 | Poems on various subjects |  |
67
Epistles.
69
EPISTLE I. TO ROBERT BURNS.
WRITTEN AND SENT TO THAT CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BARD A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH.
Nay, do not think I flatter;
For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee?
Shakespeare.
For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee?
Shakespeare.
Sin' sense and reason baith unite
In ye, to gi'e mankind delight,
Forgi' me gin I bauldly write
In lowly strain:
O man, could I like ye indite,
'Twould mak' me fain!
In ye, to gi'e mankind delight,
Forgi' me gin I bauldly write
In lowly strain:
O man, could I like ye indite,
'Twould mak' me fain!
70
Thought I, I'se try my pen at rhyme,
Gif I can hit o' words to chyme;
Sin poetizin is nae crime,
I'll do my best:
In cam' the Muse—'twas just in time—
To do the rest.
Gif I can hit o' words to chyme;
Sin poetizin is nae crime,
I'll do my best:
In cam' the Muse—'twas just in time—
To do the rest.
In naming Burns, I saw her smile;
Says she, ‘I've known him a lang while,
‘And ane sae free frae artfu' guile,
‘Sae guid and true,
‘And sic a bard in a' this isle
‘I ne'er yet knew.
Says she, ‘I've known him a lang while,
‘And ane sae free frae artfu' guile,
‘Sae guid and true,
‘And sic a bard in a' this isle
‘I ne'er yet knew.
‘But Rab has thrown his pen awa',
‘Sae I ha'e nought to do ava';
‘For here the callons great and sma'
‘Ne'er leuk at me:
‘Daft fallows truly, ane and a',
‘Compar'd wi' he.
‘Sae I ha'e nought to do ava';
‘For here the callons great and sma'
‘Ne'er leuk at me:
‘Daft fallows truly, ane and a',
‘Compar'd wi' he.
71
‘Gin 'twere no' for my Rabbie's sake,
‘Far frae the north my course I'd take;
‘But frae dame Nature's child, alake!
‘I downa gang,
‘Whase canny verse o' burn and brake
‘Has pleas'd me lang.
‘Far frae the north my course I'd take;
‘But frae dame Nature's child, alake!
‘I downa gang,
‘Whase canny verse o' burn and brake
‘Has pleas'd me lang.
‘For a' the live-lang simmer day
‘Wi' him, and nane but him, I'd gae:
‘We wander'd aft o'er birk and brae
‘In ithers' spite,
‘Where meadows green and mountains grey
‘Gied him delight.
‘Wi' him, and nane but him, I'd gae:
‘We wander'd aft o'er birk and brae
‘In ithers' spite,
‘Where meadows green and mountains grey
‘Gied him delight.
‘Of a' my wooers Rab's the mense;
‘Sae tak' your pen and try for ance
‘To praise his manly worth and sense:
‘Ye may wi' truth,
‘For flattery aft-times gi'es offence
‘To age or youth.’
‘Sae tak' your pen and try for ance
‘To praise his manly worth and sense:
‘Ye may wi' truth,
‘For flattery aft-times gi'es offence
‘To age or youth.’
72
She turn'd her roun', but said nae mair;
Awa' she flew I ken no' where,
Unless she sought the banks of Ayr
To wail for ye;
For, O! she ca's but unco rare
O' folk like me.
Awa' she flew I ken no' where,
Unless she sought the banks of Ayr
To wail for ye;
For, O! she ca's but unco rare
O' folk like me.
Wow man, auld Scotia mourns for ye,
And Scotia unco sad may be,
Sin Burns, wha sang wi' merry glee,
Now quats his quill:
Rise, rise, let frien's and faes a' see
Ye're Rabbie still.
And Scotia unco sad may be,
Sin Burns, wha sang wi' merry glee,
Now quats his quill:
Rise, rise, let frien's and faes a' see
Ye're Rabbie still.
As on some shaggy mountain's brow,
The stately oak wi' outstretch'd bough
Aye meets the passing wand'rer's view
Afore the rest;
E'en sae 'mang Coila's sons, I trow,
Thou stan'st confess'd.
The stately oak wi' outstretch'd bough
Aye meets the passing wand'rer's view
Afore the rest;
E'en sae 'mang Coila's sons, I trow,
Thou stan'st confess'd.
73
Prince o' the mirthfu' rhymin thrang,
Wha roam her hills and dales amang;
Whether keen satire, tale, or sang,
Flows frae thy pen,
Thou gi'est some lordly chiels a bang,
Wha are but men.
Wha roam her hills and dales amang;
Whether keen satire, tale, or sang,
Flows frae thy pen,
Thou gi'est some lordly chiels a bang,
Wha are but men.
Nae mair auld Allan gi'es delight,
Nae mair beguiles the lang mirk night,
Nor Fergusson, wha tried wi' might
Dull Care to kill,
Sin' thou hast gain'd the tapmost height
O' that fam'd hill.
Nae mair beguiles the lang mirk night,
Nor Fergusson, wha tried wi' might
Dull Care to kill,
Sin' thou hast gain'd the tapmost height
O' that fam'd hill.
How many climb, but climb in vain,
By critics aye pou'd down again;
But where is he dare blame the strain
O' Nature's bard,
Wha, matchless, o'er the lave doth reign,
Without reward?
By critics aye pou'd down again;
But where is he dare blame the strain
O' Nature's bard,
Wha, matchless, o'er the lave doth reign,
Without reward?
74
Your name baith young and auld may bless,
Sure nane but asses can do less;
For frae the Thames to Tweed, I guess,
There's nane ava'
Wha read your rhymes, but maun confess
Ye beat them a'.
Sure nane but asses can do less;
For frae the Thames to Tweed, I guess,
There's nane ava'
Wha read your rhymes, but maun confess
Ye beat them a'.
This warld's a lottery, Rab, we find,
And Fortune's aft to Virtue blind,
To Merit fause, to dunces kind—
Ye ken it's true;
For, gin the dame true worth wou'd mind,
She'd smile on you.
