PART III.
A GAIN , my bird, we'll try to find
The matchless beauties o' your mind.
Frae ither fowls ye stan' abeigh,
An', like a' fools, wad fain be high:
Proud, on a wa', or half-grown tree,
Or chimly tap, ye like to be;
There cock your crest, wi' airy show,
An' squint on scrapin' burds below.
But shou'd the sky begin to low'r,
An' wake your second-sighted pow'r,
Ye then disclose your cow'rdly failin's,
An' grate a' roun' you wi' your yellin's.
Nae croakin' raven, wi' his note,
Can equal what comes thro' your throat;
Nor clam'rous cats, wham midnight summons,
Can equal half your yells and omens.
Ye fright the heron whare he flies,
An' weary Echo wi' your cries.
So ha'e I seen great fuss an' cap'rin'
'Mang mystic knighthood o' the apron;
Wi' empty pride, in monkish gown,
Travish a Bible thro' the town:
Wi' painted poles, and pictur'd duds,
An' aprons new come frae the suds,
Or stunted frae the wife's sark tail —
Aiblins the pock that hauds his meal;
For H — r — m's sons hae mony wants,
For a' their outward shows and rants,
Tho' patroniz'd by weeds an' saints.
The lengthen'd legends, tales, an' hist'ries,
An' dark sublime Egyptian myst'ries,
Are kindly meant, by your designment,
To draw the warld to refinement.
Your mystic draughts, wi' keel an' cauk,
Gar mony a cudroch chiel' to quak'
Joinin' some green-horn for a brither,
Ye light his purse an' een thegither;
Then roun' him ring, an' prance, an squeel,
To gar folks trow ye raise the de'il:
But de'il a de'il wad shaw his face,
Sic bare-fac'd mummery e'er to grace.
Yet gi'e nae way to dark despondence,
Altho' the de'ils deny attendance;
Tho' lazy Cloots sits still within,
Ye'll aiblins grape the way to him;
Whare ye may herd in future times,
Unscaith'd by ony Cowan's rhymes.
So drover blades, wha drink an' sot,
Wha's light's confin'd to stirk an' stott,
That's scrap'd their gear frae lowly stations,
Wi' quirks, breaks, an' sequestrations,
Club roun', an' tell their loathsome jokes,
Or plot to cheat douce countra folks;
Wi' arle-penny in their han',
Will belch out something like a d — n,
How that's the highest groat they'll gae,
An' be mansworn thrice in a day,
Then mount, an' hame, wi' saucy gloom:
Ilk likes to ride his nei'bour down,
Because he has an lrish horse,
An' ithers' gowd within his purse.
So countra Laird, that's stout an' frisky,
Bred up 'mang grooms, an' drinkin' whisky,
An' footin't fairly o'er the bogs,
Pursuing hares, and houn'in' dogs;
Taught by his mither, that his talents
Surpasses ither countra callants,
Scours aff, ne'er dreaming on defection,
An' buys the votes at niest election;
Syne up to Lon'on in a wheel,
An' thinks himsel' a clever chiel'.
In House o' Commons glowrs an gaunts,
An' langs to tell his countra's wants;
Or rather shaw his pert essays,
So, like a jack-ass, starts an' brays;
An' what in point o' sense is lackin'
He'll eith supply wi' stamps an' brakin'.
I kenna' how it comes to pass,
But court folks whyles will keep an ass;
Whether for ridin', or for milk,
Or length o' lugs, I kenna' whilk:
They'll hear their cracks, an' ne'er confute them;
They'll bear their kicks, an' ne'er dispute them.
Thus ha'e I seen a simple lad,
Amang the braes o' Gall'way bred,
If no o'ergane wi' information,
At least quite free frae affectation.
When siller lur'd, or wark was slack,
Cross Bowness burn to bear a pack;
There serve a time, but gowd or fee,
To learn to cheat, an' gab, an' lie;
School'd by some greedy, gripin' elf,
To smother ev'ry tie but self,
Till by degrees he learns the knack
Of logic, how to blaw the pack:
Tho' aft his traffic an' resort
Is but amang the baser sort.
Yet hame he comes, baith proud an' braw,
His new acquirements fair to shaw,
In Lon'on boots, and broad-brimm'd hat,
Wi' yea's an' nay's, and G — d knows what;
Queer whirrs an' burrs, eneugh to fley fouk,
Wi' a' the scum o' Yorkshire dialect. —
He d — mns the reek, an' rubs his een,
An' tells what unco sights he's seen.
His mither e'es her hopefu' lad,
An' thinks him truly learn'd an' bred. —
Bright similies might here be spun,
In number like mots i' the sun,
An' on the mind so thick lie fraught,
As mak's ane dizzy wi' the thought.
