Imágenes de páginas

Wha twists his gruntle wi' a gluuch

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'da O sour disdain,

And shudder at the niffer,
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch

But cast a moment's fair regard,
Wi' honest men!

What maks the mighty differ?
Oh whisky! soul o'plays and pranks!

Discount what scant occasion gave Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!

That purity ye pride in, When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

And (what's aft mair than a'the lave)
Are my poor verses !

Your better art o' hiding.
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks Think, when your castigated pulse
At ither's a---

Gies now and then a wallop,
Thee, Ferintosh! oh sadly lost! (99)

What ragings must his vein Scotland lament frae coast to coast !

That still eternal gallop:
Now colic grips, and barkin' hoast,

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
May kill us a';

Right on ye scud your sea-way;
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,

But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
Is ta'en awa!

It maks an unco lee-way.
Thae curst horse-leeches o' th’ Excise,

See social life and glee sit down, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!

All joyous and withinking, Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown There, seize the blinkers !

Debauchery and drinking:
And bake them up in brunstane pies

Oh would they stay to calculate
For poor d-nd drinkers,

Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill,

D-mnation of expenses !
And rowth o'rhyme to rave at will,

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tak a' the rest,

Tied up in godly laces,
And deal't about as thy blind skill

Before ye gie poor frailty names,
Directs thee best.

Suppose a change o'cases;
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,

A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation,
Address to the Turn Gnil,

Then gently scan your brother man, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. Still gentler sister woman;

Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, “My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them are thegither ;

To step aside is hunan : The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

One point must still be greatly dark, The Rigid Wise anither;

The moving why they do it:
The cleanest corn that eer was dight

And just as lamely can ye mark,
Mav hae some pyles o caff in;

How far perhaps they rue it.
So ne'er a felloi-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin."

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
SOLOMON-Eccles. vii, 16.

Decidedly can try us,
Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel,

He knows each chord its various tone,

Each springits various bias :
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell

Then at the balance let's be mute,
Your neebour's fauts and folly!

We never can adjust it; Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,

What's done we partly may compute, Supplied wi' store o' water,

But know not what's resisted. The heaped hapner's ebbing still,

And still the clap plays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable core,

Tan Sanson's Elrgy. As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door “An honest man's the noblest work of God."

POPE. For glaiket Folly's portals; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? Would here propone defences,

Or great M'Kinlay (100) thrawn his heel? Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, i Or Robertson (101) again grown weel, Their failings and mischances.

To preach and read ?



[ocr errors]

DESPONDENCY. " Na, waur than a'!” cries ilka chiel But yet he drew the mortal trigger Tam Samson's dead !

Wi' weel-aim'd heed; Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane,

“L-d, five!” he cried, and owre did And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane,

staggerAnd cleed her bairns, man, wife, and wean,

Tam Samson's dead!
In mourning weed;

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
To death, she's dearly paid the kane

Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
Tam Samson's dead !

You auld grey stane, amang the heather, The brethren o' the mystic level

Marks out his head, May hing their head in woefu' bevel,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, While by their nose the tears will revel,

Tam Samson's dead!
Like ony head;

There now he lies, in lasting rest;
Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Tam Samson's dead!

Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, When winter muffles up his cloak,

To hatch and breed; And binds the mire like a rock;

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!
When to the lochs the curlers flock

Tam Samson's dead !
Wi' gleesome speed,

When August winds the heather wave,
Wha will they station at the cock ? -

And sportsnien wander by yon grave,
Tam Samson's dead ?

Three volleys let his mem'ry crare
He was the king o'a' the core,

O pouther and lead, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,

Till echoe answer frae her cave,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar

Tam Samson's dead!
In timne o' need;

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be!
But now he lags on death's hog-score Is th' wish o'mony mae than me;
Tam Samson's dead!

He had twa fants, or inaybe three, Now safe the stately sawmont sail,

Yet what remead ?
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, - | Ae social, honest man want we:
And eels weel kennd for souple tail,

Tam Samson's dead!
And geds for creed,
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail

Tam Sanson dead !

Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies, Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';

Ye canting zealots spare him ! Ye cootie noorcocks, crousely craw;

If honest worth in heaven rise,
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,

Ye'll mend or ye win near him.
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa'

Tam Samson's dead!

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly
That woefu mourn be ever mourn'd

Thro'e the streets and neuks o' Killie (102), Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd,

Tell ev'ry social, honest billy
While pointers round impatient burn'd,

To cease his grievin',
Frae couples freed;

For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, But, och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!.

Tam Samson's livin' (103)
Tam Samson's dead!
In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters;

In vain the burns cam' down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters,

OPPRESS'd with grief, oppress'd with care, Tam Samson's dead!

A burden more than I can bear, Owre many a weary hay he limpit,

I set me down and sigh; And aye the tither shot he thumpit,

Oh life! thou art a galling load.
Till coward death behind him jumpit,

Along a rough, a weary road,
Wi' deadly feide;

To wretches such as I!
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, Dim-backward as I cast my view,
Tam Samson's dead!

