Page images
PDF
EPUB

A PRAYER

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O THOU Great Being! what thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to thee
Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul,
Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

O free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;
Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear and not repine!

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM.

O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend

Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been

Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heaved their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at thy command:

That power which raised and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before thy sight

Than yesterday that's past.

Thou givest the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought:
Again thou say'st, "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into naught !"

Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood thou takest them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flower,
In beauty's pride array'd;

But long ere night cut down it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckled breast.

When upward-springing, blythe to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield
But thou beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

TO RUIN. I.

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel wo-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolved, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart;

For one has cut my dearest tie,

And quivers in my heart.

Then lowering, and pouring,

The storm no more I dread ; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head.

[blocks in formation]

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
II.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye.
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to naught,
Where every nerve is strained.

[blocks in formation]

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should nae censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,

Though poortith hourly stare him
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
V.

Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;

But keek through every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection.
VI.

[ocr errors]

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Though naething should divulge it!
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But och it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

[blocks in formation]

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!

[blocks in formation]

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea.

O fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the sea.
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year,
That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!

So took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,

Wi' his proud, independent stomacn
Could ill agree;

So row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:

The muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel;
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fu' o' glee;

He wad na wrang'd the vera diel,

That's owre the sea.

[blocks in formation]

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricasee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip lash,
His nieve a nit;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a haggis!

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnamed like his grace,
Perhaps related to the race;
Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatterin,
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

The poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him,
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me,)
On every hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says, he winna break it ;
Aught he can lend he'll no refuse't,
Till aft his guidness is abused:
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
E'en that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, na thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature!
Ye'll get the best o' moral works
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks.
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,

28

It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing.

217

Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile

graces,

Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

0 ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heaven commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale misery moans,
And strikes the ever deepening tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my dedication;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my work I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronize them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that's a word I need na say:

For prayin I he little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer,
That kens or hears about you, sir-

"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark
Howl through the dwelling o' the clerk!
May ne'er his generous, honest heart,
For that same generous spirit smart!
May K******'s far honour'd name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till H*******s, at least a dizen,
Are frae their nuptial labours risen:
Five bonnie lasses round their table,
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able
T

To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days;
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"
I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion:
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which powers above prevent!)
That iron-hearted carl, want,
Attended in his grim advances

By sad mistakes, and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But by a poor man's hopes in heaven!
While recollection's power is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, through the tender gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother!

TO A LO USE.

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations;
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O' miss's bonnet.

My sooth right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump and gray as onie grozet;
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On's wylie coat;

But miss's fine Lunardi! fie,

How dare ye do't?

O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin' Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

O wad some power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us And foolish notion; What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us And e'en devotion!

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.
I.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn!
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy!
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

V.

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;

« PreviousContinue »