strut upon the stage,
Smit wi' the mania o' the age;
Or, Scotsman like, ha'e tramp'd abreed
To yon big town far south the Tweed;
Or douring in the hermit's cell,
Unblessing and unblest yoursel'—
In Gude's name write!—tak' up your pen,
An' how ye 're doing let me ken.
Sae, hoping quickly your epistle,
Adieu! thou genuine son of song and whistle.
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POSTSCRIPT.
We had a concert here short syne;Oh, man! the music was divine,
Baith plaintive sang, and merry glee,
In a' the soul of harmony.
When Smith and Stuart leave this earth,
The gods, in token o' their worth,
Will welcome them at heaven's portals,
The brightest, truest, best o' mortals;
Apollo proud, as weel he may,
Will walk on tiptoe a' that day;
While a' the Muses kindred claim,
Rememb'ring what they 've done for them.
EPISTLE TO JAMES SCADLOCK.
THEN AT PERTH.
June, 1804.
Let those who never felt its flame
Say friendship is an empty name;
Such selfish, cold philosophy
For ever I disclaim:
Say friendship is an empty name;
Such selfish, cold philosophy
For ever I disclaim:
It soothes the soul with grief opprest,
Half cures the care-distemper'd breast,
And in the jocund happy hour
Gives joy a higher zest.
Half cures the care-distemper'd breast,
And in the jocund happy hour
Gives joy a higher zest.
All nature sadden'd at our parting hour,
Winds plaintive howl'd, clouds, weeping, dropt a show'r;
Our fields look'd dead—as if they 'd said,
“We ne'er shall see him more.”
Winds plaintive howl'd, clouds, weeping, dropt a show'r;
Our fields look'd dead—as if they 'd said,
“We ne'er shall see him more.”
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Though fate and fortune threw their darts,
Envying us your high deserts,
They well might tear you from our arms,
But never from our hearts.
Envying us your high deserts,
They well might tear you from our arms,
But never from our hearts.
When spring buds forth in vernal show'rs,
When summer comes array'd in flow'rs,
Or autumn kind, from Ceres' horn,
Her grateful bounty pours;
When summer comes array'd in flow'rs,
Or autumn kind, from Ceres' horn,
Her grateful bounty pours;
Or bearded winter curls his brow—
I 'll often fondly think on you,
And on our happy days and nights,
With pleasing backcast view.
I 'll often fondly think on you,
And on our happy days and nights,
With pleasing backcast view.
If e'er in musing mood you stray
Alang the banks of classic Tay,
Think on our walks by Stanely Tower,
And steep Gleniffer brae;
Alang the banks of classic Tay,
Think on our walks by Stanely Tower,
And steep Gleniffer brae;
Think on our langsyne happy hours,
Spent where the burn wild, rapid, pours,
And o'er the horrid dizzy steep
Dashes her mountain stores;
Spent where the burn wild, rapid, pours,
And o'er the horrid dizzy steep
Dashes her mountain stores;
Think on our walks by sweet Greenlaw,
By woody hill and birken shaw,
Where nature strews her choicest sweets
To make the landscape braw;
By woody hill and birken shaw,
Where nature strews her choicest sweets
To make the landscape braw;
And think on rural Ferguslie,
Its plantings green, and flow'ry lee:
Such fairy scenes, though distant far,
May please the mental e'e.
Its plantings green, and flow'ry lee:
Such fairy scenes, though distant far,
May please the mental e'e.
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Yon mentor, Geordie Zimmerman,
Agrees exactly with our plan,
That partial hours of solitude
Exalt the soul of man.
Agrees exactly with our plan,
That partial hours of solitude
Exalt the soul of man.
So, oft retir'd from strife and din,
Let 's shun the jarring ways of men,
And seek serenity and peace
By stream and woody glen.
Let 's shun the jarring ways of men,
And seek serenity and peace
By stream and woody glen.
But ere a few short summers gae
Your friend will mix his kindred clay,
For fell disease tugs at my breast,
To hurry me away.
Your friend will mix his kindred clay,
For fell disease tugs at my breast,
To hurry me away.
Yet while life's bellows bear to blaw,
Till life's last lang-fetch'd breath I draw,
I 'll often fondly think on you,
And mind your kindness a'.
Till life's last lang-fetch'd breath I draw,
I 'll often fondly think on you,
And mind your kindness a'.
Now, fare-ye-weel! still may ye find
A friend congenial to your mind,
To share your joys, and half your woes—
Warm, sympathising, kind.
A friend congenial to your mind,
To share your joys, and half your woes—
Warm, sympathising, kind.
EPISTLE TO WILLIAM THOMSON.
June, 1805.
Dear Will, my much respected frien',
I send you this to let you ken
That, though at distance fate hath set you,
Your friends in Paisley don't forget you,
But often think on you, far lone,
Amang the braes of Overton.
I send you this to let you ken
That, though at distance fate hath set you,
Your friends in Paisley don't forget you,
But often think on you, far lone,
Amang the braes of Overton.
