But come, your hand, my careless brither-
I' the ither warl', if there's anither-
And that there is I've little swither
About the matter
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.
We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly,
For our grand fa':
But still-but still-I like them dearly
Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching, cursed, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnin' spite.
But by yon moon!-and that's high swearin'-
And every star within my hearin'!
And by her een wha was a dear ane!
I'll ne'er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin'
My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantrip hour,
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then, Vive l'amour!
Faites mes baisemains respectueuses
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; no to roose ye,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
And trouth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be 't light, be't dark,
Sir Bard will do himsel' the pleasure
To call at Park.
TO MRS. SCOTT, THE GUIDWIFE OF
WAUCHOPE HOUSE.
I MIND it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thrash the barn,
Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;
And though forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckoned was,
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers and haivers
Wearing the day awa'.
Even then a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast-
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turned the weeder clips aside,
And spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,
My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang,
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that hairst I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She roused the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle.
I fired, inspirèd,
At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.
Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,
And we to share in common:
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heaven below,
Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither;
She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her.
Ye're wae men, ye 're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marlèd plaid ye kindly spare
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel, then, lang heal, then,
And plenty be your fa';
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'!
TO WILLIAM CREECH.
AULD chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
Oh, Willie was a witty wight,
And had o' things an unco slight;
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight
An' trig an' braw:
But now they'll busk her like a fright,
* Publisher in Edinburgh.
The stiffest o' them a' he bowed;
The bauldest o' them a' he cowed;
They durst nae mair than he allowed,
That was a law:
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd,-
Willie's awa'!
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;
He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie's awa'!
The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour: He was a dictionar' and grammar
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, Willie's awa'!
Nae mair we see his levée door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!
The adjutant o' a' the core,
Willie's awa'!
Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace
As Rome ne'er saw;
They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa'!
|