Ae nicht, the lift was skinklin' a' wi' starns,— I cross'd the burn an' dauner't thro' the cairns, Down to auld Andrew Ralston's o' Craigneuk, To hear his thoughts, as he had seen the beuk: (Andrew's a gey droll haun-ye'll aiblins ken him?— It maksna, I had hecht some sangs to len' him). Aweel," quo' I, as soon's I reek'd the hallan,
What think ye now o' our bit Em'burgh callan?" Saf's, man," quo' Andrew, "yon's an unco chiel! He surely has some dealings wi' the diel!
There's no' a turn that ony o' us can work at-
At hame, or yet a-fiel', at kirk or market-
But he describ'st as pawkily an' fell
As gin he'd been a kintra man himsel'.
Yestreen, I'm sure, beside our auld gudewife,
I never leugh as meikle a' my life,
To read the King's Birth-day's' fell hurry-burry,
How draigl't pussey flies about like fury;
Faith, I ken that's a fact. The last birth-day,
As I stood glowring up an' down the way,
A dead cat's guts, before I cou'd suspect,
Harl't thro the dirt, cam clash about my neck;
An' while, wi' baith my hauns, frae 'bout I tok it,
Wi' perfect stink, I thought I wad a bocket.
"His stories, too, are tell't sae sleek an' baul', Ilk oily word rins jinking through the saul; What he describes, afore your een ye see't As plain an' lively as ye see that peat. It's my opinion, John, that this young fallow Excels them a', an' beats auld Allan hallow, An' shows at twenty-twa as great a giftie, For painting just, as Allan did at fifty."
You, Mr. President, ken weel yersel',
Better by far than kintra-fouks can tell,
That they wha reach the gleg, auld-farrant art,
In verse to melt, an' sooth, an' mend the heart;
To raise up joy, or rage, or courage keen,
And gar ilk passion sparkle in our een;
Sic chiels (whare'er they hae their ha' or hame)
Are true-blue bards, and wordy o' the name.
Sud ane o' thae, by lang experience, man
To spin out tales frae mony a pawky plan,
An' set's a' laughing at his blauds o' rhyme,
Wi' sangs aft polish'd by the haun o' Time;
And should some stripling, still mair light o' heart,
A livelier humour to his cracks impart;
Wi' careless pencil draw, yet gar us stare
To see our ain fire-sides and meadows there;
To see our thoughts, our hearts, our follies drawn,
And Nature's sel' fresh starting frae his haun;
Wad mony words, or speeches lang be needed,
To tell whase rhymes war best, wha clearest-headed?
Sits there within the four wa's o' this house,
Ae chield o' taste, droll, reprobate, or douse;
Whase blessed lugs hae heard young Rob himsel'
(Light as the lamb that dances on the dell)
Lay aff his auld Scots crack wi' pawky glee,
And seen the fire that darted frae his e'e?
O let him speak! O let him try t' impart
The joys that than gushed headlang on his heart,
Whan ilka line, and ilka lang-syne glowr,
Sets faes an' friends and Pantheons in a roar!
Did e'er auld Scotland fin' a nobler pride
Through a' her veins, and glowan bosom glide,
Than whan her Muses' dear young fav'rite bard,
Wi' her hale strength o' wit and fancy fir'd,
Raise frae the thrang, and, kin'ling at the sound,
Spread mirth, conviction, truth, and rapture round?
To set Rob's youth and inexperience by,-
His lines are sweeter, and his flights mair high;
Allan, I own, may show far mair o' art,
Rob pours at once his raptures on the heart;
The first, by labour mans our breast to move,
The last exalts to ecstacy and love;
In Allan's verse, sage sleeness we admire,
In Rob's, the glow of fancy and of fire,
And genius bauld, that nought but deep distress,
And base neglect, and want, could e'er suppress.
O hard, hard fate!-but cease, thou friendly tear, I darna mourn my dear lo'ed Bardie here,
Else I might tell how his great soul had soar'd,
And nameless ages wonder'd and ador'd;
Had friends been kind, and had not his young breath
And rising glory, been eclipsed by Death.
But lest ow'r lang I lengthen out my crack, An' Epps be wearying for my coming back; Let ane an' a' here vote as they incline,
Frae heart and saul Rob Fergusson has mine.
AURORA now her welcome visit pays:
Stern darkness flies before her cheerful rays;
Cool circling breezes whirl along the air,
And early shepherds to the fields repair:
Lead we our flocks, then, to the mountain's brow,
Where junipers and thorny brambles grow;
Where fonts of water 'midst the daisies spring,
And soaring larks and tuneful linnets sing;
Your pleasing song shall teach our flocks to stray,
While sounding echoes smooth the sylvan lay.
'Tis thine to sing the graces of the morn,
The zephyr trembling o'er the ripening corn;
'Tis thine with ease to chaunt the rural lay,
While bubbling fountains to your numbers play.
*These appeared anonymously in Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine, with the following note prefixed:-"We have been favoured with three Pastorals under the titles Morning Noon, and Night, written by a young Gentleman of this place, the style of which appears as natural and picturesque as that of any of the modern ones hitherto published."
No piping swain that treads the verdant field,
But to your music and your verse must yield:
Sing then-for here we may with safety keep
Our sportive lambkins on this mossy steep.
With ruddy glow the sun adorns the land;
The pearly dew-drops on the bushes stand;
The lowing oxen from the folds we hear;
And snowy flocks upon the hills appear.
How sweet the murmurs of the neighbouring rill!
Sweet are the slumbers which its floods distil,
Through pebbly channels winding as they run,
And brilliant sparkling to the rising sun.
Behold Edina's lofty turrets rise!
Her structures fair adorn the eastern skies;
As Pentland's cliffs o'ertop yon distant plain,
So she the cities on our north domain.
Boast not of cities, or of lofty towers,
Where discord all her baneful influence pours;
The homely cottage and the wither'd tree,
With sweet content, shall be preferr'd by me.
The hemlock dire shall please the heifer's taste,
Our lands like wild Arabia be waste,
The bee forget to range for winter's food,
Ere I forsake the forest and the flood.
Ye balmy breezes! wave the verdant field;
Clouds! all your bounties, all your moisture yield;
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