IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY,
NOVEMBER 4, 1793.
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,—
What have I done, of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe ?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.
'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.
TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, WITH BOOKS
WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.
THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer-
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name;
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.
EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, ON REFUSING TO DINE
WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE
FIRST OF COMPANY AND THE FIRST OF COOK ERY
DECEMBER 17TH, 1795.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cook'ry the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.
TO MR. SYME, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF
O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
"Twere drink for first of human kind,
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit,
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
SONNET, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING
WALK; WRITTEN JANUARY 25TH, 1793, THE BIRTH-
DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R. B., AGED 34.
SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give, nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee
I'll share.
POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796.
FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal
Alake, alake, the meikle Deil
Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel,
I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it:
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,1
I'd bear 't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin
To thee and thine; and comforts crowning The hale design.
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
And by fell Death was nearly nicket:
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,2
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye.
SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.
THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray ;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
"Tis thine to pity and forgive.
POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER ;1
DUMFRIES, 1796.
My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel2
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty warld were it,
Would pain, and care, and sickness spare
And fortune favour worth and merit,
(And aye a rowth,3 roast beef and claret;
Syne, wha wad starve ?)
Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her;
Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker
I've found her still,
Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker,
'Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons" by a rattan,6
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut? on
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,-
He's aff like fire.
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
Synes weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O' hell's d-d waft.9
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld d-d elbow yeuks with joy,
And hellish pleasure;
Already, in thy fancy's eye,
Soon, heels-o'er-gowdy!1 in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd'ring wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil!
Amen! amen!
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, ON RECEIVING
A FAVOUR.
I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons recorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!
EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.
AN honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd :
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
2 Grinning.
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