VERSES WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF.
VERSES WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF.
[The following lines, which first appeared in the Sun newspaper, April, 1823, appear to have been originally written on a leaf of a copy of his poems presented to a friend.]
ACCEPT the gift a friend sincere
Wad on thy worth be pressin' ;
Remembrance oft may start a tear,
But oh! that tenderness forbear,
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.
My morning raise sae clear and fair,
I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare
My peace, my hope for ever!
You think I'm glad; oh! I pay weel
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude-then, then I feel
I canna to myself conceal
My deeply ranklin' sorrow.
Farewell! within thy bosom free
A sigh may whiles awaken;
A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e,
For Scotia's son-ance gay like thee,
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND,-ANDREW
Every young man ought to learn this grand homily, take its truths to heart, and practise them."-Dublin Chairman at Centenary.
I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determin;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world fu' soon my lad,
And Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye :
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha1 hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:
But, Och! mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
I'ts rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha1 fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith1 hourly stare him;
A man may take a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yourself as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard o' concealing;
But, Och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry while
That's justify'd by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev'n the rigid feature;
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest driv'n,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n
Is sure a noble anchor !
Adieu, dear amiable Youth!
Your heart can ne'er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,"
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may you better reck the rede,1
Than ever did the adviser!
SCENES of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamin',
Fare thee weel before I gang!
Bonny Doon, whare early roaming,
First I weaved the rustic sang.
Bowers, adieu, whare Love decoying
First inthralled this heart o' mine,
There the saftest sweets enjoying-
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne
Friends, so near my bosom ever,
Ye hae rendered moments dear;
But alas! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh, how severe !
Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me!
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be !
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
[Inscribed to JOHN BALLANTYNE, Esq., Ayr.]
THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn-bush;
The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill,
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill,
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,
By early poverty to hardships steeled,
And trained to arms in stern Misfortune's field,
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
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