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Our social club continues yet,
Perpetual source of mirth and wit;
Our rigid rules admit but few,
Yet still we 'll keep a chair for you.
Perpetual source of mirth and wit;
Our rigid rules admit but few,
Yet still we 'll keep a chair for you.
A country life I 've oft envied,
Where love, and truth, and peace preside:
Without temptations to allure,
Your days glide on, unstain'd and pure;
Nae midnight revels waste your health,
Nor greedy landlord drains your wealth;
You're never fasht wi' whisky fever,
Nor dizzy pow, nor dulness ever,
But breathe the halesome caller air,
Remote from aught that genders care.
Where love, and truth, and peace preside:
Without temptations to allure,
Your days glide on, unstain'd and pure;
Nae midnight revels waste your health,
Nor greedy landlord drains your wealth;
You're never fasht wi' whisky fever,
Nor dizzy pow, nor dulness ever,
But breathe the halesome caller air,
Remote from aught that genders care.
I needna tell how much I lang
To hear your rural Scottish sang;
To hear you sing your heath-clad braes,
Your jocund nights, and happy days;
And lilt with glee the blithesome morn,
When dewdraps pearl every thorn;
When larks pour forth the early sang,
And linties chant the whins amang,
And pyats hap frae tree to tree,
Teaching their young anes how to flee;
While, frae the mavis to the wren,
A' warble sweet in bush or glen.
To hear your rural Scottish sang;
To hear you sing your heath-clad braes,
Your jocund nights, and happy days;
And lilt with glee the blithesome morn,
When dewdraps pearl every thorn;
When larks pour forth the early sang,
And linties chant the whins amang,
And pyats hap frae tree to tree,
Teaching their young anes how to flee;
While, frae the mavis to the wren,
A' warble sweet in bush or glen.
In town we scarce can find occasion
To note the beauties o' creation,
But study mankind's different dealings,
Their virtues, vices, merits, failings,—
Unpleasing task, compar'd wi' yours:
You range the hills 'mang mountain flow'rs,
And view, afar, the smoking town,
More blest than all its riches were your own.
To note the beauties o' creation,
But study mankind's different dealings,
Their virtues, vices, merits, failings,—
114
You range the hills 'mang mountain flow'rs,
And view, afar, the smoking town,
More blest than all its riches were your own.
A lang epistle I might scribble,
But aiblins ye will grudge the trouble
Of reading sic low, hamert rhyme,
And sae it 's best to quat in time;
Sae I, with soul sincere and fervent,
Am still your trusty friend and servant.
But aiblins ye will grudge the trouble
Of reading sic low, hamert rhyme,
And sae it 's best to quat in time;
Sae I, with soul sincere and fervent,
Am still your trusty friend and servant.
EPISTLE TO WILLIAM WYLIE.
January, 1806.
Dear kindred saul, thanks to the cause
First made us ken each ither;
Ca 't fate, or chance, I carena whilk,
To me it brought a brither.
First made us ken each ither;
Ca 't fate, or chance, I carena whilk,
To me it brought a brither.
Thy furthy, kindly, takin' gait;—
Sure every gude chiel' likes thee,
And bad luck wring his thrawart heart
Wha snarling e'er would vex thee.
Sure every gude chiel' likes thee,
And bad luck wring his thrawart heart
Wha snarling e'er would vex thee.
Though mole-ey'd Fortune's partial hand
O' clink may keep thee bare o't;
Of what thou hast, pale Misery
Receives, unask'd, a share o't.
O' clink may keep thee bare o't;
Of what thou hast, pale Misery
Receives, unask'd, a share o't.
Thou gi'est, without ae hank'rin' thought,
Or cauld, self-stinted wish;
E'en winter-finger'd Avarice
Approves thee with a blush.
Or cauld, self-stinted wish;
E'en winter-finger'd Avarice
Approves thee with a blush.
115
If Grief e'er make thee her pack-horse,
Her leaden load to carry 't,
Shove half the burden on my back,
I 'll do my best to bear it.
Her leaden load to carry 't,
Shove half the burden on my back,
I 'll do my best to bear it.
Gude kens we a' ha'e faults enou',
'Tis Friendship's task tae cure 'em,
But still she spurns the critic view,
An' bids us to look o'er 'em.
'Tis Friendship's task tae cure 'em,
But still she spurns the critic view,
An' bids us to look o'er 'em.
When Death performs his beadle part,
An' summons thee to heaven,
By virtue of thy warm, kind heart,
Thy faults will be forgiven.
An' summons thee to heaven,
By virtue of thy warm, kind heart,
Thy faults will be forgiven.
And shouldst thou live to see thy friend
Borne lifeless on the bier,
I ask of thee, for epitaph,
One kind, elegiac tear.
Borne lifeless on the bier,
I ask of thee, for epitaph,
One kind, elegiac tear.
EPISTLE TO ALEXANDER BORLAND.
February, 1806.