And Fortune's aft to Virtue blind,
To Merit fause, to dunces kind—
Ye ken it's true;
For, gin the dame true worth wou'd mind,
She'd smile on you.
Yet tho' the hizzie's whyles severe,
E'en let her frown, we need no' fear:
Whilst I've a frien', whase smiles can cheer
Me when I'm ill,
I'll laugh at fools wi' a' their geer,
Wha're wretched still.
E'en let her frown, we need no' fear:
Whilst I've a frien', whase smiles can cheer
Me when I'm ill,
I'll laugh at fools wi' a' their geer,
Wha're wretched still.
75
Base jade, she's gi'en me mony a hitch,
I hate her as ane sud a witch,
And care no' tho'f I be no' rich
A single strae,
For she's a saucy, fickle ---,
Like mony mae.
I hate her as ane sud a witch,
And care no' tho'f I be no' rich
A single strae,
For she's a saucy, fickle ---,
Like mony mae.
E'en let her fly this cot o' mine,
And wait upo' the lordling fine;
Tho' off rich dainties he may dine,
And dishes rare,
The star that on his breast doth shine
Hides mickle care.
And wait upo' the lordling fine;
Tho' off rich dainties he may dine,
And dishes rare,
The star that on his breast doth shine
Hides mickle care.
Now tint me, Rab, I'm thinkin soon
To gi'e a ca' in Dumfries town:
Aiblins some bonie afternoon
We twa may meet;
If sae, we'se spen' a white half-crown—
Wow, 'twill be sweet!
To gi'e a ca' in Dumfries town:
Aiblins some bonie afternoon
We twa may meet;
If sae, we'se spen' a white half-crown—
Wow, 'twill be sweet!
76
Wi' ye I lang to ha'e a rout;
We'se pass ae night in mirth nae doubt;
Haith man, we'se clink the stoup about,
And sing and play,
And keep auld Time, the blinker, out
Till peep o' day.
We'se pass ae night in mirth nae doubt;
Haith man, we'se clink the stoup about,
And sing and play,
And keep auld Time, the blinker, out
Till peep o' day.
Sin' life's a journey unco short,
And poor folks are but Fortune's sport,
Wi' cheerfu' sauls let's aye resort,
As lang's we dow;
For they wha're sad maun suffer for't,
Right sair I trow.
And poor folks are but Fortune's sport,
Wi' cheerfu' sauls let's aye resort,
As lang's we dow;
For they wha're sad maun suffer for't,
Right sair I trow.
The greatest bliss thro' life we know,
Is when the tears o' pity flow
Frae some kind frien' wha shares our woe
To mak' it less;
Syne shiel's us frae an angry foe,
And black distrees.
Is when the tears o' pity flow
Frae some kind frien' wha shares our woe
To mak' it less;
Syne shiel's us frae an angry foe,
And black distrees.
77
Yon peasant in his strae-roof'd cot,
Whase honest heart seems free frae spot,
Blest wi' his frien', he envies not
The rich and great;
Nor wou'd he change his humble lot
For pride and state.
Whase honest heart seems free frae spot,
Blest wi' his frien', he envies not
The rich and great;
Nor wou'd he change his humble lot
For pride and state.
What signifies the gaudy crew,
Wha Ruin's gilded paths pursue;
Gi'e me the wale o' men a few,
Wi' sense guid share,
Right honest hearts, baith leal and true,
I ask nae mair.
Wha Ruin's gilded paths pursue;
Gi'e me the wale o' men a few,
Wi' sense guid share,
Right honest hearts, baith leal and true,
I ask nae mair.
May ye, dear Rab, ne'er want a friend,
Nor to chill Poverty e'er bend,
But ha'e enough to gi'e and lend
For a' your life,
And aye be happy to your end,
And free frae strife.
Nor to chill Poverty e'er bend,
But ha'e enough to gi'e and lend
For a' your life,
And aye be happy to your end,
And free frae strife.
78
May Care, that canker, far off keep,
And Peace watch o'er ye while ye sleep;
Syne, when in years ye 'gin to creep,
I hope ye'll say,
Misfortune ne'er ance made ye weep,
Nor yet leuk wae.
And Peace watch o'er ye while ye sleep;
Syne, when in years ye 'gin to creep,
I hope ye'll say,
Misfortune ne'er ance made ye weep,
Nor yet leuk wae.
But had I sud ha' done lang syne,
Excuse this hodge-podge rhyme o' mine;
And, Rab, gin ye but sen' a line,
I vow most fervent,
I'll thank ye for't, and tak' it kine,
Your humble servant.
Excuse this hodge-podge rhyme o' mine;
And, Rab, gin ye but sen' a line,
I vow most fervent,
I'll thank ye for't, and tak' it kine,
Your humble servant.
CARLISLE, JUNE, 1796.
79
EPISTLE II. TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND,
WITH A COPY OF GREGORY'S LEGACY.
How sweet the task to teach the tender mind
The path of Wisdom, which so few do find,
Whose ways unerring, spite of Envy's hiss,
Lead to those realms where all is endless bliss.
For this, an untaught bard, in homely strain,
To Mary sings, nor hopes he sings in vain;
For this, the labours of the genius sends,
Who chastest pleasure with instruction blends;
Whose moral precepts, free from pompous art,
Improve the manners as they mend the heart;
Who joins pure diction with each classic grace,
Striving the thorny paths of Vice to trace—
A wise preceptor to the human race.
The path of Wisdom, which so few do find,
Whose ways unerring, spite of Envy's hiss,
Lead to those realms where all is endless bliss.
For this, an untaught bard, in homely strain,
To Mary sings, nor hopes he sings in vain;
For this, the labours of the genius sends,
Who chastest pleasure with instruction blends;
Whose moral precepts, free from pompous art,
Improve the manners as they mend the heart;
Who joins pure diction with each classic grace,
Striving the thorny paths of Vice to trace—
A wise preceptor to the human race.
