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Part XXVIIIPart XXVIII
Part XXVIII
Lines Written In Friars`-Carse Hermitage
Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease thy aim,
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame, an idle restless dream;
Peace, the tend`rest flow`r of spring;
Pleasures, insects on the wing;
Those that sip the dew alone-
Make the butterflies thy own;
Those that would the bloom devour-
Crush the locusts, save the flower.
For the future be prepar`d,
Guard wherever thou can`st guard;
But thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can`st not shun.
Follies past, give thou to air,
Make their consequence thy care:
Keep the name of Man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart
Him, whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still in view,
Thy trust, and thy example, too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.
To Alex. Cunningham, ESQ., Writer
Ellisland, Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788.
My godlike friend-nay, do not stare,
You think the phrase is odd-like;
But God is love, the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.
And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano!
Ev`n Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death`s tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
May`st promise love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try-
Marriage perhaps may mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air-a grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms-but who can trace
The process of bewitching?
Song.-Anna, Thy Charms
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiven;
For sure `twere impious to despair
So much in sight of heaven.
The Fete Champetre
tune-"Killiecrankie."
O Wha will to Saint Stephen`s House,
To do our errands there, man?
O wha will to Saint Stephen`s House
O` th` merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man o` law?
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o`er Scotland a`
The meikle Ursa-Major?^1
Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o`lairds, man?
For worth and honour pawn their word,
Their vote shall be Glencaird`s,^2 man.
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter:
Annbank,^3 wha guessed the ladies` taste,
He gies a Fete Champetre.
When Love and Beauty heard the news,
The gay green woods amang, man;
Where, gathering flowers, and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird`s sang, man:
A vow, they sealed it with a kiss,
Sir Politics to fetter;
As their`s alone, the patent bliss,
To hold a Fete Champetre.
Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing
O`er hill and dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:
She summon`d every social sprite,
That sports by wood or water,
On th` bonie banks of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fete Champetre.
Cauld Boreas, wi` his boisterous crew,
Were bound to stakes like kye, man,
And Cynthia`s car, o` silver fu`,
Clamb up the starry sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
Or down the current shatter;
The western breeze steals thro`the trees,
To view this Fete Champetre.
[Footnote 1: James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson.]
[Footnote 2: Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird or "Glencaird."]
[Footnote 3: William Cunninghame, Esq., of Annbank and Enterkin.]
How many a robe sae gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels glance, man!
To Harmony`s enchanting notes,
As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam`s yett,
To hold their Fete Champetre.
When Politics came there, to mix
And make his ether-stane, man!
He circled round the magic ground,
But entrance found he nane, man:
He blush`d for shame, he quat his name,
Forswore it, every letter,
Wi` humble prayer to join and share
This festive Fete Champetre.
Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry
Requesting a Favour
When Nature her great master-piece design`d,
And fram`d her last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,
She form`d of various parts the various Man.
Then first she calls the useful many forth;
Plain plodding Industry, and sober Worth:
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
And merchandise` whole genus take their birth:
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
And all mechanics` many-apron`d kinds.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
The lead and buoy are needful to the net:
The caput mortuum of grnss desires
Makes a material for mere knights and squires;
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,
Then marks th` unyielding mass with grave designs,
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes th` Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.
The order`d system fair before her stood,
Nature, well pleas`d, pronounc`d it very good;
But ere she gave creating labour o`er,
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more.
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter,
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee,
(Nature may have her whim as well as we,
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it),
She forms the thing and christens it-a Poet:
Creature, tho` oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow;
A being form`d t` amuse his graver friends,
Admir`d and prais`d-and there the homage ends;
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune`s strife,
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live;
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
She laugh`d at first, then felt for her poor work:
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard tree to find;
And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attach`d him to the generous, truly great:
A title, and the only one I claim,
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful Muses` hapless train,
Weak, timid landsmen on life`s stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives-tho` humbly takes enough;
The little fate allows, they share as soon,
Unlike sage proverb`d Wisdom`s hard-wrung boon:
The world were blest did bliss on them depend,
Ah, that "the friendly e`er should want a friend!"
Let Prudence number o`er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom at one race begun,
Who feel by reason and who give by rule,
(Instinct`s a brute, and sentiment a fool!)
Who make poor "will do" wait upon "I should"-
We own they`re prudent, but who feels they`re good?
Ye wise ones hence! ye hurt the social eye!
God`s image rudely etch`d on base alloy!
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,
Heaven`s attribute distinguished-to bestow!
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race:
Come thou who giv`st with all a courtier`s grace;
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,
Backward, abash`d to ask thy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command;
But there are such who court the tuneful Nine-
Heavens! should the branded character be mine!
Whose verse in manhood`s pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit!
Seek not the proofs in private life to find
Pity the best of words should be but wind!
So, to heaven`s gates the lark`s shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clam`rous cry of starving want,
They dun Benevolence with shameless front;
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays-
They persecute you all your future days!
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
My horny fist assume the plough again,
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more,
On eighteenpence a week I`ve liv`d before.
Tho`, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift,
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:
That, plac`d by thee upon the wish`d-for height,
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight,
My Muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
Song.-The Day Returns
tune-"Seventh of November."
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet:
Tho` winter wild in tempest toil`d,
Ne`er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a` the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o`er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heav`n gave me more-it made thee mine!
While day and night can bring delight,
Or Nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live.
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart!
Song.-O, Were I On Parnassus Hill
tune-"My love is lost to me."
O, were I on Parnassus hill,
Or had o` Helicon my fill,
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee!
But Nith maun be my Muse`s well,
My Muse maun be thy bonie sel`,
On Corsincon I`ll glowr and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a` the lee-lang simmer`s day
I couldna sing, I couldna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee,
I see thee dancing o`er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-
By Heaven and Earth I love thee!
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o` thee my breast inflame:
And aye I muse and sing thy name-
I only live to love thee.
Tho` I were doom`d to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;
Till then-and then I love thee!
A Mother`s Lament
For the Death of Her Son.
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc`d my darling`s heart;
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour`d laid;
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age`s future shade.
The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish`d young;
So I, for my lost darling`s sake,
Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I`ve feared thy fatal blow.
Now, fond, I bare my breast;
O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love, at rest!
The Fall Of The Leaf
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!
How long I have liv`d-but how much liv`d in vain,
How little of life`s scanty span may remain,
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn,
What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain`d!
And downward, how weaken`d, how darken`d, how pain`d!
Life is not worth having with all it can give-
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
I Reign In Jeanie`s Bosom
Louis, what reck I by thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvor, beggar louns to me,
I reign in Jeanie`s bosom!
Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me,
Kings and nations-swith awa`!
Reif randies, I disown ye!
It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonie Face
It is na, Jean, thy bonie face,
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho` thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awauk desire.
Something, in ilka part o` thee,
To praise, to love, I find,
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.
Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna make thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.
Content am I, if heaven shall give
But happiness, to thee;
And as wi` thee I`d wish to live,
For thee I`d bear to die.
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