Retired, disgusted, from the tavern roar,
Where strong-lung'd Ignorance does highest soar;
Where silly ridicule is passed for wit,
And shallow laughter takes her gaping fit;
Where selfish sophistry out-brothers sense,
And lords it high at modesty's expense—
Here lone I sit, in musing melancholy,
Resolv'd for aye to shun the court of Folly;
For, from whole years' experience in her train,
One hour of joy brings twenty hours of pain.
Now, since I 'm on the would-be-better key,
The muse soft whispers me to write to thee;
Not that she means a self-debasing letter,
But merely show there 's hopes I may turn better;
That what stands bad to my account of ill
You may set down to passion, not to will.
Where strong-lung'd Ignorance does highest soar;
Where silly ridicule is passed for wit,
And shallow laughter takes her gaping fit;
Where selfish sophistry out-brothers sense,
And lords it high at modesty's expense—
Here lone I sit, in musing melancholy,
Resolv'd for aye to shun the court of Folly;
For, from whole years' experience in her train,
One hour of joy brings twenty hours of pain.
Now, since I 'm on the would-be-better key,
The muse soft whispers me to write to thee;
116
But merely show there 's hopes I may turn better;
That what stands bad to my account of ill
You may set down to passion, not to will.
The fate-scourg'd exile, destin'd still to roam
Through desert wilds, far from his early home,
If some fair prospect meet his sorrowing eyes,
Like that he own'd beneath his native skies,
Sad recollection, murdering relief,
He bursts in all the agonies of grief;
Memory presents the volume of his care,
And “harrows up his soul” with “such things were.”
'Tis so in life, when Youth folds up his page,
And turns the leaf to dark, blank, joyless Age,
Where sad Experience speaks in language plain
Her thought of bliss, and highest hopes were vain;
O'er present ills I think I see her mourn,
And “weep past joys that never will return.”
Through desert wilds, far from his early home,
If some fair prospect meet his sorrowing eyes,
Like that he own'd beneath his native skies,
Sad recollection, murdering relief,
He bursts in all the agonies of grief;
Memory presents the volume of his care,
And “harrows up his soul” with “such things were.”
'Tis so in life, when Youth folds up his page,
And turns the leaf to dark, blank, joyless Age,
Where sad Experience speaks in language plain
Her thought of bliss, and highest hopes were vain;
O'er present ills I think I see her mourn,
And “weep past joys that never will return.”
Then come, my friend, while yet in life's gay noon,
Ere grief's dark clouds obscure our summer sun,
Ere winter's sleety blasts around us howl,
And chill our every energy of soul—
Let us look back, retrace the ways we 've trod,
Mark virtue's paths from guilty pleasure's road,
And, 'stead of wandering in a devious maze,
Mark some few precepts for our future days.
Ere grief's dark clouds obscure our summer sun,
Ere winter's sleety blasts around us howl,
And chill our every energy of soul—
Let us look back, retrace the ways we 've trod,
Mark virtue's paths from guilty pleasure's road,
And, 'stead of wandering in a devious maze,
Mark some few precepts for our future days.
I mind, still well, when but a trifling boy,
My young heart fluttered with a savage joy,
As with my sire I wander'd through the wood,
And found the mavis' clump-lodg'd callow brood.
I tore them thence, exulting o'er my prize;
My father bade me list the mother's cries:
“So thine would wail,” he said, “if reft of thee.”
It was a lesson of humanity.
My young heart fluttered with a savage joy,
As with my sire I wander'd through the wood,
And found the mavis' clump-lodg'd callow brood.
I tore them thence, exulting o'er my prize;
My father bade me list the mother's cries:
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It was a lesson of humanity.
Humanity! thou 'rt glory's brightest star,
Outshining all the conqueror's trophies far!
One individual act of generous pity
Is nobler far than ravaging a city.
Ev'n let the blood-stain'd ruffians call me coward,
An Alexander sinks beside a Howard.
Outshining all the conqueror's trophies far!
One individual act of generous pity
Is nobler far than ravaging a city.
Ev'n let the blood-stain'd ruffians call me coward,
An Alexander sinks beside a Howard.
Not to recount our every early joy,
When all was happiness without alloy,
Nor tread again each flow'ry field we trac'd,
Light as the silk-wing'd butterflies we chas'd,
Ere villain-falsehood taught the glowing mind
To look with cold suspicion on mankind—
Let 's pass the valley of our younger years,
And further uphill mark what now appears.
When all was happiness without alloy,
Nor tread again each flow'ry field we trac'd,
Light as the silk-wing'd butterflies we chas'd,
Ere villain-falsehood taught the glowing mind
To look with cold suspicion on mankind—
Let 's pass the valley of our younger years,
And further uphill mark what now appears.
We see the sensualist, fell vice's slave,
Fatigu'd, worn-out, sink to an early grave;
We see the slave of av'rice grind the poor,
His thirst for gold increasing with his store;
Pack-horse of fortune, all his days are care,
Her burdens bearing to his spendthrift heir.
Fatigu'd, worn-out, sink to an early grave;
We see the slave of av'rice grind the poor,
His thirst for gold increasing with his store;
Pack-horse of fortune, all his days are care,
Her burdens bearing to his spendthrift heir.
