THE

AULD FARMER'S

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS

AULD MARE MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN

TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.

A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now an' knaggie,
I've seen the day,

Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie
Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy,
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an glaizie,
A bonnie gray:

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,

An' set weel down a shapely shank
As e'er tred yird ;

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like onie bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid father's meere ; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie: Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie.

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble,
An' wintle like a samount-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and skeigh,
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,
An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was 'mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, i An' gar't them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, On guid March weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't an' fetch't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith an' pow'r,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket,
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied my cog a wee bit heap

Aboon the timmer:

I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst. They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought! An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin', For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man

bestows!

See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,
A creature of another kind,

Some courser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The powers ye proudly own?

Is there, beneath Love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasting Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs !

Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown;
Ill satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call,

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to
sleep,

While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!

Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve,. how exquisite the
bliss!'

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impressed my mind-
Thro' all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind,
The most resembles GOD.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely westlan' jingle,
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folk's gift,
That live sae bein and snug:
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fireside;
But hanker and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

II.

Its hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep at times frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd;
How best o'chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
Au' ken na how to wair't :

But, Davie, lad, neʼer fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
'Mair speir na, nor fear na't
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barus at e'en,
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then, content could make us blest;
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile
However fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile;
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma':
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa',

IV.

What though like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hall?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,

* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, aud au. thor of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect.

+ Ramsay.

With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year,

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in making muckle mair:
It's no in books; it's no in lear,
To mak us truly blest!
If happiness bae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye,
That makes us right or wrang.
VI.

Think ye that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry,
Wi' never ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how oft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess?

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heav'n or hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,
I here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel';

They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Tho' losses and crosses,

Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where.

VIII.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!
(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt'ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I!
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;
Aud joys the very best,
There's a the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';

Ye have your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!