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.
Blest place! where debtors daily run,
To rid themsels frae jail and dun.*
Here, though sequester'd frae the din
That rings Auld Reekie's wa's within;
Yet they may tread the sunny braes,
And bruik Apollo's cheery rays;
Glowr frae St. Anthon's grassy height,
Ower vales in simmer claes bedight;
Nor ever hing their head, I ween,
Wi' jealous fear o' being seen.
May I, whenever duns come nigh,
And shake my garret wi' their cry,
Scour here wi' haste, protection get,
To screen mysel' frae them and debt;
To breathe the bliss o' open sky,
And Simon Fraser's bolts defy.†
Now gin a loun should hae his claes
In threadbare autumn o' their days,
St. Mary, broker's guardian saunt,
Will satisfy ilk ail and want;+
For mony a hungry writer there
Dives down at night, wi' cleedin' bare,
And quickly rises to the view
A gentleman, perfite and new.
Ye rich fouk, look na wi' disdain
Upon this ancient brokage lane,
For naked poets are supplied
Wi' what you to their wants denied.
*The precincts of Holyrood Palace were in those days a sanctuary
for debtors, who were jestingly called Abbey-lairds.
The keeper of the Tolbooth.
St. Mary's Wynd-a mean street in Edinburgh, exclusively occu
pied by dealers in old clothes.
Peace to thy shade, thou wale o' men,
Drummond!* relief to poortith's pain:
To thee the greatest bliss we owe,
And tribute's tear shall gratefu' flow;
The sick are cured, the hungry fed,
And dreams o' comfort tend their bed.
As lang as Forth weets Lothian's shore,
As lang's on Fife her billows roar,
Sae lang shall ilk whase country's dear,
To thy remembrance gie a tear.
By thee, Auld Reekie thrave and grew
Delightfu' to her childer's view;
Nae mair shall Glasgow striplings threap
Their city's beauty and its shape,
While our new city spreads around
Her bonny wings on fairy ground.†
But provosts now, that ne'er afford
The sma'est dignity to lord,
Ne'er care though every scheme gae wild
That Drummond's sacred hand has cull'd.
The spacious brig‡ neglected lies,
Though plagued wi' pamphlets, dunn'd wi' cries;
They heed not, though destruction come
To gulp us in her gaunting womb.
Oh, shame! that safety canna claim
Protection from a provost's name;
But hidden danger lies behind,
To torture and to fleg the mind.
I may as weel bid Arthur's Seat
To Berwick Law mak gleg retreat,
As think that either will or art
Shall get the gate to win their heart:
For politics are a' their mark,
* George Drummond, a benevolent chief magistrate of Edinburgh, who was chiefly instrumental in the establishment of an infirmary in his native city, and in the extension of the city over the grounds to the north.
+ Here the poem as Canto I. ended.
In allusion to the state of the North Bridge after its fall.
Bribes latent, and corruption dark.
If they can eithly turn the pence,
Wi' city's good they will dispense,
Nor care though a' her sons were lair'd
Ten fathom i' the auld kirkyard.
To sing yet meikle does remain,
Undecent for a modest strain;
And since the poet's daily bread is
The favour o' the Muse or ladies,
He downa like to gie offence
To delicacy's tender sense;
Therefore the stews remain unsung,
And bawds in silence drop their tongue.
Reekie, fareweel! I ne'er could part
Wi' thee, but wi' a dowie heart:
Aft frae the Fifan coast I've seen
Thee towerin' on thy summit green;
So glowr the saints when first is given
A favourite keek o' glore and heaven.
On earth nae mair they bend their een,
But quick assume angelic mien;
So I on Fife wad glowr no more,
But gallop to Edina's shore.
To all whom it may concern.
SOME fouk, like bees, fu' glegly rin
To bykes bang'd fu' o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle, crumb by crumb,
Till they have scraped the dautit plumb;
Then craw fell crousely o' their wark,
Tell owre their turners, mark by mark,
Yet darena think to lowse the pose,
To aid their neighbours' ails and woes.
Gif gowd can fetter thus the heart, And gar us act sae base a part, Shall man, a niggard, near-gaun elf! Rin to the tether's end for pelf; Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick; When a's done, sell his saul to Nick? I trow they've coft the purchase dear, That gang sic lengths for warldly gear. Now when the dog-day heats begin To birsle and to peel the skin, May I lie streekit at my ease Beneath the caller shady trees (Far frae the din o' Borrowstown), Where water plays the haughs bedown; To jouk the simmer's rigour there, And breathe a while the caller air, 'Mang herds, and honest cottar fouk, That till the farm and feed the flock; Careless o' mair, wha never fash To lade their kists wi' useless cash, But thank the gods for what they've sent O' health eneugh, and blythe content, And pith that helps them to stravaig Ower ilka cleugh and ilka craig; Unkenn'd to a' the weary granes That aft arise frae gentler banes, On easy chair that pamper'd lie, Wi' baneful viands gustit high, And turn and fauld their weary clay, To rax and gaunt the live-long day.
Ye sages, tell, was man e'er made
To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade?
Steekit frae nature's beauties a',
That daily on his presence ca';
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine
For fav'rite dishes, fav'rite wine:
Come, then, shake aff thir sluggish ties,
And wi' the bird o' dawning rise!
On ilka bauk the clouds hae spread
Wi' blobs o' dew a pearly bed;
Frae faulds nae mair the owsen rout,
But to the fatt'ning clover lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.
Unyoke then, man, and binna sweer,
To ding a hole in ill-hained gear!
O think that eild, wi' wily fit,
Is wearing nearer bit by bit!
Gin yence he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for? Fiend haet ava;
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second charger till he dies.
Some daft chiel reads, and taks advice:
The chaise is yokit in a trice;
Awa' drives he like huntit de'il,
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,
Till he's, Lord kens how far awa'!
At Italy or well o' Spa,
Or to Montpelier's safter air;
For far-aff fowls hae feathers fair.
There rest him weel; for eith can we
Spare mony glaikit gowks like he;
They'll tell whare Tiber's waters rise;
What sea receives the drumly prize,
That never wi' their feet hae met
The marches o' their ain estate.
The Arno and the Tiber lang
Hae drun fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence o' school's,
They're baith but lifeless, dowie pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonnie Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the showers
'Mang thriving vines and myrtle bowers,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While echo's tongue commends their pains;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple, saft bewitching art.
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