The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill With biography, illustrations, and music |
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EPISTLE TO ALEXANDER BORLAND. |
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 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
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;
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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.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |