Ae night shortsyne, when stacherin hame, | Sae dim-sae pale-fo'k wad na see
I was na fou, but unco happy; An' wha wad ony mortal blame For takin' just a social drappie?
The street at this time was na thrang, An' policemen the hours were cryin Lanely they creepet saft alang,
Wi' their tale thieves an' robbers spyin'.
Ilk thing I saw I reconniter't, Frae Adam's Tavern to the cross; While cannily I onward doited, Till I was near Balmanno's close: The Tron Kirk Steeple met my e'e, When I began to think an' swither, What this big heap o' stanes might be ;→→→ The clock struck ane, an' syne anither.
I then bethought my steps to eke, When lo! I neest heard something bizzen, I glowrt-twa forms o' air, or reek, Had up, out through the causy risen! I'd heard o' deils-I'd heard o' ghosts- But ne'er till now, mysel' had seen them; Lang, sma', an' straught, like twa Lamp- posts!
An' just twa yards or three atween them. Ane stood bauld up wi' lyart powe, An' glowrt around fu' skeigh an' sprightly; His head seem't in a perfect lowe, It blecz't awa sae unco brightly. The ither wi' twa glimmerin' een, Stood ghastly pale, blinkin' an' peepin', Like wight that had been fou yestreen, Place't by the ingle neuk ha'f sleepin'.
To gang ava, gif't war na me. Yet aye ye'll stan, an' blink, an' Like ane just gaun to fa' asleep: Our Governors, may blush to think it, Owre lang at your defects they've winket ; Owre lang they've let ye keep your place→→→ Sic lenity's a black disgrace.
Haud haud ye there-nae mair o' that, Pert, impudent, unruly chat;
It ill-becomes a thing like thee! Of yesterday, to speak to me,
O wow! now things are sadly chang't, An' man's best faculties derang't; Else how cou'd he respeck sic glare, An' honour trifles light as air- The days are past-O glorious days! When I my dowie head cou'd raise; An' shine alang that bonnie street, An' there see men o' honour meet: Nae frantic notions fill't their brains ;— Still relics o' their worth remains- Their manners, veneration claim, 'Twas not to buy a soundin' name; Wi' honest hearts baith leel an' true, What pleas't them, 'twas na something
But what was auld, an' stood the test, An' things they were acquaint wi' best; Though smooth an' beaten was the road, It was the path their fathers trod; An' ne'er impos't on by new light, Although it dazzl't neer sae bright; Ay! mony a night I've shone fu' clear, Whan our gude bailies daunert near; Sagacious like, they fill't their station,
I thought they were twa goblins met That had been lang acquaint an' frien'ly-On ilka public great occasion: My thoughts were chang't, when till't they
Wi' desp'rate disputation keenly, To hear a roun' or twa, a while I stood, expectin' something clever- When lo! the Powers o' Gas an' Oil Did thus their sentiments deliver.
Get out my road, ye glimmerin' spunkie, Or get ahin an' be my flunkie; Ye are na able e'en to light A body cross the gate at night; An' yet ye'll dare to glint alang The Trongate, whan it's crowdet thrang, Wi' groups o' bodies dannerin' hame Frae wark at e'en-fie!-fie think shame! In modern times, to lift your head, An' glowre like ane ris'n frae the dead:
No like our black pash't gentry now- But powther plenty on their powe; An' curlie wigs, four stories hiegh, That leuk't sae wise, fo'k stood abiegh, As by they pass't in grand parade, An' leiges humble homage paid. Vain upstart! had ye then appear't. Imposter as ye are they'd sneer't; For they were blest wi' common sense, To whilk your frien's hae less pretence : Newfangle, o' your empty glare,
An' selfish en's, they've placed ye there Gae pridefu' wight! gang to that place Frae whence ye cam-gae hide your face, Haste to your den, whare lowin' coals Nae mair be heard o'-ne'er be seen, Fill wi' your glamour, pipes and holes ; In our auld town at morn or e'en.
Right gash ye gab, your temper's heatet, Auld peepy, but ye'll fin' ye're cheatet, Gif e'en ye think, that I will e'er Wi' light that burns sae wondrous clear, Leave the braid streets to you alane; Puir doited gowk! ye're far mista'en. It e'en wad be a muckle pity, Whan ilka shop through a' the city, An' monie a' ware-room, inn, an' ha', Is now in splendour beamin' braw, By iny bright presence, pourin' forth The light, like Boreas frac the north: But like auld men, sae self-conceited, Your lang experience over-rated, That think the beardless, an' the young, Shou'd aye submissive, haud their tongue; Ne'er speak their min'-but humbly bow, As ye wad hae me do to you.
But now thae times are out of date, When ha'flins chiels were unco blate; For they can speak an' shine as clear, As though they'd liv't a thousan' year; Sae I shall stan', an' brightly burn, Whan day departs, till day return :- Pack aff! wi' a' your smell an reek That issues frae your creeshie wick. Here I shall shine, an" bear the test, As lang's the Trongate's east an' west: Whan you an' yours are black an' rotten, An' a' your glory clean forgotten.
Ah! menseless, vain, cat-witted thing; At eild, youth ne'er shou'd snaw ba's fling: I've shone some thousan' years, respecket, Nane wi' me e'er a quarrel picket; But thee a flirdy stranger, mean, By man the ither day first seen; Dar'st wi' thy low malignant sneer, Question the powers that put me here; For shame! how dare ye jybe, an' speak To me, anent my smell an' reek? Whan 'tis notorious, thousan's tell, O'thy disgustin', naseous smell. I've seen fo'k scunnerin', haud their noses, Whan thou sent forth thy ugsome doses: Frae ilka shop.an' close they past, Like the simoons dread noxious blast;. An' yet thou'll pridefu' brag an' blaw, 'Bout lightin' ware-house, inn, an' ha'- For me, without complaint, fu' bright, I've shone in monie a lang, lang night, Frae lofty dome, or pictur't wall, Where held the merry dance an' ball; Aroun' the joyous festive ring, I did a cheerin' radiance fling; The ladies fair, fu' fine array't,
My light, their braws, an' charms display't. Without me, canty sangs, or fun, Was seldom ever right begun - An' my delyte when nobly fir't, Was wi' philosophers retir't;
Stockwell Street, Glasgow, June, 1819.
Wha ilka night through a' the week, Hae studie't till their heart was sick; Sae bent to mak discov'ries new, An' bring to light sic things as you:- An' wi' the modest poet hid, I've aft my usefu' lusture shed, While porin' o'er his simple lay- Nor could he pen't without my ray- Deed man, although I say't mysel'; Were I e'en fit the half to tell, What gude's been dune, sin' I began To distribute my light on man; "Twad tak ine nights-we'd baith grow
An' sic accounts to you'd be dreary, Our lights be out-our glasses broken Afore the half o't cou'd be spoken.
Hech! that's a lengthen't pithy speech; To answer't will my genius stretch; But though I was possesst o' gumption, I want what ye hae-bauld presumption.The custom's now, 'mang ither ills, For folk to puff an' praise themsel's; To blaw, an' tell of a' the gude, An' wordy deeds, they ever did; But taks aye special care to hide The blots that stain the ither side: For instance, you! auld blinkin' Davie, Ye've play't man monie a doofu' shavie: Ay! just remember; some dark nights, Whan folk enjoy't your scanty lights; Ae spark fa'in frae your grousome nose, Ha'e been the source o' monie woes; Whan fire-an aspect fierce assum'tAn' dwalling houses were consum'tThus, ruin't some, ance been an' braw, An' turned them out of house an' ha': Sic misery-justly ye've the blame o't, And tak ye the disgrace, an' shame o't.. Now days o' prejudice are past; Ye're sinking to oblivion fast; The mists an' fogs nae mair appear, Since I burst forth intense an' clear; That shall adorn the future page. An' spread a glory roun' the age, Philosophers, with sweet delyte, Shall ponder o'er my lusture bright; An' poets, wi' the noblest lay, Shall consecrate my natal day.— Sae Blinker, ye maun quat your post, Resign to fate, give up the ghost; For I'm the fav'rite of the nation, An' firmly here, I've fix't my station; Some bard, as wi' your case accords, May link in rhyme your diein' words; Syne crown your elegiac dittyAn' I'll illuminate the city.
I left the twa, in keen debate, To hear the hail o't didna wait; But how they settlet at the en', Was never yet my chance to ken.
Her hopes were gone, her prospects dim, And all to her look'd dark and dreary; For when she fondly thought on him, Her troubled soul was vex'd and weary.
The field of battle and of blood
He sought, where Britons fight for glory, Where rolls the Sambre's lazy flood, And clotted waves, all red and gory.
The battle o'er, from fields of fame The heroes to their homes returning, But in their ranks no William came, And Ellen's lonely, still, and mourning.
On summer eve, at twilight's dawn, When all the village sounded gladness,. She seeks remote, the distant lawn, T'indulge in melancholy sadness.
Where modest flower, but newly blown, Nipt by the blast, its lovely blossom; Emblem of her, who walks alone,
For storm unseen disturbs her bosom.
Though fields with flowers of summer bloom And skies of azure shine unclouded,
'Tis nought to her while deep the gloom, Wherewith, her tender soul is shrouded.
For oh! it was a magic chain,
That link'd their youthful hearts together; Of purest love, soon snatch'd in twain, Like flower that only blooms to wither.
Glasgow, August, 1819.
The annexed Poem is the production of a gentleman who left this It is taken from a Bercountry about three years ago for America. bice Newspaper, and by inserting it in the Mirror you will oblige,
ELEGY ON MATILDA.
And are those lightsome days no more, I twin'd for thee the emerald wreath? Ah! ne'er to deck thee in the bower, The fairest flowers I'll more bequeath! And is that gentle snow-white breast Cold as the emblem true it gave? And are those lips so oft I prest, Chill as the winter-fetter'd wave?
Ye Dryads as ye lightly rove, In silence mourn the hapless maid. Ye shades, that stalk the flowery grove, You'll trace the footsteps where she stray'd. Matilda lov'd each fairy home;
Your haunts to her were ever dear; But ah no more you'll see her roam, Nor more her dulcet numbers hear!
The emerald locks of vernal spring- The summer's flowery tresses fair-
The boughs where charming songsters sing, High waving in the ambient air- The shepherd's pipe-the vocal note That sylvan echo bears along-
The purling stream-the shaded grot-- And all that to their train belong.-
'Twas these Matilda fondly lov'd, Dear harmless child of rural ease! And art thou then so soon remov'd To worlds for thee more fit than these. And know, dear spirit, when thou fled Each former haunt soon felt decay; The flowery groves began to fade, Ev'n beauty's self was swept away.
Ah! what is fancy's glittering ray That paints life's morning fair and bright; That fondly bids young pleasure stay, And wanton mid the streams of light. We saw Matilda lovely rise
Whilst hope enamoured round her played, The charin has fled-for oh! she lies Entomb'd beneath you cypress shade!
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