Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Wi' reverence be it spoken; I've even joined the honoured jorum, When mighty squireships of the quorum Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord! — stand out my shin,
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son !

Up higher yet my bonnet !

And sic a Lord! — lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh for Hogarth's magic power!
To shew Sir Bardie's willyart glower,

And how he stared and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer’d.

I sidling sheltered in a nook,
And at his Lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen ;
Except good sense and social glee,
And (what surprised me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watched the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;

The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his lordship I shall learn
Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as weel's anither;
Nae honest worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.

HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie !
Though Fortune's road be rough and hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,

But take it like the unbacked filly,
Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter,
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,

Arrests us, then the scaith and banter
We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! — hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this wild warl',
Until you on a crummock driddle
A gray-haired carle.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,

And screw your temper-pins aboon,

A fifth or mair,

The melancholious, lazy croon,

O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day
Naelente largo" in the play,
But "allegretto forte" gay

Harmonious flow,

A sweeping, kindling, bauld Strathspey — Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
And never think o' right and wrang
By square and rule,

But as the clegs o' feeling stang,

Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace!

Their tuneless hearts

May fireside discords jar a base
To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither, I' th' 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-
God bless them a'!

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!

[ocr errors]

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'
In fair-play yet.

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 baise-mains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,

And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,

That sic a couple Fate allows ye

To grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure,

And trowth, 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 himself the pleasure
To call at Park.

AN EXPOSTULATION ON A REBUKE ADMINISTERED BY MRS. LAWRIE.

RUSTICITY'S ungainly form

May cloud the highest mind;

But when the heart is nobly warm,
The good excuse will find.

Propriety's cold cautious rules
Warm Fervour may o'erlook;

But spare poor Sensibility

The ungentle, harsh rebuke.

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sovereign powers!
From marking wildly-scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,

« ForrigeFortsæt »