The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill With biography, illustrations, and music |
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EPISTLE TO JAMES BARR.
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 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
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?
107
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!
108
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.
109
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.
110
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.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |