WHEN merry Charles the sceptre sway'd,
And none through force or fear obey'd,
There liv'd a man in Waterairn*
A widower, with ae lass bairn.
Twa hundred marks he had to gie her,
Brought men and lads afouth to see her.
The first we mention was a scholar,
Who ne'er had grace to save a dollar,
Tho' drem't a wonder for his wit,
And for the mony sangs he writ.
Deep learn'd in Greek and Latin reading,
And famous for his skill in bleeding.
Ten years he taught the parish-school,
And all he did was done by rule.
With every classic name acquainted, No art or science e'er invented,
A village in Cromar, in the shire of Aberdeen.
But he could trace it to the source,
And talk distinctly of its course.
Sometimes, when o'er a pot of ale,
What wondrous wonders wou'd he tell!
Of Hector and the walls of Troy;
Of Venus and her fav'rite boy;
Of Priam, Paris, and Leander ;
Of Nile, Ilissus, and Scamander;
Of Jason and the golden fleece;
And all the states of ancient Greece;
With joy and admiration heard,
And as an oracle rever'd.
If what he said was e'er disputed,
The brutes in Latin were confuted;
While by his parts and learning fir'd,
Each farmer's son at fame aspir'd;
For Dispauter* forsook the trade,
For which by nature he was made.
His only fault was amat potum,
To every other vice ignotum.
Solemn, as it became his place,
And just a model in his dress;
Still clad in rev'rend black or blue,
The eyes of hauf the kirk he drew.
How gracefully he read the line,
And how he rais'd the air divine,
Is not in language to express,
So those who do not know, must guess.
*The Author of a Latin Grammar taught in those days.
In person he had often try'd
To gain the father to his side,
At last resolv'd to write a letter,
Tho' well he spake, he wrote still better.
The kind epistle thus begun-
There is not, Sir, beneath the sun,
A man that loves your daughter more,
I swear by Jove, whom all adore.
Struck by the lightning of her eyes,
My heart like Salamander fries;
My soul's transfix'd by Cupid's dart,
Forever feels the keenest smart;
Nor can I longer hope to live,
Unless to me ye Peggy give.
Ignoble souls may court your pelf,
For me, I only love herself.'
This, carefully seal'd up, he sent him, In haste, lest others should prevent him. He knew the style and sense were good, And thought it could not be withstood. Ah! what avails it to be wise, If paltry riches fate denies! Reader! with indignation burn, If thou peruse the vile return.
'Good master James, I had your letter, And humbly think you can't do better, Than tak a pint to cool your liver; Take this advice, and thank the giver.? Mess James affronted, drew his pass, And swore the carle was an ass,
|