80
Now, when the flow'rs are welcom'd forth by spring,
And in each grove the woodland warblers sing,
Let these remind thee of that Pow'r above,
Who daily shews to man his wond'rous love:
Know, 'tis his goodness that the cultur'd fields
A plenteous produce to the peasant yields.
When frowning Winter bends the naked tree,
Still praise Him who is bountiful to thee,
And look with pity on the suffering poor,
Who're doom'd full many a bitter storm t'endure:
Think, when thou see'st imploring Misery roam,
Misfortune may have robb'd him of a home;
Nor dare to scorn Affliction's lowly cot,
Lest humbler poverty should be thy lot;
Nor grudge the fainting wanderer relief,
But learn to feel for those o'erwhelm'd with grief,
And give with pleasure what thou canst afford,
For what thou giv'st is lent but to the Lord,
Who marks each action and its various cause,
Each pitying sigh forc'd by another's woes,
At whose all-wise command we first draw breath,
And with a Christian's hopes rejoice in death.
And in each grove the woodland warblers sing,
Let these remind thee of that Pow'r above,
Who daily shews to man his wond'rous love:
Know, 'tis his goodness that the cultur'd fields
A plenteous produce to the peasant yields.
When frowning Winter bends the naked tree,
Still praise Him who is bountiful to thee,
And look with pity on the suffering poor,
Who're doom'd full many a bitter storm t'endure:
Think, when thou see'st imploring Misery roam,
Misfortune may have robb'd him of a home;
Nor dare to scorn Affliction's lowly cot,
Lest humbler poverty should be thy lot;
Nor grudge the fainting wanderer relief,
But learn to feel for those o'erwhelm'd with grief,
And give with pleasure what thou canst afford,
For what thou giv'st is lent but to the Lord,
Who marks each action and its various cause,
Each pitying sigh forc'd by another's woes,
81
And with a Christian's hopes rejoice in death.
Whilst in thy youth, seek the true God to know,
And the pure joys which from Religion flow,
Whose sacred precepts teach weak man to shun,
The various ills by which he's oft undone.
If Virtue, that bright gem, adorn thy breast,
Ne'er envy Folly's children gaily dress'd,
Nor grieve tho' wealth and luxury be not thine,
But know thyself, nor at God's will repine:
Whate'er thy station, 'tis thy duty still
To bend submissive to his holy will.
In hours of sickness his great name adore,
Whose goodness can Health's roseate bloom restore;
And should'st thou taste life's bitter cup of care,
With fortitude thy painful sufferings bear,
Nor fail this best of maxims to regard,
That patient Virtue gains a sure reward.
And the pure joys which from Religion flow,
Whose sacred precepts teach weak man to shun,
The various ills by which he's oft undone.
If Virtue, that bright gem, adorn thy breast,
Ne'er envy Folly's children gaily dress'd,
Nor grieve tho' wealth and luxury be not thine,
But know thyself, nor at God's will repine:
Whate'er thy station, 'tis thy duty still
To bend submissive to his holy will.
In hours of sickness his great name adore,
Whose goodness can Health's roseate bloom restore;
And should'st thou taste life's bitter cup of care,
With fortitude thy painful sufferings bear,
Nor fail this best of maxims to regard,
That patient Virtue gains a sure reward.
82
Still let thy walk be heav'nly Wisdom's way,
Nor be by false-nam'd Pleasure led astray,
For Vice oft lurks in Pleasure's gayest bow'r,
And lures th'unwary at th'unguarded hour:
So the fair rose that opens with the morn,
Beneath its sweets conceals a piercing thorn.
Nor be by false-nam'd Pleasure led astray,
For Vice oft lurks in Pleasure's gayest bow'r,
And lures th'unwary at th'unguarded hour:
So the fair rose that opens with the morn,
Beneath its sweets conceals a piercing thorn.
Beware of Pride, that gay delusive guest,
The vain disturber of the artless breast;
A dang'rous pois'ner of the human mind,
Engend'ring half the evils of mankind:
'Tis Vice's ratsbane, Virtue to destroy,
Scorn'd by the righteous as a gilded toy;
A badge that tells the foolish from the wise,
Which fair Religion warns thee to despise.
The vain disturber of the artless breast;
A dang'rous pois'ner of the human mind,
Engend'ring half the evils of mankind:
'Tis Vice's ratsbane, Virtue to destroy,
Scorn'd by the righteous as a gilded toy;
A badge that tells the foolish from the wise,
Which fair Religion warns thee to despise.
Beware of artful Flattery, foe to youth,
That oft misleads you from the search of Truth;
Nor vainly boast that you are good or fair,
But let improvement be your constant care;
And if some faults in others thou should'st see,
Think others may those faults perceive in thee.
Let not thy tongue the innocent betray,
And deem it right thy parents to obey;
Think how they rear'd thee in thy infant state,
And taught thy tongue Heav'n's wonders to relate:
Observe that honour which to them is due,
And with thy happiness keep theirs in view.
That oft misleads you from the search of Truth;
Nor vainly boast that you are good or fair,
But let improvement be your constant care;
83
Think others may those faults perceive in thee.
Let not thy tongue the innocent betray,
And deem it right thy parents to obey;
Think how they rear'd thee in thy infant state,
And taught thy tongue Heav'n's wonders to relate:
Observe that honour which to them is due,
And with thy happiness keep theirs in view.
In all thy ways be faithful to thy trust;
Remember God commands thee to be just.
Avoid all quarrelling and contentious strife,
For meek Religion loves the peaceful life.
Shun those who the Creator's word deride,
And let his holy scripture be thy guide;
Then shalt thou, when old age steals on, survey
The num'rous pleasures of life's well-spent day,
And thy Redeemer's sacred promise claim,
Dying lamented with unsullied fame.
Remember God commands thee to be just.
Avoid all quarrelling and contentious strife,
For meek Religion loves the peaceful life.
Shun those who the Creator's word deride,
And let his holy scripture be thy guide;
Then shalt thou, when old age steals on, survey
The num'rous pleasures of life's well-spent day,
And thy Redeemer's sacred promise claim,
Dying lamented with unsullied fame.
