Written by
Anne Bradstreet |
Proem.
1.1 Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie,
1.2 Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky
1.3 Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,
1.4 And so has vow'd, whilst there is world or time.
1.5 So great's thy glory, and thine excellence,
1.6 The sound thereof raps every human sense
1.7 That men account it no impiety
1.8 To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.
1.9 Thousands bring off'rings (though out of date)
1.10 Thy world of honours to accumulate.
1.11 'Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,
1.12 'Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.
1.13 Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,
1.14 T' accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.
1.15 Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much
1.16 The acclamations of the poor, as rich,
1.17 Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,
1.18 Though I resound thy greatness 'mongst the throng.
The Poem.
2.1 No Ph{oe}nix Pen, nor Spenser's Poetry,
2.2 No Speed's, nor Camden's learned History;
2.3 Eliza's works, wars, praise, can e're compact,
2.4 The World's the Theater where she did act.
2.5 No memories, nor volumes can contain,
2.6 The nine Olymp'ades of her happy reign,
2.7 Who was so good, so just, so learn'd, so wise,
2.8 From all the Kings on earth she won the prize.
2.9 Nor say I more than truly is her due.
2.10 Millions will testify that this is true.
2.11 She hath wip'd off th' aspersion of her Sex,
2.12 That women wisdom lack to play the Rex.
2.13 Spain's Monarch sa's not so, not yet his Host:
2.14 She taught them better manners to their cost.
2.15 The Salic Law had not in force now been,
2.16 If France had ever hop'd for such a Queen.
2.17 But can you Doctors now this point dispute,
2.18 She's argument enough to make you mute,
2.19 Since first the Sun did run, his ne'er runn'd race,
2.20 And earth had twice a year, a new old face;
2.21 Since time was time, and man unmanly man,
2.22 Come shew me such a Ph{oe}nix if you can.
2.23 Was ever people better rul'd than hers?
2.24 Was ever Land more happy, freed from stirs?
2.25 Did ever wealth in England so abound?
2.26 Her Victories in foreign Coasts resound?
2.27 Ships more invincible than Spain's, her foe
2.28 She rack't, she sack'd, she sunk his Armadoe.
2.29 Her stately Troops advanc'd to Lisbon's wall,
2.30 Don Anthony in's right for to install.
2.31 She frankly help'd Franks' (brave) distressed King,
2.32 The States united now her fame do sing.
2.33 She their Protectrix was, they well do know,
2.34 Unto our dread Virago, what they owe.
2.35 Her Nobles sacrific'd their noble blood,
2.36 Nor men, nor coin she shap'd, to do them good.
2.37 The rude untamed Irish she did quell,
2.38 And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.
2.39 Had ever Prince such Counsellors as she?
2.40 Her self Minerva caus'd them so to be.
2.41 Such Soldiers, and such Captains never seen,
2.42 As were the subjects of our (Pallas) Queen:
2.43 Her Sea-men through all straits the world did round,
2.44 Terra incognitæ might know her sound.
2.45 Her Drake came laded home with Spanish gold,
2.46 Her Essex took Cadiz, their Herculean hold.
2.47 But time would fail me, so my wit would too,
2.48 To tell of half she did, or she could do.
2.49 Semiramis to her is but obscure;
2.50 More infamy than fame she did procure.
2.51 She plac'd her glory but on Babel's walls,
2.52 World's wonder for a time, but yet it falls.
2.53 Fierce Tomris (Cirus' Heads-man, Sythians' Queen)
2.54 Had put her Harness off, had she but seen
2.55 Our Amazon i' th' Camp at Tilbury,
2.56 (Judging all valour, and all Majesty)
2.57 Within that Princess to have residence,
2.58 And prostrate yielded to her Excellence.
2.59 Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage walls
2.60 (Who living consummates her Funerals),
2.61 A great Eliza, but compar'd with ours,
2.62 How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers.
2.63 Proud profuse Cleopatra, whose wrong name,
2.64 Instead of glory, prov'd her Country's shame:
2.65 Of her what worth in Story's to be seen,
2.66 But that she was a rich Ægyptian Queen.
2.67 Zenobia, potent Empress of the East,
2.68 And of all these without compare the best
2.69 (Whom none but great Aurelius could quell)
2.70 Yet for our Queen is no fit parallel:
2.71 She was a Ph{oe}nix Queen, so shall she be,
2.72 Her ashes not reviv'd more Ph{oe}nix she.
2.73 Her personal perfections, who would tell,
2.74 Must dip his Pen i' th' Heliconian Well,
2.75 Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire
2.76 To read what others write and then admire.
2.77 Now say, have women worth, or have they none?
2.78 Or had they some, but with our Queen is't gone?
2.79 Nay Masculines, you have thus tax'd us long,
2.80 But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.
2.81 Let such as say our sex is void of reason
2.82 Know 'tis a slander now, but once was treason.
2.83 But happy England, which had such a Queen,
2.84 O happy, happy, had those days still been,
2.85 But happiness lies in a higher sphere.
2.86 Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.
