And every time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed: In wrath that night. Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery, Till butter'd so'ns,* wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin Fu' blythe that night. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW-YEAR. A GUID new-year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie : Though thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day, Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie Out-owre the lay. Though now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonnie gray: He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, It's now some nine an' twenty year, An' fifty mark; Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie: Though ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie ; But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day, ye pranced wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride; An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a pair. Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is al ways the Halloween supper. Though now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day ye was a jinker noble For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road! Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, We took the road aye like a swallow: At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed: But every tail thou pay't them hollow, Where'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, On guid March weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, Wi' pith, an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, an' snows were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer; I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep The cart or car thou never restit; Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a': Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw: Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought! And monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, Some coarser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use, thus far, thus vile, below; Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers! "O ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, But shall thy legal rage pursue A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" I heard nae mair, for chanticleer But deep this truth impress'd my mind- The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God. DESPONDENCY. AN ODE. I. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, I sit me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, To wretches such as I! Dim backward as I cast my view, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er, II. Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard! E'en when the wished end's denied, Meet every sad returning night, Find every prospect vain. How blest the solitary's lot, Within his humble cell, Or, haply, to his evening thought, By unfrequented stream. The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream: While praising and raising His thoughts to heaven on high, As wandering, meandering, He views the solemn sky. IV. Than I, no lonely hermit placed With self-respecting art: But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, V. O! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown! How ill exchanged for riper times, Of others, or my own! II. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. III. At length his lonely cot appears in view, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. IV. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for others' weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new: The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. VI. Their master's an' their mistress's command, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! VII. But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. VIII. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. IX. O happy love! where love like this is found! O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare"If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." X. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- That can, with studied, sly, insnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting truth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? XI. But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. XII. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. XV. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. XVI. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,' That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; [sphere. While circling time moves round in an eternal XVII. Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display, to congregations wide, Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. XVIII. Then homeward all take off their several way; And proffer up to Heaven the warm request From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God:" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! * Pope's Windsor Forest. |