Poems Consisting Of Essays, Lyric, Elegiac, &c. By Thomas Dermody. Written between the 13th and 16th Year of his Age |
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TAM TO RAB.
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TAM TO RAB.
AN ODAIC EPISTLE.
Hail, brither Rab, thou genuine Bard,
May laurels be thy grand reward!
Laurels, with gold, and siller hard,
To fill the purse,
For else, they are not worth a card,
Or Beldame's curse.
May laurels be thy grand reward!
Laurels, with gold, and siller hard,
To fill the purse,
For else, they are not worth a card,
Or Beldame's curse.
Arcades ambo! baith are ready,
T'invoke, and woo, each tunefu' Lady,
But thou, sweet friend, hast got a trade, I
Ken no such thing,
Thou can'st e'en drive the ploughshare steady;
I can but sing.
T'invoke, and woo, each tunefu' Lady,
But thou, sweet friend, hast got a trade, I
Ken no such thing,
Thou can'st e'en drive the ploughshare steady;
I can but sing.
Yet, would I glad, gang out with thee,
To strew my barley on the lea;
Wow! we would gloriously agree,
Poetics gabbling,
Ne, ever, o'er the dram, would we,
Be squabbling.
To strew my barley on the lea;
Wow! we would gloriously agree,
Poetics gabbling,
Ne, ever, o'er the dram, would we,
Be squabbling.
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Keen as thy wit, the scythe we'd wield,
Culling, each flow'r, the wild woods yield,
Together, urge our team afield;
Together rhime,
And, mark the Sun yon mountain gild,
Till supper time.
Culling, each flow'r, the wild woods yield,
Together, urge our team afield;
Together rhime,
And, mark the Sun yon mountain gild,
Till supper time.
Allan's bra' lilts we wou'd rehearse,
And laugh, and weep, and talk in verse;
While grey-ey'd Judgment, sapient nurse,
Our thoughts would prune,
And Fancy, roseate bands disperse,
Our brows to crown.
And laugh, and weep, and talk in verse;
While grey-ey'd Judgment, sapient nurse,
Our thoughts would prune,
And Fancy, roseate bands disperse,
Our brows to crown.
Yes, Rab, I love thee in my heart,
Thy simple notes, uncurb'd by art;
That bid the tear of passion start,
And, sure, I am,
Ere from this wicked world we part,
You'll jostle Tam.
Thy simple notes, uncurb'd by art;
That bid the tear of passion start,
And, sure, I am,
Ere from this wicked world we part,
You'll jostle Tam.
And if you do, by Peter's keys,
We'll quaff stout whiskey, at our ease;
Drive fools, before our verse, like geese,
And clink the can,
Till, we shall rise, by twelve degrees,
'Bove reptile Man.
We'll quaff stout whiskey, at our ease;
Drive fools, before our verse, like geese,
And clink the can,
Till, we shall rise, by twelve degrees,
'Bove reptile Man.
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