What sick’ning scenes appear!
When at his heart he felt the dagger, What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, | Too justly I may feari

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er

But with the closing tomb !
Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard !
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,

They bring their own reward :
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,

Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same;
You, bustling, azt justling,

Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.
How blest the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,

Beside his crystal well!
Or haply to his ev’ning thought,

By unfrequented streamı,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream;
While praising and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,

Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,

With self-respecting art:
But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,

Which I too keenly taste,
The solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not.

Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here

At perfidy ingrate!
Oh! enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,

To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,

Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,

Of dim declining age!

The Cafter's Saturday light. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKIN, ESQ. (104) " Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor."

(105)-GRAY. My loved, my honour'd, much respected

friend, No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride I scorn each selfish end:

(praise : My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequesterd scene;

(ways; The native feelings strong, the guileless What Aitken in a cottage would have been;

[there, I ween. Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier November chvill blaws loud wi' angry sough;

[close; The shortning winter-day is near a The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;

repose : The black’ning trains o’craws to their The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spailes, his mattocks, and his hoes,

[spend, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And weary, o'er the moor, his course does

hameward bend, At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the sleiter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee things toddlin, stacher

[and glee.
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie

wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care
beguile, :

his toil. And makes him quite forget his labour and Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,

At service out amang the farmers roun', Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some

tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman

grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new

gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hard.

ship be.

[ocr errors]




With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, meet,

spiers : And sage experience bids me this deAnd each for other's weelfare kindly


(spare, The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure fleet;

[hears; One cordial in this melancholy vale, Each tells the uncos that he sees or 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair The parents, partial, eye their hopeful In other's arms breathe out the tender years;


[the ev’ning gale." Anticipation forward points the view, Beneath the milk-white Thorn that scents The mother, wi' her needle and her shears,

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's

A wretch! a villain! lost to love and the new;

truth! The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting Their master's and their mistress's com

[smooth! mand,

Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling The younkers a' are warned to obey;

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? And mind their labours wi' an eydent

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, hand,


Points to the parents fondling o'er their And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or


[traction wild ? "And oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their disAnd mind your duty, duly, morn and night!

But now the supper crowns their simple Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,


[food; Implore His counsel and assisting

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's might:

Lord aright!”

The soupe their only hawkie does afford, They never sought in vain that sought the

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:


The dame brings forth, in complimental But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebdoor,

same, Jenny wha kens the meaning Ö the

luck, fell,

And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame

i' the bell. Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, cheek.


They,round the ingle, form a circle wide; Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his

The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; eel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, worthless rake.

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him

gfide, ben;

He wales a portion with judicious care; A strappin youth; he taks the mether's | And “Let us worship GOD!” he says, with Blithe Jenny sees the visit's 110 ill ta'en :

solemn air. The father cracks of horses, pleughs, They chant their artless notes in simple and kye.


[aim : The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' They tune their hearts, by far the noblest But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures behave;


[name, The mother, wi' a woman's wiles. carı Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward sae grave;

flame, Weel pleas’d to think her bairn's respected The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: like the lave.

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame :

[raise; Oh happy love ! --where love like this is The tickld ear no heart-felt raptures found!

[compare! Nae unison hae they with our Creator's Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond praise.

[ocr errors]



Then kne KING, father, atton triun days:

The priest-like father reads the sacred for them and for their little ones provide ; page

[high ; | But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine How Abram was the friend of God on preside. Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ;

From scenes like these old Scotia’s grar.Or how the royal bard did groaning lie

deur springs,

sabroad: Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging |

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd

Princes and lords are but the breath of ire;

kings, Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;


An honest man's the noblest work of Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;

And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; Perhaps the Christian volume is the What is a lordling's pomp?--a cumbrous theme(shed;

[kind How guiltless blood for guilty man was Disguising oft the wretch of human How He, who bore in Heaven the second studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! name,


Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil!
Had not on earth whereon to lay his

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven How his first followers and servants sped,

is sent! The precepts sage they wrote to many a

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, land:

Be blest with health, and peace, and How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

sweet content! Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And oh! may Heaven their simple lives And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! by Heaven's conımand.

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETER rent, NAL KING,

[prays :

A virtuous populace may rise the while, The saint, the father, and the husband And stand a wall of fire around their muchHope “springs exulting on triumphant lov'd isle. wing,” (106)

[days: That thus they all shall meet in future

Oh Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That strcan'd through Wallace's unThere ever bask in uncreated rays,

daunted heart, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Together hymning their Creator's praise,

Or nobly die the second glorious part, In such society, yet still more dear;

(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, While circling time moves round in an eter

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and renal sphere.

ward !) Compar’d with this, how poor Religion's Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert; pride,

But still the patriot, and the patriot In all the pomp of method, and of art,

[guard! When men display to congregations wide, In bright succession raise, her ornament and

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will de.

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;

Ti a Flunntain Daisy.
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, IN TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THR
May hear, well pleas’d, the language of PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. (107)
the soul;

[enrol. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, And in his book of life the inmates poor | Thou's met me in an evil hour; Then homeward all take off their sey'ral | For I maun crush amang the stoure way;

Thy slender stem: The youngling cottagers retire to rest: To spare thee now is past my pow'r. The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

Thou bonnie gem. And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- Alas! it's no thy neitor sweet, quest,

[nest, The bonnie lark, companion meet, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,

Wi' speckI'd breast, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the When up-ward-springing, blythe, to greet best,

The purpling east.


« AnteriorContinuar »