And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,* He was an unco shaver For monie a day. XII. For you, right rev'rend O Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Some luckless day. XIII. Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An', large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty : Sir John Fallstaff: vide Shakspeare. † Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. But sneer nae British boys awa', One onie day. XV. God bless you a'! consider now, Fu' clean that day. THE VISION. DUAN FIRST.* THE Sun had clos'd the winter day, To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The thresher's weary flingin-tree The lee-lang day had tired me; * Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a di gressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's trans. lation. And whan the day had clos'd his e'e, Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, The auld clay biggin ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. All in this mottie, misty clime, 1 backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done naething, But stringin blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit My cash account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount. I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof! Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath When click! the string the snick did draw; And jee! the door gaed to the wa'; An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, Come full in sight. A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu' round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon been broken. A hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,' Was strongly marked in her face; A wildy-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Beam'd keen with honour. Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen; Till half a leg was scrimply seen; And such a leg! my bonie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else came near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue, Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw, And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, A well known land. Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome. Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread, She boasts a race, To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace. By stately tow'r or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern; Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare With feature stern. |