When I had been fu' laith to rise,
John then begude to moralise:
"The tither nap, the sluggard cries,
And turns him round;
Sae spake auld Solomon the wise,
Divine profound!"
Nae dominie, or wise Mess John,
Was better lear'd in Solomon;
He cited proverbs, one by one,
Ilk vice to tame;
He gar'd ilk sinner sigh and groan,
And fear hell's flame.
"I hae nae meikle skill," quo' he,
"In what ye ca' philosophy;
It tells, that baith the earth and sea
Rin round about;
Either the Bible tells a lie,
It's i' the Psalms o' David writ,
That this wide warld ne'er should flit,
But on the waters coshly sit
Fu' steeve and lastin':
And was na he a head o' wit,
At sic contestin'?"
On e'enin's cauld wi' glee we'd trudge
To heat our shins in Johnny's lodge;
The de'il ane thought his bum to budge,
Wi' siller on us;
To claw het pints we'd never grudge
O' molationis.
Say, ye red gowns! that aften here
Hae toasted bakes to Katie's beer,
Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer,
Sae blythe, sae daft?
You'll ne'er again, in life's career,
Sit half sae saft.
Wi' haffit locks, sae smooth and sleek,
John looked like ony ancient Greek;
He was a Naz'rene a' the week,
And doughtna tell out
A bawbee Scots to scrape his cheek
Till Sunday fell out.
For John aye lo'ed to turn the pence;
Thought poortith was a great offence:
What recks though ye ken mood and tense?
A hungry wame
For gowd wad wi' them baith dispense
At ony time.
Ye ken what ails maun aye befall
The chiel that will be prodigal;
When wasted to the very spaul
He turns hist tusk
(For want o' comfort to his saul)
To hungry husk."
Ye royit louns! just do as he'd do:
For mony braw green shaw and meadow
He's left to cheer his dowie widow,
His winsome Kate,
That to him proved a canny she-dow,
Baith ear' and late.
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM WILKIE, LATE
PROFESSOR OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS.*
DLAW saft, my reed, and kindly, to my maen;
Weel may ye thole a saft and dowie strain.
Nae mair to you shall shepherds, in a ring,
Wi' blytheness skip, or lasses lilt and sing;
Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka ee,
And ilka waefu' shepherd grieve wi' me.
Wherefore begin a sad and dowie strain,
Or banish liltin' frae the Fifan plain?
Though simmer's gane, and we nae langer view
The blades o' clover wat wi' pearls o' dew,
Cauld winter's bleakest blasts we'll eithly cowr,
Our elden's driven, and our hairst is owre;
Our rucks fu' thick are stackit i' the yard,
For the Yule feast a sautit mart's prepared;
The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields,
And aft as mony gleefu' moments yields.
* William Wilkie, D.D., the son of a farmer, and born at Echlin, in the parish of Dalmeny, in 1721, enjoyed some temporary fame as a poet, an eccentric, and a wit. He was author of an epic poem in nine books, in the manner of Homer, published in 1757, under the title of Epigoniad, which long since forgotten. A later publication from his pen-Moral Fables in Verse-dedicated to his only patron, the Earl of Lauderdale, has shared the same fate. He was elected Professor of Natural Philosophy in St. Andrews in 1759, and died in 1772. Fergusson had been his pupil, and probably owed some obligations to him. It has been said, indeed, that from being "a fellow of infinite jest," the student recommended himself very strongly to the Professor, who frequently employed him to read his academical prelections in the class-room, which, however, is not a likely story.
Swith, man! fling a' your sleepy springs awa',
And on your canty whistle gie's a blaw.
Blytheness, I trow, maun lighten ilka ee;
And ilka canty callant sing like me.
Na, na, a canty spring wad now impart
Just threefauld sorrow to my heavy heart.
Though to the weet my ripen'd aits had fa'n,
Or shake-winds owre my rigs wi' pith had blawn;
To this I could hae said, "I carena by,"
Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry.
Crosses like they, or lack o' warld's gear,
Are naething, when we tyne a friend that's dear.
Ah! waes me for you, Willie! mony a day
Did I wi' you on yon broom-thackit brae
Hound aff my sheep, and let them careless gang,
To harken to your cheery tale or sang-
Sangs that for aye, on Caledonia's strand,
Shall sit the foremist 'mang her tunefu' band.
I dreamt yestreen his deadly wraith I saw
Gang by my een, as white's the driven snaw;
My collie, Ringie, youf'd and yowl'd a' night,
Cower'd and crap near me, in an unco fright;
I waken'd fley't and shook baith lith and limb,
A cauldness took me, and my sight grew dim;
I kent that it forspak approachin' wae,
When my poor doggie was disturbit sae.
Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn,
Than I beyont the knowe fu' speedy ran,
Where I was keppit wi' the heavy tale
That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail.
And wha on Fifan bents can weel refuse
To gie the tear o' tribute to his Muse?-
Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note;
Be daffin and ilk idle play forgot:
Bring, ilka herd, the mournfu', mournfu' boughs;
Rosemary sad, and ever-dreary yews;
Thae let be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi' hallow'd draps his sacred bier,
Whase sangs will aye in Scotland be revered,
While slaw-gaun owsen turn the flowery swaird;
While bonnie lambies lick the dews o' spring;
While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing.
'Twas na for weel-timed verse, or sangs alane,
He bure the bell frae ilka shepherd swain;
Nature to him had gi'en a kindly lore,
Deep a' her mystic ferlies to explore:
For a' her secret workings he could gie
Reasons that wi' her principles agree.
Ye saw yoursel' how weel his mailin thrave;
Aye better faugh'd and snodit than the lave:
Lang had the thristles and the dockans been
In use to wag their taps upon the green,
Whare now his bonnie rigs delight the view,
And thrivin' hedges drink the caller dew.*
They tell me, Geordie, he had sic a gift,
That scarce a starnie blinkit frae the lift,
But he would some auld warld name for't find
As gart him keep it freshly in his mind.
For this, some ca'd him an uncanny wight;
The clash gaed round, "he had the second sight;" A tale that never fail'd to be the pride
O' grannies spinnin' at the ingle-side.
But now he's gane; and fame, that, when alive,
Seenil lets ony o' her vot'ries thrive,
* Dr. Wilkie had a farm near St. Andrews, on which he made great improvements.
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