So I on Fife wad glowr no more,
But gallop'd to Edina's shore.
To all whom it may concern.
SOME fouk, like bees, fu' glegly rin
To bykes bang'd fu' o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they hae scrap'd the dautit plumb,
Then craw fu' crously o' their wark,
Tell o'er their turners mark by mark,
Yet darena think to lowse the pose
To aid their neebours' ails and woes.
Gif gowd can fetter thus the heart,
And gar us act sae base a part;
Shall man, a niggard, near-gaun elf!
Rin to the tether's end for pelf;
Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick,
Whan a's done sell his saul to Nick:
I trow they've cost the purchase dear,
That gang sic lengths for warldly gear.
Now, when the Dog-day heats begin
To birsle and to peel the skin,
May I lie streekit at my ease,
Beneath the cauler shady trees,
(Far frae the din o' borrows town),
Whare water plays the haughs bedown;
To jouk the Simmer's rigour there,
And breathe a while the cauler air,
'Mang herds, and honest cottar fouk,
That till the farm, and feed the flock ;
Careless o' mair, wha never fash
To lade their kists wi' useless cash,
But thank the gods for what they've sent,
O' health eneugh, and blithe content,
And pith, that helps them to stravaig
Owre ilka cleugh, and ilka craig;
Unkend to a' the weary granes
That aft arise frae gentler banes,
On easy-chair that pamper'd lie,
Wi' banefu' viands gustit high;
And turn, and fauld their weary clay,
To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.
Ye sages, tell! was man e'er made
To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade,
Steekit frae Nature's beauties a'
That daily on his presence ca',
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine
For favourite dishes, favourite wine?,
Come, then, shake aff thir sluggish ties,
And wi' the bird o' dawning rise!
On ilka bank the clouds hae spread
Wi' blobs o' dew a pearly bed.
Frae faulds nae mair the owsen rout,
But to the fattening clover lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their Winter's stent.
Unyoke, then, man! and binna sweer
To ding a hole in ill-hain'd gear.
O think that Eild, wi' wylie fit,
Is wearing nearer, bit by bit!
Gin aince he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for? Fient hae't ava!
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second sharger till he dies.
Some daft chiel reads, and taks advice;
The chaise is yokit in a trice;
Awa drives he, like huntit deil,
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,
Till he's-Lord kens how far awa!
At Italy, or Well o' Spa;
Or to Montpelier's safter air:
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.
There rest him weel :-for eith can we
Spare mony glaikit gowks like he.
They'll tell whare Tiber's waters rise ;
What sea receives the drumly prize;
That never wi' their feet hae met
. The marches o' their ain estate.
The Arno and the Tiber lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang ;
But, save the reverence of schools!
They're baith but lifeless dowie pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead?
Or, are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs, or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the showers
'Mang thrivin vines and myrtle bowers,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While Echo's tongue commends their pains;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple, saft, bewitchin art.
On Leader haughs, and Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tine their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds,
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread
The Simmer's flowery velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweeda's banks, or Cowdenknowes ;
That, taen wi' thy enchantin sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang:
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain.
Soon will they guess, ye only wear
The simple garb o' Nature here;
Mair comely far, and fair to sight,
Whan in her easy cleedin dight,
Than, in disguise, ye was before
On Tiber's, or on Arno's shore.
O Bangour*! now the hills and dales
Nae mair gie back thy tender tales.
The birks on Yarrow now deplore,
Thy mournfu' Muse has left the shore.
Near what bright burn, or crystal spring,
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The Muse shall there, wi' watery ee,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowie dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Who mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
* Mr Hamilton of Bangour.
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