The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill With biography, illustrations, and music |
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EPISTLE TO JAMES SCADLOCK.
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 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
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.
104
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;
105
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.
106
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!
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |