Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB

O' kebbuck whang'd, an' dainty fadge to prie;

This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till;

How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back,
For meal an' mu'ter to the thirlin' mill.
Niest, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids
Glowr through the byre, an' see the hawkies
bound;

Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids, An' ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground;

Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to green, Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their e'en,

An' hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil:

The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer;

The reistit ingle 's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow, Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!

Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the gleyb, An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear!

May Scotia's simmers ay look gay an' green;

Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed!

May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,

Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed;

An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1054.-TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
As c'er was framed to jow or ring!
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing,
They ken themsel;

But weel wat I, they couldna bring
Waur sounds frae hell.

#

Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow,
Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now
Maan stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,
Thy sound to bang,

And keep it frae gaun through and through
Wi' jarrin' twang.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't ;
Like scauldin' wife's, there is nae guidin't;
When I'm 'bout ony business eident,
It's sair to thole;

To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't,
Wi' senseless knoll.

Oh! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the powers aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;
Nor should you think
(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown)
Again to clink.

For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap,
And fain wald fa' owre in a nap,
Troth, I could doze as sound's a tap,
Were't no for thee,

That gies the tither weary chap
To wauken me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick: Quo' he "This bell o' mine's a trick, A wily piece o' politic,

A cunnin' snare,

To trap fouk in a cloven stick,
Ere they're aware.

As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
A' body at the kirk will skair;
Quo' they, if he that preaches there
Like it can wound,

We downa care a single hair
For joyfu' sound."

If magistrates wi' me would 'gree,
For aye tongue-tackit should you be;
Nor fleg wi' anti-melody

Sic honest fouk,
Whase lugs were never made to dree
Thy dolefu' shock.

But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they would scunner at your knell;
Gie the foul thief his riven bell,
And then, I trow,
The byword hauds, "The diel himsel
Has got his due."
Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1055.-A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH. On Sunday, here, an alter'd scene O' men and manners meets our een. Ane wad maist trow, some people chose To change their faces wi' their clo'es, And fain wad gar ilk neibour think They thirst for guidness as for drink; But there's an unco dearth o' grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o' the heart. Why should religion mak us sad, If good frae virtue 's to be had?

[ocr errors]

51

Na rather gleefu' turn your face,
Forsake hypocrisy, grimace;
And never hae it understood
You fleg mankind frae being good.
In afternoon, a' brawly buskit,
The joes and lasses loe to frisk it.
Some tak a great delight to place
The modest bon-grace owre the face;
Though you may see, if so inclined,
The turning o' the leg behind.
Now, Comely-Garden and the Park
Refresh them, after forenoon's wark :
Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills,
Supply them in their Sunday's gills;
Where writers aften spend their pence,
To stock their heads wi' drink and sense.
While danderin cits delight to stray
To Castlehill or public way,
Where they nae other purpose mean,
Than that fool cause o' being seen,
Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue,
Where bonnie pastures meet the view,
And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues,
Befitting Willie Shakspere's muse.
If Fancy there would join the thrang,
The desert rocks and hills amang,
To echoes we should lilt and play,
And gie to mirth the live-lang day.

Or should some canker'd biting shower
The day and a' her sweets deflower,
To Holyrood-house let me stray,
And gie to musing a' the day;
Lamenting what auld Scotland knew,
Bein days for ever frae her view.
O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse
Would pay to thee her couthy vows,
Gin ye wad tent the humble strain,
And gie's our dignity again!
For oh, wae's me! the thistle springs
In domicile o' ancient kings,
Without a patriot to regret

Our palace and our ancient state.

Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1056.-CARELESS CONTENT.

I am content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle-humour'd hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,

Whate'er the subject be that starts;

But if I get among the glum,

I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain,
For fortune's favour or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,
I make no bustling, but abide :
For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right,
I shun the rancours and the routs;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,

I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.

Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:

I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where'er I link;
Though if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath;
For should I burn, or break my brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

I love my neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature doubtless has design'd
A man the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,

That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be deft, and debonair,
I am content, I do not care.

John Byrom.-Born 1691, Died 1763

[blocks in formation]

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,

Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;

But what swain is so silly to live without love!

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.

Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;

Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

John Byrom.-Born 1691, Died 1763.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

My great Master still allows
Needful periods of repose:

By my heavenly Father blest,
Thus I give my powers to rest;
Heavenly Father! gracious name!
Night and day his love the same;
Far be each suspicious thought,
Every anxious care forgot:
Thou, my ever bounteous God,
Crown'st my days with various good :
Thy kind eye, that cannot sleep,
These defenceless hours shall keep;
Blest vicissitude to me!

Day and night I'm still with thee.

What though downy slumbers flee,
Strangers to my couch and me?
Sleepless, well I know to rest,
Lodged within my Father's breast.
While the empress of the night
Scatters mild her silver light;
While the vivid planets stray
Various through their mystic way;
While the stars unnumber'd roll
Round the ever-constant pole;
Far above these spangled skies,
All my soul to God shall rise;
Midst the silence of the night,
Mingling with those angels bright,
Whose harmonious voices raise
Ceaseless love and ceaseless praise.
Through the throng his gentle ear
Shall my tuneless accents hear;
From on high shall he impart
Secret comfort to my heart.
He, in these serenest hours,
Guides my intellectual powers,
And his Spirit doth diffuse,
Sweeter far than midnight dews,
Lifting all my thoughts above
On the wings of faith and love.
Blest alternative to me,

Thus to sleep or wake with Thee!

What if death my sleep invade?
Should I be of death afraid?
Whilst encircled by thine arm,

Death may strike, but cannot harm.
What if beams of opening day

Shine around my breathless clay?
Brighter visions from on high
Shall regale my mental eye.
Tender friends awhile may mourn
Me from their embraces torn;
Dearer, better friends I have
In the realms beyond the grave.
See the guardian angels nigh
Wait to waft my soul on high!
See the golden gates display'd!
See the crown to grace my head!
See a flood of sacred light,

Which no more shall yield to night!
Transitory world, farewell!

Jesus calls with him to dwell.

With thy heavenly presence blest,

Death is life, and labour rest.

Welcome sleep or death to me,
Still secure, for still with Thee.

Doddridge.-Born 1702, Died 1751.

Where thou determin'st mine abode,
There would I choose to be;
For in thy presence death is life,
And earth is heaven with thee.

Doddridge.-Born 1702, Died 1751.

1060.-TO-MORROW, LORD, IS THINE.

To-morrow, Lord, is thine,

Lodged in thy sov'reign hand;
And if its sun arise and shine,
It shines by thy command.

The present moment flies,
And bears our life away;

Oh, make thy servants truly wise,
That they may live to-day!

Since on this winged hour
Eternity is hung,
Awake, by thine almighty pow'r,
The aged and the young.

"One thing" demands our care:
Oh, be it still pursued,
Lest, slighted once, the season fair
Should never be renew'd!

Doddridge.-Born 1702, Died 1751.

1061. ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

My God, thy service well demands

The remnant of my days;
Why was this fleeting breath renew'd,
But to renew thy praise?

Thine arms of everlasting love

Did this weak frame sustain,
When life was hovering o'er the grave,
And nature sunk with pain.

Thon, when the pains of death were felt,
Didst chase the fears of hell;
And teach my pale and quivering lips
Thy matchless grace to tell.

Calmly I bow'd my fainting head

On thy dear faithful breast; Pleased to obey my Father's call

To his eternal rest.

Into thy hands, my Saviour God,
Did I my soul resign,
In firm dependence on that truth
Which made salvation mine.

Back from the borders of the grave
At thy command I come;
Nor would I urge a speedier flight
To my celestial home.

1062.-PREPARING TO MEET GOD.

He comes; thy God, O Israel, comes;
Prepare thy God to meet:

Meet him in battle's force array'd,
Or humbled at his feet.

He form'd the mountains by his strength,
He makes the winds to blow;
And all the secret thoughts of man
Must his Creator know.

He shades the morning's op'ning rays,
And shakes the solid world,
And stars and angels from their seats
Are by his thunder hurl'd.

Eternal Sovereign of the skies,

And shall thine Israel dare In mad rebellion to arise,

And tempt th' unequal war?

Lo, nations tremble at thy frown,
And faint beneath thy rod :
Crush'd by its gentlest movement down,
They fall, tremendous God.

Avert the terrors of thy wrath,

And let thy mercy shine;
While humble penitence and prayer
Approve us truly thine.

Doddridge.-Born 1702, Died 1751.

1063.-A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Hail, progeny divine!

Hail, Virgin's wondrous Son,

Who, for that humble shrine,

Didst quit the Almighty's throne!

The infant Lord

Our voices sing,

And be the King Of grace adored.

Ye princes, disappear,

And boast your crowns no more,
Lay down your sceptres here,
And in the dust adore:

Where Jesus dwells,
The manger bare
In lustre far
Your pomp excels.

« AnteriorContinua »