Will frae his shinin' name a' motes withdraw,
And on her loudest trump his praises blaw.
Lang may his sacred banes untroubled rest!
Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest!
Scholars, and bards unheard o' yet shall come
And stamp memorials on his grassy tomb,
Which in yon ancient kirkyard shall remain,
Famed as the urn that hauds the Mantuan swain.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. DAVID GREGORY, LATE PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS.
Now mourn, ye college masters a'!
And frae your een a tear let fa';
Famed Gregory death has taen awa'
Without remeid;
The skaith ye've met wi's nae that sma',
Sin' Gregory's dead.
The students, too, will miss him sair;
To school them weel his eident care;
Now they may mourn for ever mair;
They hae great need;
They'll hip the maist feck o' their lear,
Sin' Gregory's dead.
He could, by Euclid, prove lang syne,
A gangin' point composed a line,
By numbers, too, he could divine,
When he did read,
That three times three just made up nine;
But now he's dead.
In algebra weel skill'd he was,
And kent fu' weel proportion's laws;
He could mak clear baith B's and A's
Wi' his lang head;
Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws;
But now he's dead.
Weel versed was he in architecture,
And kent the nature o' the sector;
Upon baith globes he weel could lecture,
And gar's tak heed;
O' geometry he was the Hector:
But now he's dead.
Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
When they were skelpin' at the ba';
They took leg-bail, and ran awa'
Wi' pith and speed:
We winna get a sport sae braw,
Sin' Gregory's dead.
Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
And cleed our skins in mournin' deep,
For Gregory death will fairly keep,
To tak his nap:
He'll till the resurrection sleep,
As sound's a tap.
'TWAS e'enin' when the spreckled gowdspink sang;
When new-fa'en dew in blobs o' crystal hang;
Then Will and Sandy thought they'd wrought eneugh,
And lows'd their sair-toil'd owsen frae the pleugh.
Before they ca'd their cattle to the town,
The lads, to draw their breath, e'en sat them down; To the stiff sturdy aik they lean'd their backs, While honest Sandy thus began the cracks.
Ance I could hear the lavrock's shrill-tuned throat,
And listen to the clatterin' gowdspink's note:
Ance I could whistle cantily as they,
To owsen, as they till'd my raggit clay:
But now, I would as lieve maist lend my lugs
To tuneless puddocks croakin' i' the bogs.
I sigh at hame; a-field I'm dowie too;
To sowf a tune I'll never crook my mou.
Foul fa' me! gif your bridal hadna been
Nae langer bygane than sin' Hallowe'en,
I could hae tell't you, but a warlock's art,
That some daft lightlyin quean had stown your heart:
Our beasties here will take their e'enin' pluck;
And now, sin' Jock's gane hame the byres to muck,
Fain would I houp my friend will be inclined
To gie me a' the secrets o' his mind:
Heh, Sandy, lad! what dool's come owre ye now,
That you to whistle ne'er will crook your mou?
Ah, Willie, Willie! I may date my wae
Frae what betid me on my bridal day;
Sair may I rue the hour in which our hands
Were knit thegither in the haly bands:
Sin' that I thrave sae ill, in troth, I fancy,
Some fiend or fairy, nae sae very chancy,
Has driven me, by pawky wiles uncommon,
To wed this flytin' fury o' a woman.
Ah, Sandy! aften hae I heard you tell,
Amang the lasses a' she bure the bell;
And say, the modest glances o' her een
Far dang the brightest beauties o' the green:
You ca'd her aye sae innocent, sae young,
I thought she kenn'd na how to use her tongue.
Before I married her, I'll tak my aith,
Her tongue was never louder than her breath;
But now it's turned sae souple and sae bauld,
That Job himsel could scarcely thole the scauld.
Let her yelp on; be you as calm's a mouse,
Nor let your whisht be heard into the house:
Do what she can, or be as loud's she please,
Ne'er mind her flytes, but set your heart at ease:
Sit down and blaw your pipe, nor fash your thumb,
And there's my hand, she'll tire and soon sing dumb.
Sooner should winter's cauld confine the sea,
And let the sma'est o' our burns rin free;
Sooner at Yule-day shall the birk be drest,
Or birds in sapless busses big their nest,
Before a tonguey woman's noisy plea
Should ever be a cause to daunton me.
Weel could I this abide; but oh! I fear
I'll soon be twin'd o' a' my warldly gear.
My kirnstaff now stands gizzen'd at the door;
My cheese-rack toom, that ne'er was toom before;
My kye may now rin rowtin' to the hill,
And on the naked yird their milkness spill:
She seenil lays her hand upon a turn;
Neglects the kebbuck, and forgets the kirn.
I vow, my hair-mould milk would poison dogs,
As it stands lapper'd i' the dirty cogs.
Before the seed, I sell'd my ferra cow,
And wi' the profit coft a stane o' woo';
I thought, by priggin', that she might hae spun
A plaidie, light, to screen me frae the sun;
But though the siller's scant, the cleedin' dear,
She hasna ca'd about a wheel the year.
Last ouk but ane I was frae hame a day,
Buying a threave or twa o' beddin' strae:
O' ilka thing the woman had her will;
Had fouth o' meal to bake, and hens to kill;
But hyne awa' to Edinbrough scour'd she
To get a makin' o' her fav'rite tea;
And 'cause I leftna her the weary clink,
She sell❜t the very trunchers frae my bink.
Her tea! ah, wae betide sic costly gear,
Or them that ever wad the price o't speir!
Sin' my auld gutcher first the warld knew,
Fouk hadna fund the Indies, whare it grew.
I mind mysel', it's nae sae lang sin' syne,
When auntie Marion did her stamack tyne,
That Davs, our gard'ner, cam frae Applebog,
And gae her tea to tak by way o' drog.
When ilka herd for cauld his fingers rubs,
And cakes o' ice are seen upo' the dubs;
At mornin', when frae pleugh or fauld I come,
I'll see a braw reek rising frae my lum,
And aiblins think to get a rantin' blaze,
To fley the frost awa', and toast my taes;
But when I shoot my nose in, ten to ane
If I weelfar'dly see my ain hearthstane.
She round the ingle wi' her gimmers sits,
Crammin' their gebbies wi' her nicest bits;
While the gudeman out-by maun fill his crap
Frae the milk coggie or the parritch cap.
|