CARLISLE, APRIL, 1797.
84
EPISTLE III. TO A FRIEND IN LONDON.
Cauld bla's the blast o' wild December,
Frownin Skiddaw's clad in sna';
Owre heartsom ingle I remember
Youthfu' days—frien's far away.
Frownin Skiddaw's clad in sna';
Owre heartsom ingle I remember
Youthfu' days—frien's far away.
How late in bloom shone ilka flow'r,
How gay the woodbine form'd a bow'r;
How sweet the breeze that wafted owre
The sunny plain,
Enlivnin, at the mid-day hour,
The cheerfu' swain.
How gay the woodbine form'd a bow'r;
How sweet the breeze that wafted owre
The sunny plain,
Enlivnin, at the mid-day hour,
The cheerfu' swain.
But, O! nae mair by mornin grey
O'er dewy meads he bends his way,
To hail the smilin God o' day;
Nor to his ear
The laverock pours his pleasing lay,
Sae saft and clear.
O'er dewy meads he bends his way,
85
Nor to his ear
The laverock pours his pleasing lay,
Sae saft and clear.
Nae mair at eve, when a' is still,
He listens to the tinklin mill,
Nor marks the sun-beams gild the hill,
Or kiss the flood;
Nae mair the mavis, sweet but shrill,
Rings thro' the wood.
He listens to the tinklin mill,
Nor marks the sun-beams gild the hill,
Or kiss the flood;
Nae mair the mavis, sweet but shrill,
Rings thro' the wood.
Now angry Winter lays in waste
The meads, by dainty Simmer grac'd,
Where aft the goddess Health I chas'd,
Far frae the crowd;
Or strove, wi' Ednam's bard , to taste
Sweet Solitude.
The meads, by dainty Simmer grac'd,
Where aft the goddess Health I chas'd,
Far frae the crowd;
Or strove, wi' Ednam's bard , to taste
Sweet Solitude.
86
Shut up by raging storms severe
In lowly cot, the winds I hear,
And pity those wha're doom'd to bear
Misfortune's frown,
Wha, houseless, shed the painfu' tear,
To Pride unknown.
In lowly cot, the winds I hear,
And pity those wha're doom'd to bear
Misfortune's frown,
Wha, houseless, shed the painfu' tear,
To Pride unknown.
Pensive I turn to youth, life's spring,
When Fancy flutter'd on the wing,
And blythe we took in Pleasure's ring
An active part,
Lang ere Reflection's painfu' sting
Could wound the heart.
When Fancy flutter'd on the wing,
And blythe we took in Pleasure's ring
An active part,
Lang ere Reflection's painfu' sting
Could wound the heart.
Wi' thee I spent life's golden age,
Wi' thee aft mock'd keen Winter's rage,
In harmless mirth aye proud t'engage,
And cheat the night;
Or turn'd owre mony a pleasing page
Wi' dear delight.
Wi' thee aft mock'd keen Winter's rage,
In harmless mirth aye proud t'engage,
And cheat the night;
Or turn'd owre mony a pleasing page
Wi' dear delight.
87
Yes! Memory aye turns back to view
The scenes fond Fancy decks anew,
When we twa younkers, leal and true,
Knew nought o' Care,
But Hope a flattering picture drew,
In colours fair.
The scenes fond Fancy decks anew,
When we twa younkers, leal and true,
Knew nought o' Care,
But Hope a flattering picture drew,
In colours fair.
Then maun sic pleasures be forgot,
Ere manhood's sorrows were our lot?
Say, doth Remembrance haunt the spot
Where youth was spent,
When Fortune's frown we heeded not,
Led by Content?
Ere manhood's sorrows were our lot?
Say, doth Remembrance haunt the spot
Where youth was spent,
When Fortune's frown we heeded not,
Led by Content?
Say, could'st thou quit the busy scene
To taste o' rural joys serene,
Sporting wi' Health the meadows green,
Where Cauda flows,
Where aft sae merry we ha'e been,
And free frae woes?
To taste o' rural joys serene,
Sporting wi' Health the meadows green,
Where Cauda flows,
Where aft sae merry we ha'e been,
And free frae woes?
88
And wilt thou own him yet a friend,
Wha, distant, wou'd on thee depend,
And whyles thy wholsome counsel lend
His heart to cheer?
If sae, a lang Epistle send
Afore neist year.
Wha, distant, wou'd on thee depend,
And whyles thy wholsome counsel lend
His heart to cheer?
If sae, a lang Epistle send
Afore neist year.
CARLISLE, DEC. 1797.
89
EPISTLE IV. TO A YOUNG LADY.
Far, far from thee this heart holds dear,
Methinks I see the glist'ning tear
That dimm'd thy sparkling eye:
How long must ling'ring Memory tell
Of that sad hour thou bad'st farewell,
How long record each sigh!
Methinks I see the glist'ning tear
That dimm'd thy sparkling eye:
How long must ling'ring Memory tell
Of that sad hour thou bad'st farewell,
How long record each sigh!
Can I forget thy magic charms,
Whilst Love this tender bosom warms,
And guides my wand'ring way?
Ah, no! fond Memory loves to trace
The graceful form and matchless face
That did this heart betray.
Whilst Love this tender bosom warms,
And guides my wand'ring way?
Ah, no! fond Memory loves to trace
The graceful form and matchless face
That did this heart betray.
90
When dusky Eve steals o'er the plain,
Gladd'ning the jocund village train,
And Mirth loud-pealing strays,
Then Fancy sees thee join the throng,
And lead the sportive dance along,
Whilst rustics on thee gaze.
Gladd'ning the jocund village train,
And Mirth loud-pealing strays,
Then Fancy sees thee join the throng,
And lead the sportive dance along,
Whilst rustics on thee gaze.
Forlorn I tread each well-known round,
Where late with thee Content was found—
Thy image meets me there:
From thee no pleasure can I prize,
From thee I spend the hours in sighs,
And think of joys that were.
