I've often felt, I feel it yet,
A cause of genuine regret,
That ane sae worthy admiration
Is far aboon our humble station!
Altho' I readily agree
It's aiblins better far for thee.
Hadst thou been my ain stamp' an' style, A plain and simple "Son of Toil,"
I wad hae ask'd thee, learned one,
To come and see our ancient toon,
An' tak' a tour, ye needna doot,
'Mang streams an' mountains roond aboot,
Presentin' ye, as ye may ken,
Wi' freedom o' my "But-an-ben";
I'd shown ye a' my strange nick-nacks,
Auld books, queer documents and tracts,
Wi' mony a minstrel and his lays,
Sic as ye 've studied a' yere days;
An' prouder far I'd been, I trow,
Thus to hae made a guest o' you,
Than ye had been the Czar, or Shah,
Frae Petersburg or Persia.
A treat 'twad been to spend wi' you
Ae nicht oot-owre the ingle lowe;
I dinna lang to hear ye speak
In Latin, Hebrew, or in Greek;
Wi' politics we wadna meddle,
Nay, we wad string anither fiddle.
I'd bid ye
broach your wondrous store
O' ancient Border ballad lore
Frae minstrels o' the misty past,
Doon to the latest and the last,
Frae verse abrupt and shapeless rhymes,
That stood for song in darker times,
Down to the grand majestic lays
And polished verse of modern days.
An' as the bards we took in tow,
We'd set oor fancies in a lowe,
As freely we exchanged our views
On Leyden's lays and Riddell's muse;
And Scott himsel', wha's magic wand
Shed lustre owre the border land;
An' last, not least, the wily rogue
An' wondrous dreamer, Jamie Hogg,
Wha's name shall live while siller rills
Meander 'mang the Yarrow hills,
An' sunbeams light the sylvan scene
'Mang Ettrick's lonely mountains green,
Where oft his stalwart form was laid
To slumber in his Auld Grey Plaid.
An' oh! sic dreams are seldom heard
As they 're tauld by "The Mountain Bard."
Nor wad we aince ignore the claim
O' mony a lesser noted name,
Of lowlier vot'ries of the lyre,
Who sought to kindle at their fire.
I doot na but we twa wad haen
A hasty trip across the main,
To spend an' hour wi' meikle zest
Amang the poets o' the West;
Those noble bards that struck the key
Of Freedom and of Liberty,
Who sought deep darkness to dispel,
And ring foul slavery's funeral knell:
Bryant and Whittier! true as steel;
And Longfellow, the pure and leal;
And "Fitzgreen Halleck!" he who shared
Sic generous love for Scotia's bard,
An' left the piled leaves of the West
To linger where his ashes rest.
A memorable Autumn noon
Was that he spent by bonnie Doon,
And in his honour waked a strain
But little short o' "Burns's ain.”
Yet wherefore thus prolong my scribble To length that may but prove a trouble?
Let me express but what I feel,
My warmest wishes for your weal.
Be 't distant far that dolefu' day
When ye nae mair shall seek to stray
Owre Cademuir hill, to scan wi' care
The varied landscape rich an' rare;
Blackhouse' blue heights sae far awa',
The Meldon's peaks or Dollar Law,
And mony a hill whose name is heard
Familiar as a household word;
When tongue and pen shall cease to tell
O' Flowers that bloom in Newby dell,
Or paint the legendary tale
Of Merlin's grave and lone Powsail;
Or burnish bright their blood-stain'd swords
Drummebyier's furious feudal lords,
By transcript of those days of dool
When wealth gave power to fiend or fool,
And might, not right, did reign and rule;
When dearest scenes and fairest form
For thee possess no power to charm;
When joyless seems Tweed's crystal tide,
And lyre and pen are laid aside,
And thou shalt cease and that for ever,
Thy songs of our dear classic river,-
E'en as right many a lesser stream,
That glitters 'neath Sol's glorious beam,
To Tweed anon doth tribute pay,
From lonely glen and hillside grey,
As she pursues her onward way;
So let her bard due praise receive
From lowlier ones their lays that weave
Among the mountains bold and grand
That beautify our border land.
For this my warblings I renew
To pay to thee the tribute due,
And proudly take my place 'mang them
Who prize thy gifts, and love thy name.
It was here, my loved, my fairest-it was here that first we met,
When the reaper's merry song had ceased and the Autumn sun had set
'Mid the weird unbroken silence reigning these wild glens
Where the streamlet from the mountain wakes its lowest, softest song.
It was here, fair love, we lingered with a pleasant, fond delay, Till the queen of night had risen o'er yon mountains far
Lighting up the glassy lakelet and the streamlet in the wood, And the lonely pathway winding thro' the blissful solitude.
It was here, fair love, we parted, here that soft white hand of thine
After many a pledge and promise was so fondly clasped in mine;
Here amid the unsung beauty of this wild romantic dell First I felt the pain of parting, first I heard thee say, Farewell.
Autumn's latest flowers are faded, Autumn's latest songs are sung,
Wintry winds are wildly wailing lone and leafless woods
What of all the hallowed memories of this wild romantic
And that moonlight Autumn evening! 'tis not mine alone to tell.
It was here a flame was kindled in this leal and faithful
O'er which Time, that dire destroyer, hath no power to act
As unquenched that love remaineth, so unchanged that love will be:
Say, my fairest one and dearest, can that tale be told by thee?
EPISTLE TO A. R., A BROTHER POET.
A WELCOME waits the simple voice
From Lyne's fair vale that cometh,
This fragment of such melodies
As oft thy brother frameth;
As in the Summer's joyous prime,
With sight and sound elated,
I seek once more to have my rhyme
To Friendship dedicated;
A thousand fair and beauteous flowers
Now by my pathway springing-
A thousand birds within the bowers
Their ditties sweetly singing-
Awake the memories of that hour
When first, dear friend, I met thee,
And with a pleasant secret power
Forbid that I forget thee;
And weeks, and months, and years have sped,
And still the spell remaineth,
Unchanged, save that the opening flower
A brighter bloom attaineth;
Thus, in the future, may the stream
Become a noble river,
To us more than a pleasing dream,
Be it "a joy for ever."
And as we seek the peaceful glens,
In pensive mood to wander,
Where richest foliage drapes the scenes,
And clearest streams meander.
Among the Poets of the past
We'll revel free and often; And fellowship of kindred hearts The cares of life will soften.
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