Next view the spendthrift, joyous o'er his purse,
Exchanging all his guineas for remorse;
On pleasure's flow'r-deck'd barge away he 's borne,
Supine, till every flow'r starts up a thorn.
Then all his pleasures fly, like air-blown bubbles:
He, ruin'd, sinks amidst a sea of troubles.
Exchanging all his guineas for remorse;
On pleasure's flow'r-deck'd barge away he 's borne,
Supine, till every flow'r starts up a thorn.
Then all his pleasures fly, like air-blown bubbles:
He, ruin'd, sinks amidst a sea of troubles.
Hail, Temperance! thou 'rt wisdom's first, best lore,
The sage in ev'ry age does thee adore;
Within thy pale we taste of ev'ry joy,
O'erstepping that, our highest pleasures cloy:
The heart-enliv'ning, friendly, social bowl
To rapt'rous ecstasy exalts the soul;
But when to midnight hour we keep it up,
Next morning feels the poison of the cup.
The sage in ev'ry age does thee adore;
Within thy pale we taste of ev'ry joy,
O'erstepping that, our highest pleasures cloy:
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To rapt'rous ecstasy exalts the soul;
But when to midnight hour we keep it up,
Next morning feels the poison of the cup.
Though fate forbade the gifts of schoolmen mine,
With classic art to write the polish'd line,
Yet miners oft must gather earth with gold,
And truth may strike, though e'er so roughly told.
With classic art to write the polish'd line,
Yet miners oft must gather earth with gold,
And truth may strike, though e'er so roughly told.
If thou in aught wouldst rise to eminence,
Show not the faintest shadow of pretence,
Else busy Scandal, with her thousand tongues,
Will quickly find thee in ten thousand wrongs;
Each strives to tear his neighbour's honour down,
As if detracting something from his own.
Of all the ills with which mankind is curst,
An envious, discontented mind's the worst;
There muddy Spleen exalts her gloomy throne,
Marks all conditions better than her own:
Hence Defamation spreads her ant-bear tongue,
And, grimly pleas'd, feeds on another's wrong.
Curse on the wretch who, when his neighbour's blest,
Erects his peace-destroying, snaky crest!
And he who sits in surly, sullen mood,
Repining at a fellow-mortal's good!
Man owns so little of true happiness,
That curst be he who makes that little less!
Show not the faintest shadow of pretence,
Else busy Scandal, with her thousand tongues,
Will quickly find thee in ten thousand wrongs;
Each strives to tear his neighbour's honour down,
As if detracting something from his own.
Of all the ills with which mankind is curst,
An envious, discontented mind's the worst;
There muddy Spleen exalts her gloomy throne,
Marks all conditions better than her own:
Hence Defamation spreads her ant-bear tongue,
And, grimly pleas'd, feeds on another's wrong.
Curse on the wretch who, when his neighbour's blest,
Erects his peace-destroying, snaky crest!
And he who sits in surly, sullen mood,
Repining at a fellow-mortal's good!
Man owns so little of true happiness,
That curst be he who makes that little less!
Vice to reclaim, join not the old cant cry
Of “Son of Sathan, guilt, and misery”:
One good example more the point will carry
Than all th' abuse in Scandal's dictionary.
Of “Son of Sathan, guilt, and misery”:
One good example more the point will carry
Than all th' abuse in Scandal's dictionary.
The Zealot thinks he 'll go to heaven direct,
Adhering to the tenets of his sect,
E'en though his practice lie in this alone,
To rail at all persuasions but his own.
Adhering to the tenets of his sect,
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To rail at all persuasions but his own.
In judging, still let moderation guide;
O'erheated zeal is certain to mislead.
First bow to God in heart-warm gratitude,
Next do your utmost for the general good.
In spite of all the forms which men devise,
'Tis there where real solid wisdom lies;
And impious is the man who claims dominion,
To damn his neighbour diff'ring in opinion.
O'erheated zeal is certain to mislead.
First bow to God in heart-warm gratitude,
Next do your utmost for the general good.
In spite of all the forms which men devise,
'Tis there where real solid wisdom lies;
And impious is the man who claims dominion,
To damn his neighbour diff'ring in opinion.
When suppliant Misery greets thy wand'ring eye,
Although in public, pass not heedless by;
Distress impels her to implore the crowd
For that denied within her lone abode.
Give thou the trifling pittance which she craves,
Though ostentation call'd by prudent knaves;
So conscience will a rich reward impart,
And finer feelings play around thy heart.
Although in public, pass not heedless by;
Distress impels her to implore the crowd
For that denied within her lone abode.
Give thou the trifling pittance which she craves,
Though ostentation call'd by prudent knaves;
So conscience will a rich reward impart,
And finer feelings play around thy heart.
When Wealth with arrogance exalts his brow,
And reckons Poverty a wretch most low,
Let good intentions dignify thy soul,
And conscious rectitude will crown the whole.
Hence indigence will independence own,
And soar above the haughty despot's frown.
And reckons Poverty a wretch most low,
Let good intentions dignify thy soul,
And conscious rectitude will crown the whole.
Hence indigence will independence own,
And soar above the haughty despot's frown.
Still to thy lot be virtuously resign'd;
Above all treasures prize thy peace of mind;
Then let not envy rob thy soul of rest,
Nor discontent e'er harbour in thy breast.
Be not too fond of popular applause,
Which often echoes in a villain's cause,
Whose specious sophistry gilds his deceit,
Till pow'r abus'd, in time shows forth the cheat:
Yet be't thy pride to bear an honest fame;
More dear than life watch over thy good name;
For he, poor man! who has no wish to gain it,
Despises all the virtues which attain it.
Above all treasures prize thy peace of mind;
Then let not envy rob thy soul of rest,
Nor discontent e'er harbour in thy breast.
Be not too fond of popular applause,
Which often echoes in a villain's cause,
Whose specious sophistry gilds his deceit,
Till pow'r abus'd, in time shows forth the cheat:
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More dear than life watch over thy good name;
For he, poor man! who has no wish to gain it,
Despises all the virtues which attain it.
Of friendship, still be secrecy the test,
This maxim let be 'graven in my breast:
Whate'er a friend enjoins me to conceal,
I 'm weak, I 'm base, if I the same reveal;
Let honour, acting as a pow'rful spell,
Suppress that itching fondness still to tell;
Else, unthank'd chronicle, the cunning's tool,
The world will stamp me for a gossip fool.
Yet let us act an honest open part,
Nor curb the warm effusions of the heart,
Which, naturally virtuous, discommends
Aught mean or base, even in our dearest friends.
This maxim let be 'graven in my breast:
Whate'er a friend enjoins me to conceal,
I 'm weak, I 'm base, if I the same reveal;
Let honour, acting as a pow'rful spell,
Suppress that itching fondness still to tell;
Else, unthank'd chronicle, the cunning's tool,
The world will stamp me for a gossip fool.
Yet let us act an honest open part,
Nor curb the warm effusions of the heart,
Which, naturally virtuous, discommends
Aught mean or base, even in our dearest friends.
But why this long disjointed scrawl to thee,
Whose every action is a law to me;
Whose every deed proclaims thy noble mind,
Industrious, independent, just, and kind.
Methinks I hear thee say, “Each fool may teach,
Since now my whim-led friend 's begun to preach!”
But this first essay of my preaching strain,
Hear, and accept for friendship's sake. Amen.
Whose every action is a law to me;
Whose every deed proclaims thy noble mind,
Industrious, independent, just, and kind.
Methinks I hear thee say, “Each fool may teach,
Since now my whim-led friend 's begun to preach!”
But this first essay of my preaching strain,
Hear, and accept for friendship's sake. Amen.
EPISTLE TO JAMES BUCHANAN,
KILBARCHAN.
August, 1806.
My gude auld friend on Locher banks,
Your kindness claims my warmest thanks;
Yet thanks is but a draff-cheap phrase,
Of little value now-a-days;
Indeed, it 's hardly worth the heeding,
Unless to show a body's breeding.
Yet mony a poor, doil't, servile body
Will scrimp his stomach of its crowdy,
And pride to run a great man's erran's,
And feed on smiles and sour cheese-parin's,
And think himsel' nae sma' sheep-shank,
Rich laden wi' his Lordship's thank.
The sodger, too, for a' his troubles—
His hungry wames, and bloody hubbles,
His agues, rheumatisms, cramps,
Received in plashy winter camps—
O blest reward! at last he gains
His sov'reign's thanks for a' his pains.
Your kindness claims my warmest thanks;
Yet thanks is but a draff-cheap phrase,
Of little value now-a-days;
121
Unless to show a body's breeding.
Yet mony a poor, doil't, servile body
Will scrimp his stomach of its crowdy,
And pride to run a great man's erran's,
And feed on smiles and sour cheese-parin's,
And think himsel' nae sma' sheep-shank,
Rich laden wi' his Lordship's thank.
The sodger, too, for a' his troubles—
His hungry wames, and bloody hubbles,
His agues, rheumatisms, cramps,
Received in plashy winter camps—
O blest reward! at last he gains
His sov'reign's thanks for a' his pains.
'Twas wisely said by “Queer Sir John,”
That “Honour wadna buy a scone.”
Sae ane, of thanks, may get a million,
Yet live as puir's a porter's scullion;
Indeed, they 're just (but, beg your pardon),
Priest-blessing like, no' worth a fardin.
That “Honour wadna buy a scone.”
Sae ane, of thanks, may get a million,
Yet live as puir's a porter's scullion;
Indeed, they 're just (but, beg your pardon),
Priest-blessing like, no' worth a fardin.
Thus, though 'mang first of friends I rank you,
'Twere but sma' compliment to thank you;
Yet, lest ye think me here ungratefu'—
Of hatefu' names a name most hatefu'—
The neist time that ye come to toun,
By a' the pow'rs beneath the moon!
