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