ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL
IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?--
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong Necessity compels.
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. MAUCHLINE,
I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias Laird M'Gaun,
Was here to lure the lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
An' wad hae don't aff han':
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As faith I muckle doubt him,
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
An' tellin' lies about them;
As lieve then I'd have then,
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I hae na onie fear.
Ye'll catechize him every quirk,
Mosgaville, May 3, 1786.
An' shore him weel wi' hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk-Ay when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then, maun be then
Frae hame this comin' Friday,
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.
My word of honour I ha'e gi'en,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the Warld's worm:
To try to get the twa to gree,
An' name the airles an' the fee,
In legal mode an' form:
I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him;
An' if a Devil be at a',
In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you an' praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still, you share still,
Of grateful Minstrel
OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLiging lettER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER.
SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud; 'See wha taks notice o' the Bard!' I lap and cry'd fu' loud.
'Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million; I'll cock my nose aboon them a',
I'm roos'd by C1aigen-Gillan !'
'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel,
To grant your high protection:
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel,
Is aye a blest infection.
Tho', by his banes wha in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand ay.—
And when those legs to gude, warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me;
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
And barley-scone shall cheer me.
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' monie flow'ry simmers!
And bless your bonie lasses baith,
I'm tald they're loosome kimmers !
And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry!
And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country.
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL
EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.
Ellisland, Monday Evening.
YOUR News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir,
With little admiring or blaming ;
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir;
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete,
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.
My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness
Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world, Sir, should know it!
INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBI.E EARL'S PICture.
WHOSE is that noble, dauntless brow?
And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien Even rooted foes admire?
Stranger, to justly shew that brow,
And mark that eye of fire,
Would take His hand, whose vernal
tints
His other works admire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun,
With stately port he moves;
His guardian seraph eyes with awe
The noble ward he loves.
Among the illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye, It dwells upon Glencairn.
TO TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
HEALTH to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief!
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf
This natal morn,
I see thy life is stuff o' prief,
Scarce quite half worn.
This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka Poet)
On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.
If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,
Nine miles an hour, Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure
But for thy friends, and they are monie, Baith honest men and lassies bonie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee,
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee!
Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;
For me, shame fa' me, If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While BURNS they ca' me.
WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSES.
FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.
And fill them high with generous juice, As generous as your mind;
And pledge me in the generous toast-'The whole of human kind!'
To those who love us!'-second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us!
A third-to thee and me, Love!'
'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, 'The noisy domicile of pedant pride;
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And cruelty directs the thickening blows;
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling Vowels to account.
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The jostling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next, the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!
In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art :
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.
A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets :
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour ;
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore, but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood;
His solid sense-by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, DUMFRIES. [1790]
WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need na toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enow in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.
Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after monie a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman;
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,
As able and as cruel as the devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best !
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