2.87 Full fraught with honour, riches, and with days,
2.88 She set, she set, like Titan in his rays.
2.89 No more shall rise or set such glorious Sun,
2.90 Until the heaven's great revolution:
2.91 If then new things, their old form must retain,
2.92 Eliza shall rule Albian once again.
Her Epitaph.
3.1 Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed
3.2 O' th' Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,
3.3 Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,
3.4 This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:
3.5 On neither tree did grow such Rose before,
3.6 The greater was our gain, our loss the more.
Another.
4.1 Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings:
4.2 So blaze it fame, here's feathers for thy wings.
4.3 Here lies the envy'd, yet unparallel'd Prince,
4.4 Whose living virtues speak (though dead long since).
4.5 If many worlds, as that fantastic framed,
4.6 In every one, be her great glory famed
|
Written by
Thomas Hardy |
(A Reminiscence, 1893)
She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.
Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.
|
Written by
Robert Pinsky |
The opening scene. The yellow, coal-fed fog
Uncurling over the tainted city river,
A young girl rowing and her anxious father
Scavenging for corpses. Funeral meats. The clever
Abandoned orphan. The great athletic killer
Sulking in his tent. As though all stories began
With someone dying.
When her mother died,
My mother refused to attend the funeral--
In fact, she sulked in her tent all through the year
Of the old lady's dying. I don't know why:
She said, because she loved her mother so much
She couldn't bear to see the way the doctors,
Or her father, or--someone--was letting her mother die.
"Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet."
She fogs things up, she scavenges the taint.
Possibly that's the reason I write these poems.
But they did speak: on the phone. Wept and argued,
So fiercely one or the other often cut off
A sentence by hanging up in rage--like lovers,
But all that year she never saw her face.
They lived on the same block, four doors apart.
"Absence my presence is; strangeness my grace;
With them that walk against me is my sun."
"Synagogue" is a word I never heard,
We called it shul, the Yiddish word for school.
Elms, terra-cotta, the ocean a few blocks east.
"Lay institution": she taught me we didn't think
God lived in it. The rabbi is just a teacher.
But what about the hereditary priests,
Descendants of the Cohanes of the Temple,
Like Walter Holtz--I called him Uncle Walter,
When I was small. A big man with a face
Just like a boxer dog or a cartoon sergeant.
She told me whenever he helped a pretty woman
Try on a shoe in his store, he'd touch her calf
And ask her, "How does that feel?" I was too little
To get the point but pretended to understand.
"Desire, be steady; hope is your delight,
An orb wherein no creature can ever be sorry."
She didn't go to my bar mitzvah, either.
I can't say why: she was there, and then she wasn't.
I looked around before I mounted the steps
To chant that babble and the speech the rabbi wrote
And there she wasn't, and there was Uncle Walter
The Cohane frowning with his doggy face:
"She's missing her own son's musaf." Maybe she just
Doesn't like rituals. Afterwards, she had a reason
I don't remember. I wasn't upset: the truth
Is, I had decided to be the clever orphan
Some time before. By now, it's all a myth.
What is a myth but something that seems to happen
Always for the first time over and over again?
And ten years later, she missed my brother's, too.
I'm sorry: I think it was something about a hat.
"Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair;
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me."
She sees the minister of the Nation of Islam
On television, though she's half-blind in one eye.
His bow tie is lime, his jacket crocodile green.
Vigorously he denounces the Jews who traded in slaves,
The Jews who run the newspapers and the banks.
"I see what this guy is mad about now," she says,
"It must have been some Jew that sold him the suit."
"And the same wind sang and the same wave whitened,
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened."
But when they unveiled her mother's memorial stone,
Gathered at the graveside one year after the death,
According to custom, while we were standing around
About to begin the prayers, her car appeared.
It was a black car; the ground was deep in snow.
My mother got out and walked toward us, across
The field of gravestones capped with snow, her coat
Black as the car, and they waited to start the prayers
Until she arrived. I think she enjoyed the drama.
I can't remember if she prayed or not,
But that may be the way I'll remember her best:
Dark figure, awaited, attended, aware, apart.
"The present time upon time passëd striketh;
With Phoebus's wandering course the earth is graced.
The air still moves, and by its moving, cleareth;
The fire up ascends, and planets feedeth;
The water passeth on, and all lets weareth;
The earth stands still, yet change of changes breedeth."
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,
And unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie
Your flatterin strain.
But I’se believe ye kindly meant it:
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented
On my poor Musie;
Tho’ in sic phraisin terms ye’ve penn’d it,
I scarce excuse ye.
