Right mony gabs wi' them shall gang
About Auld Reekie's ingle,
When kedgy carles think nae lang,
When stoups and trunchers gingle :
Then my friend leal,
We toss ye'r heal,`
And with bald brag advance,
What's hoorded in
Lochs Broom and Fin (1)
Might ding the stocks of France.
A jelly sum to carry on
A fishery's design'd, (2)
Twa million good of sterling pounds,
By men of money's sign'd.
Had ye but seen
How unco keen
And thrang they were about it,
That we are bald,
Right rich, and ald
farran, ye ne'er wad doubted.
Now, now, I hope, we'll ding the Dutch,
As fine as a round-robin,
Gin greediness to grow soon rich
Invites not to stock-jobbing:
That poor boss shade
Of sinking trade,
And weather-glass politic,
Which heaves and sets
As public gets
A heezy, or a wee kick.
(1) Two lochs on the western seas, where plenty of herrings are taken.
(2) The royal fishery; success to which is the wish and hope of every good man.
Fy, fy!--but yet I hope 'tis daft
To fear that trick come hither;
Na, we're aboon that dirty craft
Of biting ane anither
The subject rich
Will gi' a hitch
T' increase the public gear,
When on our seas,
Like bisy bees,
Ten thousand fishers steer.
Could we catch th' united shoals
That crowd the western ocean,
The Indies would prove hungry holes,
Compar'd to this our Goshen:
Then let's to wark
With net and bark,
Them fish and faithfu' cure up;
Gin sae we join,
We'll cleek in coin
Frae a' the ports of Europe.
Thanks t'ye, Captain, for this swatch
Of our store, and your favour;
Gin I be spar'd your love to match
Shall still be my endeavour.
Next unto you,
My service due
Please gi'e to Matthew Cumin, (1)
Wha with fair heart
Has play'd his part,
And sent them true and trim in.
(1) Merchant in Glasgow, and one of the late magistrates of that city.
ERE on old Shinar's plain the fortress rose,
Rear'd by those giants who durst heav'n oppose,
An universal language mankind us'd,
Till daring crimes brought accents more confus'd;
Discord and jar for punishment were hurl'd
On hearts and tongues of the rebellious world.
The primar speech with notes harmonious clear,
(Transporting thought!) gave pleasure to the ear:
Then music in its full perfection shin'd,
When man to man melodious spoke his mind.
As when a richly-fraughted fleet is lost
In rolling deeps, far from the ebbing coast,
Down many fathoms of the liquid mass,
The artist dives in ark of oak or brass;
Snatches some ingots of Peruvian ore,
And with his prize rejoicing makes the shore:
Oft this attempt is made, and much they find;
They swell in wealth, tho' much is left behind.
Amphion's sons, with minds elate and bright,
Thus plunge th' unbounded ocean of delight,
And daily gain new stores of pleasing sounds,
To glad the earth, fixing to spleen its bounds;
While vocal tubes and comfort strings, engage
To speak the dialect of the golden age.
Then you, whose symphony of souls proclaim
Your kin to heav'n, add to your country's fame,
And show that music may have as good fate
In Albion's glens, as Umbria's green retreat;
And with Correlli's soft Italian song
Mix "Cowdenknows," and "Winter nights are long:"
Nor should the martial "Pibrough" be despis'd;
Own'd and refin'd by you, these shall the more be priz'd.
Each ravish'd ear extols your heav'nly art,
Which soothes our care, and elevates the heart;
Whilst hoarser sounds the martial ardours move,
And liquid notes invite to shades and love.
Hail! safe restorer of distemper'd minds,
That with delight the raging passions binds;
Ecstatic concord, only banish'd hell,
Most perfect where the perfect beings dwell.
Long may our youth attend thy charming rites,
Long may they relish thy transported sweets.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES ARBUCKLE; (1)
As errant knight, with sword and pistol,
Bestrides his steed with mighty fistle;
Then stands some time in jumbled swither,
To ride in this road, or that ither;
At last spurs on, and disna care for
A how, a what way, or a wherefore.
Or like extemporary quaker,
Wasting his lungs, t' enlighten weaker
Lanthorns of clay, where light is wanting,
With formless phrase, and formal canting;
(1) [* See vol. i. p. 78.]
While Jacob Boehmen's (1) salt does season,
And saves his thought frae corrupt reason,
Gowling aloud with motions queerest,
Yerking those words out which lye nearest.
Thus I (no longer to illustrate
With similes, lest I should frustrate
Design laconic of a letter,
With heap of language, and no matter,)
Bang'd up my blyth auld-fashion'd whistle,
To sowf ye o'er a short epistle,
Without rule, compasses, or charcoal,
Or serious study in a dark hole.
Three times I ga'e the muse a rug,
Then bit my nails, and claw'd my lug;
Still heavy at the last my nose
I prim'd with an inspiring dose, (2)
Then did ideas dance (dear safe us!)
As they'd been daft.-Here ends the preface.
Good Mr. James Arbuckle, Sir,
(That's merchants' style as clean as fir,)
Ye're welcome back to Caledonie, (3)
Lang life and thriving light upon ye,
Harvest, winter, spring, and summer,
And ay keep up your heartsome humour,
That ye may thro' your lucky task go,
Of brushing up our sister Glasgow;
Where lads are dext'rous at improving,
And docile lasses fair and loving:
But never tent these fellows' girning,
Wha wear their faces ay in mourning,
(1) The Teutonic philosopher, who wrote volumes of unintelligible enthusiastic bombast.
(2) Vide Mr. Arbuckle's Poem on Snuff.
(3) Having been in his native Ireland, visiting his friends.
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