Where late with thee Content was found—
Thy image meets me there:
From thee no pleasure can I prize,
From thee I spend the hours in sighs,
And think of joys that were.
Nymph of the woodlands, Solitude,
Who fliest care-haunted Riot rude,
And seek'st the lonely dell,
Oft list'ning, at the close of day,
To the wild-warbling linnet's lay,
With thee, O! let me dwell.
Who fliest care-haunted Riot rude,
And seek'st the lonely dell,
Oft list'ning, at the close of day,
To the wild-warbling linnet's lay,
With thee, O! let me dwell.
91
With thee the sorrow-clouded mind
Can taste the pleasures undefin'd,
Which Contemplation gives:
Secluded from man's prying sight,
Oft let me feel that pure delight
While youthful Fancy lives;
Can taste the pleasures undefin'd,
Which Contemplation gives:
Secluded from man's prying sight,
Oft let me feel that pure delight
While youthful Fancy lives;
And pensive mark the moon's pale beam,
That, sporting o'er some dimpl'd stream,
Beguiles Love's tedious hours,
When soft is heard the soothing tale
Of philomel, who thro' the vale
Her song of sadness pours.
That, sporting o'er some dimpl'd stream,
Beguiles Love's tedious hours,
When soft is heard the soothing tale
Of philomel, who thro' the vale
Her song of sadness pours.
Sweet are her step-arresting notes,
That on the gentle night-breeze floats
Along the peaceful grove;
But sweeter to her lover's ear,
When ---'s pleasing song I hear
Of innocence and love.
That on the gentle night-breeze floats
Along the peaceful grove;
But sweeter to her lover's ear,
When ---'s pleasing song I hear
Of innocence and love.
92
Gay Health, thou loveliest blooming maid,
If wand'ring near thy moss-crown'd shade,
Far from the haunt of Pride,
To thy heart-gladd'ning mystic spring,
To Pleasure's mirth-inviting ring,
Do thou her footsteps guide.
If wand'ring near thy moss-crown'd shade,
Far from the haunt of Pride,
To thy heart-gladd'ning mystic spring,
To Pleasure's mirth-inviting ring,
Do thou her footsteps guide.
Thou soother of our keenest woes,
That dwell'st where the pure streamlet flows,
Beneath the mountain's brow,
Queen of the rosy-tinted morn!
Shield from pale Sorrow's fest'ring thorn
The lovely maid I woo.
That dwell'st where the pure streamlet flows,
Beneath the mountain's brow,
Queen of the rosy-tinted morn!
Shield from pale Sorrow's fest'ring thorn
The lovely maid I woo.
When next, to shun the noontide heat,
She courts thee in thy cool retreat,
Where droops the willow-tree,
Pity the bright-ey'd maiden meek,
Restore the roses to her cheek,
And bid her haste to me.
She courts thee in thy cool retreat,
Where droops the willow-tree,
Pity the bright-ey'd maiden meek,
Restore the roses to her cheek,
And bid her haste to me.
LONDON, JUNE, 1795.
93
EPISTLE V. TO A LADY.
Few frien's I court—few foes I fear,
And scant o' siller, sense, and lear:
It joys me whyles, tho' in rude lays,
Deservin, modest worth to praise.
And scant o' siller, sense, and lear:
It joys me whyles, tho' in rude lays,
Deservin, modest worth to praise.
Some chiels for fame or riches write,
Of Sense and Reason in despite,
And 'gainst your sex wi' rancour rail:
Shame fa' sic loons, ill may they thrive,
Wha, bent on female ruin, strive
To rend the heart,
A trait'rous part,
Wi' mony a pois'ning tale.
Of Sense and Reason in despite,
And 'gainst your sex wi' rancour rail:
Shame fa' sic loons, ill may they thrive,
Wha, bent on female ruin, strive
To rend the heart,
A trait'rous part,
Wi' mony a pois'ning tale.
To ithers it great joy maun gi'e
To chase the tear frae Misery's e'e;
While hirelings flatter warldly elves,
And reeling o'er the path o' Vice,
Gain Ruin's summit in a trice;
Then fa'ing fast,
They find at last
Their works e'en d---n themselves.
To chase the tear frae Misery's e'e;
94
And reeling o'er the path o' Vice,
Gain Ruin's summit in a trice;
Then fa'ing fast,
They find at last
Their works e'en d---n themselves.
To thee, wha Wisdom aye pursues,
To thee, fair fav'rite o' the muse,
A hamely, artless rhyme I send,
Prayin that ane sae guid, sae fair,
May lang remain dame Virtue's care,
And be to a',
Baith great and sma',
Th'instructor and the friend.
To thee, fair fav'rite o' the muse,
A hamely, artless rhyme I send,
Prayin that ane sae guid, sae fair,
May lang remain dame Virtue's care,
And be to a',
Baith great and sma',
Th'instructor and the friend.
O had I but the pen o' Burns,
For whom auld Caledonia mourns,
And ilka bardie sings wi' wae,
Or could I but like him indite,
I then a frien' cou'd aye delight,
And proud wou'd be,
Wi' ane like thee,
To tune a rural lay.
For whom auld Caledonia mourns,
And ilka bardie sings wi' wae,
95
I then a frien' cou'd aye delight,
And proud wou'd be,
Wi' ane like thee,
To tune a rural lay.
Fu' aft I read thy past'ral sang,
As o'er the moor I trudg'd alang—
Haith, few can write sae now a-days!
Sic sentiment throughout doth shine,
Sic sweetness steals thro' ilka line,
Had Rabbie kenn'd
Thou sae had penn'd,
He'd gi'en thee mickle praise.
As o'er the moor I trudg'd alang—
Haith, few can write sae now a-days!
Sic sentiment throughout doth shine,
Sic sweetness steals thro' ilka line,
Had Rabbie kenn'd
Thou sae had penn'd,
He'd gi'en thee mickle praise.
Then harken what to me befel:
I singin hamewards lost mysel',
As mony mae ha'e done before:
Some loons wha rule this tott'rin state
Ha'e lost themsel's I trow o' late;
Syne angry war
Mak's poor folks jar,
And quat their native shore.