My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,
The braes o’ fame;
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E’nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o’ what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow’d his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,
Or lassies gie my heart a screed—
As whiles they’re like to be my dead,
(O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu’ fain,
She’s gotten poets o’ her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
But tune their lays,
Till echoes a’ resound again
Her weel-sung praise.
Nae poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measur’d style;
She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle
Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.
Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon
Naebody sings.
Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line:
But Willie, set your fit to mine,
An’ cock your crest;
We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine
Up wi’ the best!
We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’ braes, her dens and dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Suthron billies.
At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace’ side,
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
Or glorious died!
O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy;
While thro’ the braes the cushat croods
With wailfu’ cry!
Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me,
When winds rave thro’ the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
Dark’ning the day!
O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi’ life an light;
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!
The muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn’d to wander,
Adown some trottin burn’s meander,
An’ no think lang:
O sweet to stray, an’ pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!
The war’ly race may drudge an’ drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive;
Let me fair Nature’s face descrive,
And I, wi’ pleasure,
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure.
Fareweel, “my rhyme-composing” brither!
We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,
In love fraternal:
May envy wallop in a tether,
Black fiend, infernal!
While Highlandmen hate tools an’ taxes;
While moorlan’s herds like guid, fat braxies;
While terra firma, on her axis,
Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,
In Robert Burns.
POSTCRIPTMY memory’s no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this “new-light,”
’Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents,
They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie;
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon
Gaed past their viewin;
An’ shortly after she was done
They gat a new ane.
This passed for certain, undisputed;
It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it,
An’ ca’d it wrang;
An’ muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an’ lang.
Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For ’twas the auld moon turn’d a neuk
An’ out of’ sight,
An’ backlins-comin to the leuk
She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels were alarm’d
The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better wer inform’d,
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks;
An monie a fallow gat his licks,
Wi’ hearty crunt;
An’ some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang’d an’ brunt.
This game was play’d in mony lands,
An’ auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi’ nimble shanks;
Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an-stowe;
Till now, amaist on ev’ry knowe
Ye’ll find ane plac’d;
An’ some their new-light fair avow,
Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin;
Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin
Wi’ girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word an’ write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor touns
Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons,
To tak a flight;
An’ stay ae month amang the moons
An’ see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them;
An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmaist shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them
Just i’ their pouch;
An’ when the new-light billies see them,
I think they’ll crouch!
Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter
Is naething but a “moonshine matter”;
But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulyie,
I hope we bardies ken some better
Than mind sic brulyie.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SESTINA I. A qualunque animale alberga in terra. NIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIR. To every animal that dwells on earth,Except to those which have in hate the sun,Their time of labour is while lasts the day;But when high heaven relumes its thousand stars,This seeks his hut, and that its native wood,Each finds repose, at least until the dawn. But I, when fresh and fair begins the dawnTo chase the lingering shades that cloak'd the earth,Wakening the animals in every wood,No truce to sorrow find while rolls the sun;And, when again I see the glistening stars,Still wander, weeping, wishing for the day. When sober evening chases the bright day,And this our darkness makes for others dawn,Pensive I look upon the cruel starsWhich framed me of such pliant passionate earth,And curse the day that e'er I saw the sun,Which makes me native seem of wildest wood. And yet methinks was ne'er in any wood,So wild a denizen, by night or day,As she whom thus I blame in shade and sun:Me night's first sleep o'ercomes not, nor the dawn,For though in mortal coil I tread the earth,My firm and fond desire is from the stars. Ere up to you I turn, O lustrous stars,Or downwards in love's labyrinthine wood,Leaving my fleshly frame in mouldering earth,Could I but pity find in her, one day[Pg 19]Would many years redeem, and to the dawnWith bliss enrich me from the setting sun! Oh! might I be with her where sinks the sun,No other eyes upon us but the stars,Alone, one sweet night, ended by no dawn,Nor she again transfigured in green wood,To cheat my clasping arms, as on the day,When Phœbus vainly follow'd her on earth. I shall lie low in earth, in crumbling wood.And clustering stars shall gem the noon of day,Ere on so sweet a dawn shall rise that sun. Macgregor. Each creature on whose wakeful eyesThe bright sun pours his golden fire,By day a destined toil pursues;And, when heaven's lamps illume the skies,All to some haunt for rest retire,Till a fresh dawn that toil renews.But I, when a new morn doth rise,Chasing from earth its murky shades,While ring the forests with delight,Find no remission of my sighs;And, soon as night her mantle spreads,I weep, and wish returning lightAgain when eve bids day retreat,O'er other climes to dart its rays;Pensive those cruel stars I view,Which influence thus my amorous fate;And imprecate that beauty's blaze,Which o'er my form such wildness threw.No forest surely in its gloomsNurtures a savage so unkindAs she who bids these sorrows flow:Me, nor the dawn nor sleep o'ercomes;For, though of mortal mould, my mindFeels more than passion's mortal glow.Ere up to you, bright orbs, I fly,Or to Love's bower speed down my way,While here my mouldering limbs remain;Let me her pity once espy;Thus, rich in bliss, one little dayShall recompense whole years of pain.[Pg 20]Be Laura mine at set of sun;Let heaven's fires only mark our loves,And the day ne'er its light renew;My fond embrace may she not shun;Nor Phœbus-like, through laurel groves,May I a nymph transform'd pursue!But I shall cast this mortal veil on earth,And stars shall gild the noon, ere such bright scenes have birth.
