大象传媒

By Joseph Carson

I鈥檓 nae poet in a sense,

But just a rhymer like by chance,
And hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet what the matter;
Whene鈥檈r my muse does on me glace,
I jingle at her.
(BURNS)

INSPIRED bard o鈥� Ettrick braes,
Crown鈥檇 wi鈥� Appollo鈥檚 weel won bays 鈥�
Taught by the mountain fawns an鈥� fays
Your matchless lore,
Accept a minor poet鈥檚 lays,
From Erin鈥檚 shore.

I鈥檓 but a rustic rhymin鈥� chiel,
Perch鈥檇 low on Fortune鈥檚 dubious wheel,
Yet friendship鈥檚 sacred touch can feel,
In home obscure,
An鈥� care, in sorriw鈥檚 cadger鈥檚 creel,
Bang frae the door.

Here lanely pent in Lochanglen,
Far frae the haunts o鈥� social men,
O鈥橬ature鈥檚 scenes my farthest ken
Is Varra braes,聽
I wield my harmless hamely pen,
In rustic lays.

Down by this burnie whimplin鈥� clear,
When evening鈥檚 dusky veil drew near,
(Where wrapt in mediation dear
I鈥檝e often stray鈥檇)
I found the music, t鈥檕ther year,
Down in the glade.

The lovely maid at once I knew
As soon as e鈥檈r she came in view,
For I had seen her image true
In Robbie鈥檚 rhyme,
Beyond what Reynold鈥檚 ever drew,
In tints sublime.

I鈥檝e courted her lang time in vain,
To guide an鈥� guard my erring strain,
When coming o鈥檈r my rhymes in plain
Auld Scottish jingle
And yet for a鈥� my care and pains,
They grate and tingle.

Sair grieved am I, my dainty James,
To see sae mony darlin鈥� themes,
That some inspir鈥檇 bardie claims,
At home unsung,
While Scottish scenes and Scottish names
Are loudly rung.

I lang hae looked wi鈥� anxious e鈥檈,
Some heaven-taught rustic bard to see,
Wi鈥� thy sweet fancy, fire and glee,
Bright beamin鈥� strong,
My native scenes an鈥� maids, like thee,
To paint in song.

鈥楾would please the heart o鈥� Nature鈥檚 child
To see our glens and mountains wild
(Where sun-brown鈥檇 rustic never toil鈥檇
To mar their rudeness,)
An鈥� bloomin鈥� cottage maidens mild,
Wi鈥� grace an鈥� goodness.

Here many a whimplin鈥� burnie rows,
Where 鈥渁鈥� the sweets o鈥� summer grows,鈥�
An鈥� gowans glint upon the knows,
Where lasses bonny,
Trip light alang to milk the ewes,
Wi鈥� Jock and Johnny.

Here Bann an鈥� Lagan rin alang,
Whiles saft an鈥� slow, whiles burstin鈥� strang,
An鈥� Cushier steals the woods amang,
O鈥檈rhung wi鈥� sprays,
Where many a warbling minstrel thrang,
Tune their sweet lays.

Here by the mountains glen an鈥� rill,
By fairy knowe and heathy hill,
Is heard the shepherd鈥檚 whistle shrill,
An鈥� weather鈥檚 bell,
When trottin鈥� hame at e鈥檈nin鈥� still,
Frae moor an鈥� fell.

Yet a鈥� these rural beauties lie
Unnoticed by a bardie鈥檚 eye,
Unsung in heart-felt melody鈥檚
Enchanting sound,
While every Scottish mountain high,
Is classic ground.鈥欌��

鈥楾is no鈥� but we hae bards enou鈥�,
That patriotic are an鈥� true;
Our hamely rural scenes they view,
Wi鈥� heart-felt pleasure,
But hae na鈥� sung, except a few,
In rustic measure.

We鈥檝e Tommy Moore, an鈥� Philips grand,
That wi鈥� the Nine walk hand in hand 鈥�
Baith can the inspiring springs command,
To drink at will, -
An鈥� Romney, wi鈥� his pencil bland,
And modest quill.

See Tom鈥檚 aspiring music soar
The heights that Milton鈥檚 gaed before,
An鈥� every glorious nook explore,
O鈥橦eaven above,
Then down to earth comes chantin鈥� o鈥檈r
The 鈥淎ngel鈥檚 Love,鈥�

But when she spreads her ample wing,
An鈥� strikes the sadly pensive string,
Her melodies, how sweet they sing
O鈥� Erin鈥檚 wrongs,
An鈥� mark oppression fiercely fling
Law鈥檚 pelting thongs.

An鈥� Philip鈥檚 muse, wi鈥� pitying smile,
Portrays her native 鈥淓merald Isle,鈥�
Which frae the sons o鈥檋ardy toil
True freemen born,
By usurpation, fraud and guile,
Was basely torn.

(O Independence ever lost! 鈥�
By woes, and wants, and shackles cross鈥檇,
Poor Erin鈥檚 sons, sae widely toss鈥檇
Frae shore to shore,
On many a wild and barren coast,
Thy loss deplore.)

See Romney鈥檚 modest muse define,
Fair painting鈥檚 heavenly source divine,
Love breathing warm in every line,
Pure frae the heart,
In numbers strong that far outshine
His painting art.

鈥楾is thus our poets choose their themes,
Still soaring in sublime extremes 鈥�
Fired we鈥� Appollo鈥檚 bright鈥檔ing beams 鈥�
(Pure rays divine,)
Enlighten鈥檇 by the inspiring dames,
The tuneful Nine.

But ne鈥檈r a ane amang them deigns
To sing in sweet an鈥� hamely strains
The beauties o鈥� the rural plains,
And cottage joys,
Where harmless mirth an鈥� pleasure reigns,
An鈥� care destroys.

But ah! Would Heaven on me bestow
One spark o鈥� thy wild rapturous flow,
How I would Erin鈥檚 beauties show,
In rustic measure:
I鈥檇 count it, James a bliss below,
And boundless treasure.

The beauties wild o鈥� Ettrick braes,
Where bleatin鈥� lammies sportive plays,
An鈥� Yarrow鈥檚 stream thro鈥� many a maze
That steals along,
All shine in thy wild warbled lays,
鈥淧athetic 鈥� strong.鈥�

But, James, thy heaven-inspired flame,
Will send thy country an鈥� thy name,
Wi鈥� honest everlasting fame,
To future ages,
An鈥� Scotia鈥檚 latest sons will claim
With pride thy pages.

But here I鈥檒l quit my babbling strain,
Lest I should tease your fertile brain;
Some future day I鈥檒l cross the main,
To gang an鈥� see ye,
An鈥� drink a cogue o鈥� stout champaigne,
Or toddy wi鈥� ye.