I singin hamewards lost mysel',
As mony mae ha'e done before:
Some loons wha rule this tott'rin state
Ha'e lost themsel's I trow o' late;
96
Mak's poor folks jar,
And quat their native shore.
Wand'rin, wha met I but the muse;
‘Hizzie,’ quo' I, ‘come gi'es the news:
‘Say, whither dost thou bend thy way?’
Quo' she, ‘I'm gaun to visit ane,
‘Where Hether steals thro' yonder glen:
‘I'm fond o' she,
‘And done wi' ye—
‘I bid ye, Sir, guid day.’
‘Hizzie,’ quo' I, ‘come gi'es the news:
‘Say, whither dost thou bend thy way?’
Quo' she, ‘I'm gaun to visit ane,
‘Where Hether steals thro' yonder glen:
‘I'm fond o' she,
‘And done wi' ye—
‘I bid ye, Sir, guid day.’
I gazin listen'd while she spoke,
Thinkin forsooth she did but joke:
‘Guid day,’ quo' I, and made a bow.
Now, ha'ing stumpie, ink, and time,
Thought I, I'se try my han' at rhyme;
But this dull strain
Will shew too plain
That madam told me true.
Thinkin forsooth she did but joke:
‘Guid day,’ quo' I, and made a bow.
Now, ha'ing stumpie, ink, and time,
Thought I, I'se try my han' at rhyme;
But this dull strain
Will shew too plain
That madam told me true.
97
Yet for her loss I'll no' repine,
Gif she but visit aft the Lyne,
Where winsome Mary strays alang:
Then may'st thou, wi' her kindly aid,
When Nature smiles in ilka shade,
In numbers sweet
Saft tales repeat,
And mony a pleasin sang.
Gif she but visit aft the Lyne,
Where winsome Mary strays alang:
Then may'st thou, wi' her kindly aid,
When Nature smiles in ilka shade,
In numbers sweet
Saft tales repeat,
And mony a pleasin sang.
While pining in this dinsome town,
Whare ilk ane hunts his neebor down,
And Slander daily hauds her court,
I envy aft the country life,
Where, seated far frae busy Strife,
Content and gay,
Time steals away
In mirth and harmless sport.
Whare ilk ane hunts his neebor down,
And Slander daily hauds her court,
I envy aft the country life,
Where, seated far frae busy Strife,
Content and gay,
Time steals away
In mirth and harmless sport.
How sweet to taste the breeze o' morn,
How sweet to wander down the burn,
When hawthorn buds bloom fair to see;
How sweet at eve amang the broom,
When wild flow'rs lend their rich perfume,
The mavis sings,
The violet springs,
And a' to pleasure thee!
How sweet to wander down the burn,
98
How sweet at eve amang the broom,
When wild flow'rs lend their rich perfume,
The mavis sings,
The violet springs,
And a' to pleasure thee!
The gowans glint upo' the plain,
And lightly lilts the shepherd swain—
Unnumber'd pleasures on thee wait!
Let great anes range o'er Fashion's round,
Where true content is seldom found:
Dame Virtue flies
Sic fancied joys,
And seeks the lowly state.
And lightly lilts the shepherd swain—
Unnumber'd pleasures on thee wait!
Let great anes range o'er Fashion's round,
Where true content is seldom found:
Dame Virtue flies
Sic fancied joys,
And seeks the lowly state.
In Spring thou hear'st, wi' cheerfu' voice,
Ilk minstrel o' the woods rejoice;
Syne Simmer smiles baith far and wide:
Soon Autumn sicklies o'er the scene;
Bleak Winter niest, wi' breath sae keen,
Bla's o'er the hill
Baith cauld and shrill,
And blasts gay Simmer's pride.
Ilk minstrel o' the woods rejoice;
Syne Simmer smiles baith far and wide:
Soon Autumn sicklies o'er the scene;
Bleak Winter niest, wi' breath sae keen,
99
Baith cauld and shrill,
And blasts gay Simmer's pride.
Then may'st thou, Mary, in thy spring
Bethink thee Time is on the wing,
Nor let beguilin Hope persuade.
To me thou seem'st a blushing rose,
Thy sweets just 'ginnin to disclose;
And, like a flow'r,
Thou'lt shine thy hour,
And soon ilk bloom will fade.
Bethink thee Time is on the wing,
Nor let beguilin Hope persuade.
To me thou seem'st a blushing rose,
Thy sweets just 'ginnin to disclose;
And, like a flow'r,
Thou'lt shine thy hour,
And soon ilk bloom will fade.
Sweet lass, may Virtue dwell wi' thee,
Nor Sorrow wat thy sparklin e'e;
But, cheer'd by meek Religion's ray,
Lang may ilk action be approv'd;
Lang may'st thou live by a' belov'd;
Syne tak' thy pen
And rhyme again
An answer to R. A.
Nor Sorrow wat thy sparklin e'e;
But, cheer'd by meek Religion's ray,
Lang may ilk action be approv'd;
Lang may'st thou live by a' belov'd;
Syne tak' thy pen
And rhyme again
An answer to R. A.
100
EPISTLE VI. TO A YOUNG LADY,
WHO REQUESTED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE IN RHYME.
Now, forc'd to write a lang Epistle,
It puts me in a fearfu' fistle;
And maun be trifling, by my fay,
For haith I ken no' what to say;
But when the fair my verse doth claim,
Should I refuse—'twou'd be a shame,
Tho' weel I ken my frien' wou'd smile,
If seated near me for a while:
I write, cross out, and interline,
Then blame this brainless head o' mine;
Walk roun' the room, at pictures keek,
And think amaist to me they speak;
That Burns aye bids me drap the pen,
Nor woo the maid I woo in vain:
Niest o'er the ingle try a rhyme—
But, lake-a-day! its loss o' time;
Syne screw my pipe, and saftly bla',
The lass I lo'e that's far awa'.
