We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' 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 Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods Wi' wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds raye thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Or winter howls, in gusty storms, VOL. I. The lang dark night! R The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, O sweet! to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing brither!' We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen; Ye bade me write you what they mean 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new ane. This past for certain, undisputed; Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. 1 See note, p. 60. This was deny'd, it was affirmed; Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, This game was play'd in monie lands, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Ye'll find ane placed; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word an' write, But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay a month amang the moons, Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKIN, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankin, Your dreams an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Straught to auld Nick's. A certain humorous dream of his was then making noise in the country-side. |