I 'll treat you wi' a Highland gill,
Though it should be my hindmost fill.
'Twere but sma' compliment to thank you;
Yet, lest ye think me here ungratefu'—
Of hatefu' names a name most hatefu'—
The neist time that ye come to toun,
By a' the pow'rs beneath the moon!
I 'll treat you wi' a Highland gill,
Though it should be my hindmost fill.
Though in the bustling town, the Muse
Has gather'd little feck of news:
—'Tis said, the Court of Antiquarians
Has split on some great point of variance;
For ane has got, in gowden box,
The spectacles of auld John Knox;
A second proudly thanks his fate wi'
The hindmost pen that Nelson wrote wi';
A third ane owns an antique rare—
A sape-brush made of mermaid's hair!
But, niggard wights! they a' refuse 'em,
These precious relics, to the museum,
Whilk selfish, mean, illegal deeds
Ha'e set them a' at loggerheads.
Has gather'd little feck of news:
—'Tis said, the Court of Antiquarians
Has split on some great point of variance;
122
The spectacles of auld John Knox;
A second proudly thanks his fate wi'
The hindmost pen that Nelson wrote wi';
A third ane owns an antique rare—
A sape-brush made of mermaid's hair!
But, niggard wights! they a' refuse 'em,
These precious relics, to the museum,
Whilk selfish, mean, illegal deeds
Ha'e set them a' at loggerheads.
'Tis also said our noble Prince
Has play'd the wee saut loon for ance,
Has gi'en his bonnie wife the fling,
Yet gars her wear Hans Carvel's ring;
But a' sic clish-clash cracks I 'll lea'
To yon sculdudry committee.
Has play'd the wee saut loon for ance,
Has gi'en his bonnie wife the fling,
Yet gars her wear Hans Carvel's ring;
But a' sic clish-clash cracks I 'll lea'
To yon sculdudry committee.
Sure, taste refin'd and public spirit
Stand next to genius in merit;
I 'm proud to see your warm regard
For Caledonia's dearest bard;
Of him ye 've got sae gude a painting,
That nocht but real life is awanting.
I think yon rising genius, Tannock,
May gain a niche in Fame's heigh winnock;
There, with auld Rubens, placed sublime,
Look down upon the wreck of time.
Stand next to genius in merit;
I 'm proud to see your warm regard
For Caledonia's dearest bard;
Of him ye 've got sae gude a painting,
That nocht but real life is awanting.
I think yon rising genius, Tannock,
May gain a niche in Fame's heigh winnock;
There, with auld Rubens, placed sublime,
Look down upon the wreck of time.
I ne'er, as yet, ha'e found a patron,
For, scorn be till 't! I hate a' flatt'rin';
Besides, I never had an itching
To slake about a great man's kitchen,
And, like a spaniel, lick his dishes,
And come and gang just to his wishes;
Yet, studious to give worth its due,
I pride to praise the like of you,
Gude chields, replete wi' sterling sense,
Wha wi' their worth mak' nae pretence.
Aye—there 's my worthy friend, M'Math,
I 'll lo'e him till my latest breath,
And like a traitor wretch be hanged
Before I 'd hear that fellow wranged.
His ev'ry action shows his mind,
Humanely noble, bright, and kind;
And here 's the worth o't, doubly rooted,
He never speaks ae word aboot it!
—My compliments an' warm gude-will
To Maisters Semple, Barr, and Lyle.
Wad rav'ning Time but spare my pages,
They 'd tell the world in after ages
That it, to me, was wealth and fame
To be esteem'd by chields like them.
O Time, thou all-devouring bear!
Hear—“List, O list”—my ardent pray'r!
I crave thee here, on bended knee,
To let my dear-lov'd pages be!
O take thy sharp-nail'd, nibbling elves
To musty scrolls on college shelves!
There, with dry treatises on law,
Feast, cram, and gorge thy greedy maw;
But grant, amid thy thin-sown mercies,
To spare, O spare my darling verses!
For, scorn be till 't! I hate a' flatt'rin';
Besides, I never had an itching
To slake about a great man's kitchen,
123
And come and gang just to his wishes;
Yet, studious to give worth its due,
I pride to praise the like of you,
Gude chields, replete wi' sterling sense,
Wha wi' their worth mak' nae pretence.
Aye—there 's my worthy friend, M'Math,
I 'll lo'e him till my latest breath,
And like a traitor wretch be hanged
Before I 'd hear that fellow wranged.
His ev'ry action shows his mind,
Humanely noble, bright, and kind;
And here 's the worth o't, doubly rooted,
He never speaks ae word aboot it!
—My compliments an' warm gude-will
To Maisters Semple, Barr, and Lyle.
Wad rav'ning Time but spare my pages,
They 'd tell the world in after ages
That it, to me, was wealth and fame
To be esteem'd by chields like them.
O Time, thou all-devouring bear!
Hear—“List, O list”—my ardent pray'r!
I crave thee here, on bended knee,
To let my dear-lov'd pages be!
O take thy sharp-nail'd, nibbling elves
To musty scrolls on college shelves!