It puts me in a fearfu' fistle;
And maun be trifling, by my fay,
For haith I ken no' what to say;
But when the fair my verse doth claim,
Should I refuse—'twou'd be a shame,
Tho' weel I ken my frien' wou'd smile,
If seated near me for a while:
I write, cross out, and interline,
Then blame this brainless head o' mine;
Walk roun' the room, at pictures keek,
And think amaist to me they speak;
That Burns aye bids me drap the pen,
Nor woo the maid I woo in vain:
101
But, lake-a-day! its loss o' time;
Syne screw my pipe, and saftly bla',
The lass I lo'e that's far awa'.
Time was, when a coarse, tawdry jade,
Wha little knew the rhymin trade,
Whyles ca'd, and aye a welcome fan;
Then was poor Rab a happy man:
Her visits made me proud I trow—
But haith nae Muse comes near me now:
Yet, spite o'th' hizzies, aye I'll write,
Sae lang's it gi'es a frien' delight,
Nor care a fig for critics sour—
On folk like me they winna low'r:
As weel might eagles quat the sky
To hunt down some wee buzzing fly.
Wha little knew the rhymin trade,
Whyles ca'd, and aye a welcome fan;
Then was poor Rab a happy man:
Her visits made me proud I trow—
But haith nae Muse comes near me now:
Yet, spite o'th' hizzies, aye I'll write,
Sae lang's it gi'es a frien' delight,
Nor care a fig for critics sour—
On folk like me they winna low'r:
As weel might eagles quat the sky
To hunt down some wee buzzing fly.
Now thirty lifeless lines are writ,
Without the aid o' sense or wit;
Again gaes stumpie to the ink,
Again 'bout matter I maun think:
Lines thirty mae I mean to seek,
Lest ye kick up a fearfu' reek.
When frae a frien' the letter's short,
We'd hardly gi'e a thank ye for't;
But, O! if lang, and free frae art,
Warm aff-hand writing frae the heart,
The pleasure that it aye affords
I fain wad tell, but want the words.
Is there a moment half sae sweet,
As when, wi' langin een, we meet
The tale o' ane far, far frae hame?
If sae, then think me much to blame.
Without the aid o' sense or wit;
102
Again 'bout matter I maun think:
Lines thirty mae I mean to seek,
Lest ye kick up a fearfu' reek.
When frae a frien' the letter's short,
We'd hardly gi'e a thank ye for't;
But, O! if lang, and free frae art,
Warm aff-hand writing frae the heart,
The pleasure that it aye affords
I fain wad tell, but want the words.
Is there a moment half sae sweet,
As when, wi' langin een, we meet
The tale o' ane far, far frae hame?
If sae, then think me much to blame.
Like some weak wand'rer tempest tost,
Or sailor when his rudder's lost,
How to proceed troth I'm perplex'd,
For scribblers write without a text.
O cou'd I but descrive the spring,
And say how sweet the birdies sing;
How slow the trees now blossom forth,
E'en like some bashfu' son o' worth,
Wha dreads Misfortune's nipping blast,
And, blossom-like, to earth is cast:
A' this my frien' fu' weel can tell,
Wha aft has stood the blast hersel'.
Or shou'd I praise thy virtues rare,
And ca' thee fairest o' the fair,
Syne tell o' beauty, wit, and sense;
A' this, tho' true, might gi'e offence,
And, tint me, flattery I detest—
My number's done—forgi'e the rest.
Or sailor when his rudder's lost,
How to proceed troth I'm perplex'd,
For scribblers write without a text.
O cou'd I but descrive the spring,
And say how sweet the birdies sing;
103
E'en like some bashfu' son o' worth,
Wha dreads Misfortune's nipping blast,
And, blossom-like, to earth is cast:
A' this my frien' fu' weel can tell,
Wha aft has stood the blast hersel'.
Or shou'd I praise thy virtues rare,
And ca' thee fairest o' the fair,
Syne tell o' beauty, wit, and sense;
A' this, tho' true, might gi'e offence,
And, tint me, flattery I detest—
My number's done—forgi'e the rest.
CARLISLE, APRIL, 1798.
104
EPISTLE VII. TO A YOUNG LADY,
with a copy of RELPH'S POEMS.
Do thou accept, my youthful friend,
This gift of gratitude I send;
A bouquet of poetic flow'rs,
Cull'd from the Muses' fav'rite bowers,
Where no unpolish'd, 'wild'ring lay
Can tempt thee from Religion's way;
But classic wit and language clear
May feast the mind and charm the ear.
This gift of gratitude I send;
A bouquet of poetic flow'rs,
Cull'd from the Muses' fav'rite bowers,
Where no unpolish'd, 'wild'ring lay
Can tempt thee from Religion's way;
But classic wit and language clear
May feast the mind and charm the ear.
Relph, far remov'd from busy strife,
Enjoy'd the sweets of “Quiet Life ,”
And tun'd in peace his willing lyre,
Whose “wood-notes wild” all, all admire.
Tho' now no more the Muses tread
Where Fancy deck'd her Poet's head,
Yet pensive shepherds haunt the spring
Where first the youth was taught to sing;
And oft at eve the village maid
Decks with wild flow'rs the hallow'd shade,
Where, to each youthful folly blind,
He wisely strove t'improve the mind,
Nor deem'd his labours e'er misspent,
But sought in “every state content .”
Enjoy'd the sweets of “Quiet Life ,”
105
Whose “wood-notes wild” all, all admire.
Tho' now no more the Muses tread
Where Fancy deck'd her Poet's head,
Yet pensive shepherds haunt the spring
Where first the youth was taught to sing;
And oft at eve the village maid
Decks with wild flow'rs the hallow'd shade,
Where, to each youthful folly blind,
He wisely strove t'improve the mind,
Nor deem'd his labours e'er misspent,
But sought in “every state content .”
With care peruse the modest bard,
And, O! each moral well regard,
Whether the virtuous precept shine
In his or in Pythagoras' line ;
For to the man our praise is due
Who Nature's rural scenery drew,
Where Virtue might her image view;
Whose songs beguile the winter night,
And artless shepherds still delight;
Whose pious lessons, and whose last address ,
Teach mankind how to gain “True Happiness .”
