And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail :
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclined,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ. AYR.
THE simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn
The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill,
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er
the hill;
Shall he, nursed in the peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,
By early poverty to hardship steel'd,
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field-
`Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes;
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some patron's generous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.
'Twas when the stacks gat on their winter-hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra skaith
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds' and flowers' delicious spoils,
Seal'd up wi' frugal care in massive waxen piles,
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
The thundering guns are heard on every side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds?)
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:
The hoary morus precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the
"Twas in that season, when a simple bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward,
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspired, or haply press'd wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson's1 wheel'd the left about :
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate;
Or whether, rapt in meditation high,
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why)
The drowsy Dungeon-clock 2 had number'd two,
And Wallace Tower 2 had sworn the fact was true;
The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the
shore:
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee;
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree :
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream:
When, lo! on either hand the listening bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air,
Swift as the gos 3 drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers:
Our warlock rhymer instantly descried
The sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That bards are second-sighted is na joke,
And ken the lingo of the spiritual fo'k;
Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them,
And ev❜n the vera deils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face:
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstled lang,
Yet teughly doure, he baide an unco bang.
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got;
In 's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch;
It chanced his new-come neebor took his ee,
And ev❜n a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him the guid-een.
I doubt na, frien', ye 'll think ye 're nae sheep
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
(Though, faith, that day I doubt ye 'll never see) There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.
Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense. Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd, formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat-stream,4 Though they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.
Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide;
And though wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,
I'll be a brig when ye 're a shapeless cairn!
|