There, with dry treatises on law,
Feast, cram, and gorge thy greedy maw;
But grant, amid thy thin-sown mercies,
To spare, O spare my darling verses!
Could I but up through hist'ry wimple
With Robertson, or sage Dalrymple,
Or had I half the pith and lear
Of a Mackenzie, or a Blair,
I aiblins then might tell some story
Wad show the Muse in bleezing glory;
But scrimpt o' time and lear scholastic,
My lines limp on in Hudibrastic,
Till Hope, grown sick, flings down her claim,
And drops her dream of future fame.
—Yes, O waesucks! should I be vauntie?
My Muse is just a Rosinante:
She stammers forth with hilching canter,
Sagely intent on strange adventure;
Yet, sae uncouth in garb and feature,
She seems the Fool of Literature.
But lest the critic's birsie besom
Soop aff this cant of egotism,
I 'll sidelins hint—na, bauldly tell,
I whiles think something o' mysel':
Else, wha the deil wad fash to scribble,
Expecting scorn for a' his trouble?
Yet, lest dear self should be mista'en,
I 'll fling the bridle o'er the mane;
For, after a', I fear this jargon
Is but a Willie Glassford bargain.
With Robertson, or sage Dalrymple,
Or had I half the pith and lear
Of a Mackenzie, or a Blair,
124
Wad show the Muse in bleezing glory;
But scrimpt o' time and lear scholastic,
My lines limp on in Hudibrastic,
Till Hope, grown sick, flings down her claim,
And drops her dream of future fame.
—Yes, O waesucks! should I be vauntie?
My Muse is just a Rosinante:
She stammers forth with hilching canter,
Sagely intent on strange adventure;
Yet, sae uncouth in garb and feature,
She seems the Fool of Literature.
But lest the critic's birsie besom
Soop aff this cant of egotism,
I 'll sidelins hint—na, bauldly tell,
I whiles think something o' mysel':
Else, wha the deil wad fash to scribble,
Expecting scorn for a' his trouble?
Yet, lest dear self should be mista'en,
I 'll fling the bridle o'er the mane;
For, after a', I fear this jargon
Is but a Willie Glassford bargain.
Referring to a Portrait of Robert Burns, painted for the Kilbarchan Burns Anniversary Society by J. Tannock.
William Glassford, a writer of doggerel verses, which he hawked in pennyworths amongst the inhabitants of Paisley.
EPISTLE TO ROBERT ALLAN,
KILBARCHAN.
1807.
Dear Robin,
The Muse is now a wee at leisure,
And sits her doun wi' meikle pleasure
To skelp you aff a blaud o' rhyme
As near 's she can to true sublime;
But here 's the rub—poor poet-devils,
We 're compass'd round wi' mony evils;
We jerk oursel's into a fever
To give the world something clever,
And after a' perhaps we muddle
In vile prosaic stagnant puddle.
For me—I seldom choose a subject,
My rhymes are oft without an object;
I let the Muse e'en tak' her win',
And dash awa' through thick and thin:
For Method's sic a servile creature,
She spurns the wilds o' simple nature,
And paces on, wi' easy art,
A lang day's journey frae the heart.
Sae what comes uppermaist you'll get it;
Be 't good or ill, for you I write it.
And sits her doun wi' meikle pleasure
To skelp you aff a blaud o' rhyme
As near 's she can to true sublime;
125
We 're compass'd round wi' mony evils;
We jerk oursel's into a fever
To give the world something clever,
And after a' perhaps we muddle
In vile prosaic stagnant puddle.
For me—I seldom choose a subject,
My rhymes are oft without an object;
I let the Muse e'en tak' her win',
And dash awa' through thick and thin:
For Method's sic a servile creature,
She spurns the wilds o' simple nature,
And paces on, wi' easy art,
A lang day's journey frae the heart.
Sae what comes uppermaist you'll get it;
Be 't good or ill, for you I write it.
How fares my worthy friend, the bard?
Be peace and honour his reward!
May every ill that gars us fyke,
Bad webs, toom pouches, and sic like,
And ought that would his spirit bend,
Be ten miles distant frae my friend.
Alas! this wicked, endless war,
Rul'd by some vile, malignant star,
Has sunk poor Britain low indeed,
Has robb'd Industry o' her bread,
And dash'd the sair-won cog o' crowdie
Frae mony an honest, eident body;
While Genius, dying through neglect,
Sinks down amidst the general wreck.
Be peace and honour his reward!
May every ill that gars us fyke,
Bad webs, toom pouches, and sic like,
And ought that would his spirit bend,
Be ten miles distant frae my friend.
Alas! this wicked, endless war,
Rul'd by some vile, malignant star,
Has sunk poor Britain low indeed,
Has robb'd Industry o' her bread,
And dash'd the sair-won cog o' crowdie
Frae mony an honest, eident body;
While Genius, dying through neglect,
Sinks down amidst the general wreck.
Just like twa cats tied tail to tail,
They worry at it, tooth and nail;
They girn, they bite in deadly wrath,
And what is 't for? For nought, in faith!
