I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge
Either frae grammar-school or college.
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
War' better fed, I'd gie my aith,
Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch,
And bummil thro' the single caritch.
Wha ever heard the ploughman speak,
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,
As get a single line of Virgil.
And then sae slee ye crack your jokes
O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox,
Our great men a' sae weel descrive,
And how to gar the nation thrive,
Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them,
And as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,
Ye are a funny blade, I swear :
And though the cauld I ill can bide,
Yet twenty miles, and mair, I'd ride,
O'er moss, and muir, and never grumble,
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble,
To crack a winter night wi' thee,
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.
A guid saut herring and a cake,
Wi' sic a chiel a feast wad make.
I'd rather scour your reaming yill,
Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill,
Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine,
And ferlie at their wit and wine.
O gif I kend but where ye baide,
I'd send to you a marled plaid;
'Twad haud your shouthers warm and braw,
And douse at kirk, or market shaw.
For south, as weel as north, my lad,
A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud.
Right wae that we're sae far frae ither;
Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither.
TO THE GUIDWIFE O' WAUCHOPE HOUSE.
I MIND it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
And tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn;
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon❜d was,
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers and haivers,
Wearing the day awa.
Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,)
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some useful plan, or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd my weeding heuk aside,
And spar'd the symbol dear.
No nation, no station,
My envy e'er could raise ;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain :
Till on that hairst I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain;
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,
At ev'ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.
Hale to the sett! ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,
And we to share in common:
The gust of joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n below,
Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither ;
She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her. Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line :
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the Nine,
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douse hingin' o'er my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
And plenty be your
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE.
My curse on your envenom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
And through my lugs gies mony a bang,
Wi' gnawin vengeance!
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter twang,
Like racking engines.
Adown the beard the slavers trickle,
I cast the wee stools owre the meikle,
While round the fire the hav'rels keckle,
To see me loup;
I curse and ban, and wish a heckle
When fevers burn, or agues freeze us,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeeze us,
Our neebors sympathise, to ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thou-the hell o' a' diseases,
They mock our groan.
O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends laid i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be that's ca'd hell,
Where a' the tones o' mis'ry's yell,
And plagues in ranked number tell
In deadly raw,
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell
Aboon them a'!
O thou grim mischief-makin chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
Till human-kind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A Towmond's Tooth-ache!
WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE
O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave,
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave!
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.
No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
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