Warms up a muse was well nigh lost
In depths of snow and chilling frost;
But generous praise the soul inspires,
More than rich wines and blazing fires.
Tho' on the Grampians I were chain'd, And all the winter on me rain'd;
Altho' half starv'd, my sp'rit would spring Up to new life to hear you sing.
I take even criticism kind,
That sparkles from so clear a mind:
Friends ought and may point out a spot,
But enemies make all a blot.
Friends sip the honey from the flow'r;
All's verjuice to the waspish sour.
With more of nature than of art,
From stated rules I often start,
Rules never studied yet by me;
My muse is British, bold and free,
And loves at large to frisk and bound
Unmankl'd o'er poetic ground.
I love the garden wild and wide,
Where oaks have plum-trees by their side;
Where woodbines and the twisting vine
Clip round the pear-tree and the pine;
Where mixt jonckeels and gowans grow,
And roses 'midst rank clover blow,
Upon a bank of a clear strand,
Its whimplings led by nature's hand;
Tho' docks and bramble here and there,
May sometimes cheat the gardener's care,
Yet this to me's a paradise,
Compar'd with prime cut plots and nice,
Where nature has to art resign'd,
Till all looks mean, stiff, and confin'd.
May still my notes of rustic turn
Gain more of your respect than scorn;
I'll hug my fate, and tell sour fools,
I'm more oblig'd to heav'n than schools.
Heaven Homer taught: the critic draws
Only from him, and such their laws:
The native bards first plunge the deep,
Before the artful dare to leap.
I've seen myself right many a time
Copy'd in diction, mode, and rhyme.
Now, Sir, again let me express
My wishing thoughts in fond address;
That for your health, and love you bear
To two of my chief patrons (1) here,
You'd, when the lavrocks rouse the day,
When beams and dews make blythsome May,
When blooming fragrance glads our isle,
And hills with purple heather smile,
Drop fancy'd ails, with courage stout,
Ward off the spleen, the stone, and gout.
May ne'er such foes disturb your nights,
Or elbow out your day delights.
Here you will meet the jovial train,
Whose clangours echo o'er the plain,
While hounds with gowls both loud and clear,
Well tun'd, delight the hunter's ear,
As they on coursers fleet as wind,
Pursue the fox, hart, hare, or hind:
Delightful game! where friendly ties
Are closer drawn, and health the prize.
We long for, and we wish you here,
Where friends are kind, and claret clear:
The lovely hope of Som'ril's race,
Who smiles with a seraphic grace,
(1) Lord and Lady Somerville.
And the fair sisters of the boy,
Will have, and add much to your joy.
Give warning to your noble friend;
Your humble servant shall attend,
A willing Sancho and your slave,
With the best humour that I have,
To meet you on that river's shore,
That Britons now divides no more.
TO DONALD M'EWEN, JEWELLER,
How far frae hame my friend seeks fame!
And yet I canna wyte ye,
T'employ your fire, and still aspire
By virtues that delyte ye.
Shou'd fortune lour, 'tis in your power,
If heaven grant balmy health,
T' enjoy ilk hour a soul unsow'r;
Content's nae bairn of wealth.
It is the mind that's not confin'd
To passions mean and vile,
That's never pin'd, while thoughts refin'd
Can gloomy cares beguile.
Then Donald may be e'en as gay
On Russia's distant shore,
As on the Tay, where usquebae
He us'd to drink before.
But howsoe'er, haste gather gear,
And syne pack up your treasure;
Then to Auld Reekie come and beek ye,
And close your days with pleasure.
ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF A GOLD SEAL,
WITH HOMER'S HEAD.
THANKS to my frank ingenious friend :
Your present's most genteel and kind,
Baith rich and shining as your mind:
And that immortal laurell'd pow,
Upon the gem sae well design'd
And execute, sets me on low.
The heavenly fire inflames my breast,
Whilst I unweary'd am in quest
Of fame, and hope that ages niest
Will do their Highland bard the grace,
Upon their seals to cut his crest,
And blythest strakes of his short face.
Far less great Homer ever thought
(When he, harmonious beggar! sought
His bread thro' Greece) he should be brought
Frae Russia's shore by captain Hugh, (1)
To Pictland plains, sae finely wrought
On precious stone, and set by you.
(1) Captain Hugh Eccles, master of a fine merchant-ship, which he lost in the unhappy fire at St. Petersburg.
TO HIS FRIENDS IN IRELAND,
WHO, ON A REPORT OF HIS DEATH, MADE AND PUBLISHED SEVERAL ELEGIES, &c.
SIGHING shepherds of Hibernia,
Thank ye for your kind concern a',
When a fause report beguiling,
Prov'd a draw-back on your smiling:
Dight your een, and cease your grieving,
Allan's hale, and well, and living,
Singing, laughing, sleeping soundly,
Cowing beef, and drinking roundly;
Drinking roundly rum and claret,
Ale and usquæ, bumpers fair out,
Supernaculum but spilling,
The least diamond (1) drawing, filling;
Sowsing sonnets on the lasses,
Hounding satires at the asses,
Smiling at the surly critics,
And the pack-horse of politics;
Painting meadows, shaws, and mountains,
Crooking burns, and flowing fountains;
Flowing fountains, where ilk gowan
Grows about the borders glowan,
Swelling sweetly, and inviting
Poets' lays, and lovers meeting;
Meeting kind to niffer kisses,
Bargaining for better blisses.
(1) See the note on p. 288, vol. i.
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