Wee Lourie Frank, wi' brazen snout,
Nae doubt would like to scart us out,
For proud John Bull, aye us'd to hone him,
Will no' gi'e o'er to spit upon him.
But Lourie's raised to sic degree,
John would be wise to let him be;
Else aiblins, as he 's wearin' aul',
Frank yet may tear him spawl frae spawl,
For wi' the mony chirts he 's gotten,
I fear his constitution's rotten.
They worry at it, tooth and nail;
126
And what is 't for? For nought, in faith!
Wee Lourie Frank, wi' brazen snout,
Nae doubt would like to scart us out,
For proud John Bull, aye us'd to hone him,
Will no' gi'e o'er to spit upon him.
But Lourie's raised to sic degree,
John would be wise to let him be;
Else aiblins, as he 's wearin' aul',
Frank yet may tear him spawl frae spawl,
For wi' the mony chirts he 's gotten,
I fear his constitution's rotten.
But while the bullying blades o' Europe
Are boxing ither to a syrup,
Let 's mind oursel's as weel's we can,
And live in peace, like man and man,
And no cast out, and fecht like brutes,
Without a cause for our disputes.
Are boxing ither to a syrup,
Let 's mind oursel's as weel's we can,
And live in peace, like man and man,
And no cast out, and fecht like brutes,
Without a cause for our disputes.
When I read o'er your kind epistle,
I didna dance, nor sing, nor whistle,
But jump'd and cried, “Huzza! huzza!”
Like Robin Roughhead in the play.
But to be serious—jest aside—
I felt a glow o' secret pride
Thus to be roos'd by ane like you;
Yet doubted if sic praise was due,
Till self thus reason'd in the matter:
Ye ken that Robin scorns to flatter,
And ere he 'd prostitute his quill,
He 'd rather burn his rhyming mill—
Enough! I cried—I 've gain'd my end,
Since I ha'e pleas'd my worthy friend.
I didna dance, nor sing, nor whistle,
But jump'd and cried, “Huzza! huzza!”
Like Robin Roughhead in the play.
But to be serious—jest aside—
I felt a glow o' secret pride
Thus to be roos'd by ane like you;
Yet doubted if sic praise was due,
Till self thus reason'd in the matter:
Ye ken that Robin scorns to flatter,
And ere he 'd prostitute his quill,
He 'd rather burn his rhyming mill—
Enough! I cried—I 've gain'd my end,
Since I ha'e pleas'd my worthy friend.
127
My sangs are now before the warl',
And some may praise, and some may snarl.
They ha'e their faults, yet I can tell
Nane sees them clearer than mysel';
But still, I think, they too inherit
Amang the dross some sparks o' merit.
And some may praise, and some may snarl.
They ha'e their faults, yet I can tell
Nane sees them clearer than mysel';
But still, I think, they too inherit
Amang the dross some sparks o' merit.
Then come, my dear Parnassian brither,
Let 's lay our poet-heads thegither,
And sing our ain sweet native scenes,
Our streams, our banks, and rural plains,
Our woods, our shaws, and flow'ry holms,
And mountains clad wi' purple blooms,
Wi' burnies bickerin' doon their braes,
Reflecting back the sunny rays:
Ye 've Semple Woods, and Calder Glen,
And Locher Bank, sweet fairy den!
And Auchenames, a glorious theme!
Where Crawford liv'd, of deathless name,
Where Sempill sued his lass to win,
And Nelly rose and let him in;
Where Habbie Simpson lang did play,
The first o' pipers in his day;
And though aneath the turf langsyne,
Their sangs and tunes shall never tyne.
Let 's lay our poet-heads thegither,
And sing our ain sweet native scenes,
Our streams, our banks, and rural plains,
Our woods, our shaws, and flow'ry holms,
And mountains clad wi' purple blooms,
Wi' burnies bickerin' doon their braes,
Reflecting back the sunny rays:
Ye 've Semple Woods, and Calder Glen,
And Locher Bank, sweet fairy den!
And Auchenames, a glorious theme!
Where Crawford liv'd, of deathless name,
Where Sempill sued his lass to win,
And Nelly rose and let him in;
Where Habbie Simpson lang did play,
The first o' pipers in his day;
And though aneath the turf langsyne,
Their sangs and tunes shall never tyne.
Sae, Robin, briskly ply the Muse;
She warms our hearts, expands our views,
Gars every sordid passion flee,
And waukens every sympathy.
She warms our hearts, expands our views,
Gars every sordid passion flee,
And waukens every sympathy.
Now, wishing Fate may never tax you
Wi' cross, nor loss, to thraw and vex you,
But keep you hale till ninety-nine,
Till you and yours in honour shine,
Shall ever be my earnest pray'r,
While I 've a friendly wish to spare.
Wi' cross, nor loss, to thraw and vex you,
But keep you hale till ninety-nine,
Till you and yours in honour shine,
Shall ever be my earnest pray'r,
While I 've a friendly wish to spare.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |