The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill With biography, illustrations, and music |
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EPISTLE TO ROBERT ALLAN,
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 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
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;
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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 | |