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It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination.
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
He'll mak it whissle ;
Like taps o' thrissle. Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie ber a haggis !
Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice !
No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o’ legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile
graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own; I'll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.
EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
This may do—maun do, sir, wi’ them wha
The poet, some guid angel help him,
The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o'me,) On every hand it will allow'd be, He's just-nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says, he winna break it ; Aught he can lend he'll no refuse't, Till aft his guidness is abused : And rascals whyles that do him wrang, E'en that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.
But then, na thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that; It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature ! Ye'll get the best o’ moral works *Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks. Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed,
O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n,
Your pardon, sir, for this digression,
So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
Then patronize them wi’ your favour,
“May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark
I wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wylie coat; But miss's fine Lunardi ! fie,
How dare ye
O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a'abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
To serve their king and country weel,
I will not wind a lang conclusion,
But if (which powers above prevent !) That iron-hearted carl, want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor? But by a poor man's hopes in heaven! While recollection's power is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, through the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother!
O wad some power the giftie gie us,
And foolish notion ; What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion!
ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.
All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
TO A LOUSE.
HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Owre gauze and lace;
On sic a place.
Sae fine a lady?
On some poor body.
In shoals and nations ;
Your thick plantations.
Till ye've got on it,
Or fell, red smeddum,
Wad dress your droddum!
II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode.
With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,
Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name !
IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn!
Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B— strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the sire of love on high,
And own his work indeed divine !
V. There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,
It pat me fidgin-fain to heart,
And sae about him there I spier't ;
Then a' that ken't him round declared Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;
He had ingine, Have oft withstood assailing war,
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine.
That set him to a pint of ale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he'd made himsel, Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Or witty catches, Famed heroes ! had their royal home:
"Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, Alas ! how changed the times to come!
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an'swoor an'aith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,
At some dyke-back,
To hear your crack.
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell, Haply my sires have left their shed,
I to the crambo-jingle fell, And faced grim danger's loudest roar,
Though rude an' rough, Bold following where your fathers led ! Yet crooning to a body's sel,
Does well eneugh.
I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, Where once beneath a monarch's feet
An' hae to learning nae pretence, Sat legislation's sovereign powers !
Yet, what the matter? From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers,
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
I jingle at her. And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, “ How can you e'er propose,
To mak a sang ?”
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're may be wrang. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.—APRIL 1st, 1785.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools, WHILE briers and woodbines budding green,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools; An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
If honest nature made you fools, An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
What sairs your grammars : Inspire my muse,
Ye'd better ta’en up spades and shools,
Or knappin hammers.
A set o’ dull conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes !
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassu;
By dint o' Greek !
Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire ; That some kind husband had addrest
Then though I drudge through dub an' mire To some sweet wife:
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Though real friends, I b’lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fu',
I’se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.
Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing through amang the naigs
Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs
I would na write.
I winna blaw about mysel ;
They sometimes roose me, Though I maun own, as monie still
As far abuse me.
The tapeless ramfeezla hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo’she, “ Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right dizzie
An' something sair.” Her dowff excuses pat me mad; “Conscience,” says I,“ ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,
This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.
There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses–Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair ; May be some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there ; We’se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An’ kirsen him wi' reekin water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart; An' faith we'se be acquainted better
Before we part.
“ Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Though mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms so friendly ; Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,
An' thank him kindly !” Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, “ Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink,
By Jove I'll prose it !" Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,
Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof,
Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense,
an' grace, E'en love an’ friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack ! I dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear you crack.
But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms,
Each aid the others', Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers !
My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an'carp, Though fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi’gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an’ warp:
She's but a b-tch.
My senses wad be in a creel Should I but dare a hope to speel Wi’ Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,
The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.
Or is't the paughty, feudal thane,
But lordly stalks,
As by he walks ?
Through Scotland wide ; Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride !"
We learn our creed.
(0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes,
Wad stow'd his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my deed,
(0 sad disease !) I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.
For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, “ The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great nature's plan,
An' none but he !"
In glorious light,
Are dark as night. Though here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an'
growl, Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul May in some future carcass howl,
The forest's fright;
May shun the light.
In some mild sphere,
Each passing year.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu'fain,
But tune their lays,
Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style ; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle
Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a list aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,
Th’ Illyssus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine,
An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine
Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an’ fells, Her moors red-brown with heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells,
Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae southron billies.
At Wallace' name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
Or glorious dyed. 0, sweet are Coila's haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amo: pus whids,
Their loves enjoy, While through the braes the cushat croods