A GAIN , my bird, we'll try to find
The matchless beauties o' your mind.
Frae ither fowls ye stan' abeigh,
An', like a' fools, wad fain be high:
Proud, on a wa', or half-grown tree,
Or chimly tap, ye like to be;
There cock your crest, wi' airy show,
An' squint on scrapin' burds below.
But shou'd the sky begin to low'r,
An' wake your second-sighted pow'r,
Ye then disclose your cow'rdly failin's,
An' grate a' roun' you wi' your yellin's.
Nae croakin' raven, wi' his note,
Can equal what comes thro' your throat;
Nor clam'rous cats, wham midnight summons,
Can equal half your yells and omens.
Ye fright the heron whare he flies,
An' weary Echo wi' your cries.
So ha'e I seen great fuss an' cap'rin'
'Mang mystic knighthood o' the apron;
Wi' empty pride, in monkish gown,
Travish a Bible thro' the town:
Wi' painted poles, and pictur'd duds,
An' aprons new come frae the suds,
Or stunted frae the wife's sark tail —
Aiblins the pock that hauds his meal;
For H — r — m's sons hae mony wants,
For a' their outward shows and rants,
Tho' patroniz'd by weeds an' saints.
The lengthen'd legends, tales, an' hist'ries,
An' dark sublime Egyptian myst'ries,
Are kindly meant, by your designment,
To draw the warld to refinement.
Your mystic draughts, wi' keel an' cauk,
Gar mony a cudroch chiel' to quak'
Joinin' some green-horn for a brither,
Ye light his purse an' een thegither;
Then roun' him ring, an' prance, an squeel,
To gar folks trow ye raise the de'il:
But de'il a de'il wad shaw his face,
Sic bare-fac'd mummery e'er to grace.
Yet gi'e nae way to dark despondence,
Altho' the de'ils deny attendance;
Tho' lazy Cloots sits still within,
Ye'll aiblins grape the way to him;
Whare ye may herd in future times,
Unscaith'd by ony Cowan's rhymes.
So drover blades, wha drink an' sot,
Wha's light's confin'd to stirk an' stott,
That's scrap'd their gear frae lowly stations,
Wi' quirks, breaks, an' sequestrations,
Club roun', an' tell their loathsome jokes,
Or plot to cheat douce countra folks;
Wi' arle-penny in their han',
Will belch out something like a d — n,
How that's the highest groat they'll gae,
An' be mansworn thrice in a day,
Then mount, an' hame, wi' saucy gloom:
Ilk likes to ride his nei'bour down,
Because he has an lrish horse,
An' ithers' gowd within his purse.
So countra Laird, that's stout an' frisky,
Bred up 'mang grooms, an' drinkin' whisky,
An' footin't fairly o'er the bogs,
Pursuing hares, and houn'in' dogs;
Taught by his mither, that his talents
Surpasses ither countra callants,
Scours aff, ne'er dreaming on defection,
An' buys the votes at niest election;
Syne up to Lon'on in a wheel,
An' thinks himsel' a clever chiel'.
In House o' Commons glowrs an gaunts,
An' langs to tell his countra's wants;
Or rather shaw his pert essays,
So, like a jack-ass, starts an' brays;
An' what in point o' sense is lackin'
He'll eith supply wi' stamps an' brakin'.
I kenna' how it comes to pass,
But court folks whyles will keep an ass;
Whether for ridin', or for milk,
Or length o' lugs, I kenna' whilk:
They'll hear their cracks, an' ne'er confute them;
They'll bear their kicks, an' ne'er dispute them.
Thus ha'e I seen a simple lad,
Amang the braes o' Gall'way bred,
If no o'ergane wi' information,
At least quite free frae affectation.
When siller lur'd, or wark was slack,
Cross Bowness burn to bear a pack;
There serve a time, but gowd or fee,
To learn to cheat, an' gab, an' lie;
School'd by some greedy, gripin' elf,
To smother ev'ry tie but self,
Till by degrees he learns the knack
Of logic, how to blaw the pack:
Tho' aft his traffic an' resort
Is but amang the baser sort.
Yet hame he comes, baith proud an' braw,
His new acquirements fair to shaw,
In Lon'on boots, and broad-brimm'd hat,
Wi' yea's an' nay's, and G — d knows what;
Queer whirrs an' burrs, eneugh to fley fouk,
Wi' a' the scum o' Yorkshire dialect. —
He d — mns the reek, an' rubs his een,
An' tells what unco sights he's seen.
His mither e'es her hopefu' lad,
An' thinks him truly learn'd an' bred. —
Bright similies might here be spun,
In number like mots i' the sun,
An' on the mind so thick lie fraught,
As mak's ane dizzy wi' the thought.