And, O! each moral well regard,
Whether the virtuous precept shine
In his or in Pythagoras' line ;
106
Who Nature's rural scenery drew,
Where Virtue might her image view;
Whose songs beguile the winter night,
And artless shepherds still delight;
Whose pious lessons, and whose last address ,
Teach mankind how to gain “True Happiness .”
CARLISLE, NOV. 1797.
107
EPISTLE VIII. TO A FRIEND, IN THANKS FOR HIS LETTER.
Dear Jock, I thank ye for your Letter,
And own mysel' your humble debtor:
Yet, tho' I dinna like to flatter,
It merits praise,
For haith I ne'er receiv'd a better
In a' my days.
And own mysel' your humble debtor:
Yet, tho' I dinna like to flatter,
It merits praise,
For haith I ne'er receiv'd a better
In a' my days.
Troth lad, it gied me sic delight,
I cou'd nae sleep a wink that night,
In honey words ye sae indite
A line to me:
I'd gi'e my Sunday-coat to write
Sic lines to ye.
I cou'd nae sleep a wink that night,
In honey words ye sae indite
A line to me:
I'd gi'e my Sunday-coat to write
Sic lines to ye.
108
Ye've seen nae doubt a wee bit boy
Pleas'd wi' a baubee or a toy;
Just sae this heart o' mine wi' joy
Did beat fu' fain;
For lang I wonder'd ye were coy,
I tell ye plain.
Pleas'd wi' a baubee or a toy;
Just sae this heart o' mine wi' joy
Did beat fu' fain;
For lang I wonder'd ye were coy,
I tell ye plain.
I read your kindly offers a',
And drank t'ye at the Hole i'th' Wa',
Where mony a canty callan bra',
Wha liquor lo'es,
To crack a wee will gi'e a ca',
And hear the news.
And drank t'ye at the Hole i'th' Wa',
Where mony a canty callan bra',
Wha liquor lo'es,
To crack a wee will gi'e a ca',
And hear the news.
Haith, friend, for friends, alake! are few,
Yet those I ha'e seem kind as true;
To them my best o' thanks are due
For offers kind;
And, tent me, Jock, a friend in you
I'm proud to find.
Yet those I ha'e seem kind as true;
To them my best o' thanks are due
For offers kind;
And, tent me, Jock, a friend in you
I'm proud to find.
109
How cheerly thro' this life we pass,
Troth things rub on as smooth as glass,
When, far frae a' the busy class,
We find a friend;
But aft, o'er aft, on man, alas!
We can't depend.
Troth things rub on as smooth as glass,
When, far frae a' the busy class,
We find a friend;
But aft, o'er aft, on man, alas!
We can't depend.
Five simmers, Jock, ha'e now flown by,
Sin' Hope bade me my fortune try;
I thank'd the dame, fu' proud was I,
And aff I came
To this great place, where mony hie
In quest o' fame.
Sin' Hope bade me my fortune try;
I thank'd the dame, fu' proud was I,
And aff I came
To this great place, where mony hie
In quest o' fame.
They think no' vice is here a trade;
They think no' Virtue, sonsy maid,
To shew her face is aft afraid
Upo' the street,
Where fashion, folly, and parade
Mak' men leuk great.
They think no' Virtue, sonsy maid,
To shew her face is aft afraid
Upo' the street,
Where fashion, folly, and parade
Mak' men leuk great.
110
O' this I'm tir'd, and think or lang
To leave it a', be't right be't rang,
For frae this bustle, noise, and thrang
I wish to gae;
Aiblins, my lad, I'se northward gang,
I downa say;
To leave it a', be't right be't rang,
For frae this bustle, noise, and thrang
I wish to gae;
Aiblins, my lad, I'se northward gang,
I downa say;
But hope we'se range the woods in spring,
And listen while the lintwhites sing;
Syne pipe till glens wi' echoes ring
Right merrily:
Troth I'd be happier than a king
Were I wi' ye.
And listen while the lintwhites sing;
Syne pipe till glens wi' echoes ring
Right merrily:
Troth I'd be happier than a king
Were I wi' ye.
When Boreas bla's o'er hill and dale,
And nipping frosts gar folk leuk pale,
While some against their neebors rail
Wi' bitter spite,
We'll o'er the ingle tell a tale
To pass the night.
And nipping frosts gar folk leuk pale,
While some against their neebors rail
Wi' bitter spite,
We'll o'er the ingle tell a tale
To pass the night.
111
Jock, life's but like a simmer day,
Sae let's be merry while we may,
For soon a debt we a' maun pay
To tyrant Death,
The honest poor, the knaves so gay,
However laith.
Sae let's be merry while we may,
For soon a debt we a' maun pay
To tyrant Death,
The honest poor, the knaves so gay,
However laith.
Let fickle Fortune slight me still,
We maun submit do what she will:
Sin' whining does nae good but ill,
I'll no' despair;
While I've my lassie, friend, and gill,
I dinna care.
We maun submit do what she will:
Sin' whining does nae good but ill,
I'll no' despair;
While I've my lassie, friend, and gill,
I dinna care.
Grown wearied o' a single life,
May ye be happy wi' your wife,
And, seated far frae noise and strife,
Aye live in peace;
And as yer geer 'gins to grow rife,
May joys increase.
May ye be happy wi' your wife,
And, seated far frae noise and strife,
Aye live in peace;
And as yer geer 'gins to grow rife,
May joys increase.
112
I ken ye'll think it time to end
This dull Epistle I ha'e penn'd:
Lang may ye live a poor man's friend,
And plenty ha'e;—
But, Jock, be sure a line aft send
Yer friend R. A.
This dull Epistle I ha'e penn'd:
Lang may ye live a poor man's friend,
And plenty ha'e;—
But, Jock, be sure a line aft send
Yer friend R. A.
LONDON, 1795.
| Poems on various subjects | |