From housewife cares a minute borrow→→→
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrowAnd join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver;
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion!
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what! What do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss!
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone:
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night-
Since then, my honour'd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends:
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale envy to convulse)
Others now claim your chief regard-
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonths' length again:
I see the old bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer.
Deaf as my friend he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray);
• This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, see page 69.
AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE,
AT KERROUCHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON-
WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795.
THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolved, with soul resigned;
Prepared power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your descant grating on my ear: Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I cannot, bear;
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild
How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.⚫
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier; The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, Is in his narrow house' for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.
A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.
How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd:
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened.
Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very worthy character, and one to whom our bard thought himself under many obligations.
SIR, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, My horses, servants, carts, and graith, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew before a pettle. My hand-afore, a guid auld has been, And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen; My hand-a-hin,† a guid brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ;
The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plough. The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. Kilmarnock,
And your auld borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime:
My fur-a-hin, a guid, grey beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced:
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty,
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie.
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale,
As ever ran before a tail;
An' he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new,
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spindle,
And my auld mither brunt the trundle.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for rantin and for noise;
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowt in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And often labour them completely,
And aye on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the questions tairge them tightly,
"Till, faith; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg)
He'll screed you aff effectual calling,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servant station,
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
For weans I'm mair than weel contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted:
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace.
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady,
I've said enough for her already,
And if ye tax her or her mither,
By the L-d ye'se get them a' thegither!
And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I'm taking.
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit!
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under notet;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,
The hindmost on the right-hand, in the plough.
I, modestly, fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it;
WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793 THE If wi' the hizzie down ye send it,
BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
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 blythe carol clears his furrowed 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 yon 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 heaven bestowed, that mite with
thee I'll share.
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
I'd bear't in mind.
ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV-
ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COM-
PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th
DECEMBER, 1795.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cookery the first in the nation :
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.
WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.
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 S-e were fit.
JERUSALEM TAVERN, Dumfries.
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 ntore astray)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Wine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah why should I such scenes outlive!
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.
ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER,
DUMFRIES, 1796.
My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty world were it,
Would pain and care, and sickness spare it:
And fortune, favour, worth, and merit,
(And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ;
Syne wha would starve)?
gore a shoe-thick ;Gie a' the faes o' SCOTLAND'S weel
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 accorded, 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 If aught that giver from my mind efface; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, Only to number out a villain's years!
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.
O THOU, who kindly dost provide
For ev'ry creature's want! We bless thee, God of nature wide, For all thy goodness lent i
|