|
Written by
Maria Mazziotti Gillan |
I imagine them walking down rocky paths
toward me, strong, Italian women returning
at dusk from fields where they worked all day
on farms built like steps up the sides
of steep mountains, graceful women carrying water
in terra cotta jugs on their heads.
What I know of these women, whom I never met,
I know from my mother, a few pictures
of my grandmother, standing at the doorway
of the fieldstone house in Santo Mauro,
the stories my mother told of them,
but I know them most of all from watching
my mother, her strong arms lifting sheets
out of the cold water in the wringer washer,
or from the way she stepped back,
wiping her hands on her homemade floursack apron,
and admired her jars of canned peaches
that glowed like amber in the dim cellar light.
I see those women in my mother
as she worked, grinning and happy,
in her garden that spilled its bounty into her arms.
She gave away baskets of peppers,
lettuce, eggplant, gave away bowls of pasts,
meatballs, zeppoli, loaves of homemade bread.
"It was a miracle," she said.
"The more I gave away, the more I had to give."
Now I see her in my daughter,
the same unending energy,
that quick mind,
that hand, open and extended to the world.
When I watch my daughter clean the kitchen counter,
watch her turn, laughing,
I remember my mother as she lay dying,
how she said of my daughter, "that Jennifer,
she's all the treasure you'll ever need."
I turn now, as my daughter turns,
and see my mother walking toward us
down crooked mountain paths,
behind her, all those women
dressed in black
Copyright 1998 © Maria Mazziotti Gillan. All rights reserved.
|
Written by
Arthur Hugh Clough |
How in all wonder Columbus got over,
That is a marvel to me, I protest,
Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover,
Frobisher, Dampier, Drake and the rest.
Bad enough all the same,
For them that after came,
But, in great Heaven's name,
How he should ever think
That on the other brink
Of this huge waste terra firma should be,
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
How a man ever should hope to get thither,
E'e'n if he knew of there being another side;
But to suppose he should come any whither,
Sailing right on into chaos untried,
Across the whole ocean,
In spite of the motion,
To stick to the notion
That in some nook or bend
Of a sea without end
He should find North and South Amerikee,
Was a pure madness as it seems to me.
What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,
Judged that the earth like an orange was round,
None of them ever said, 'Come along, follow,
Sail to the West, and the East will be found.'
Many a day before
Ever they'd touched the shore
Of the San Salvador,
Sadder and wiser men
They'd have turned back again;
And that he did not, but did cross the sea,
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
And that he crossed and that we cross the sea
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXIII. I' vidi in terra angelici costumi. THE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEF. On earth reveal'd the beauties of the skies,Angelic features, it was mine to hail;[Pg 151]Features, which wake my mingled joy and wail,While all besides like dreams or shadows flies.And fill'd with tears I saw those two bright eyes,Which oft have turn'd the sun with envy pale;And from those lips I heard—oh! such a tale,As might awake brute Nature's sympathies!Wit, pity, excellence, and grief, and loveWith blended plaint so sweet a concert made,As ne'er was given to mortal ear to prove:And heaven itself such mute attention paid,That not a breath disturb'd the listening grove—Even æther's wildest gales the tuneful charm obey'd. Wrangham. Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace,And charms divine which mortals rarely see,Such as both glad and pain the memory;Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace:Tears I saw shower'd from those fine eyes apace,Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be;Accents I heard sigh'd forth so movingly,As to stay floods, or mountains to displace.Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join'dAnd wailful grief, a sweeter concert madeThan ever yet was pour'd on human ear:And heaven unto the music so inclined,That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade;Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere. Nott.
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
DEAR SMITH, the slee’st, pawkie thief,
That e’er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
Owre human hearts;
For ne’er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,
An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon,
Just gaun to see you;
An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done,
Mair taen I’m wi’ you.
That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She’s turn’d you off, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature
She’s wrote the Man.
Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,
My barmie noddle’s working prime.
My fancy yerkit up sublime,
Wi’ hasty summon;
Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time
To hear what’s comin?
Some rhyme a neibor’s name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An’ raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random-shot
O’countra wit.
This while my notion’s taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I’m that way bent,
Something cries “Hooklie!”
I red you, honest man, tak tent?
Ye’ll shaw your folly;
“There’s ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters,
Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors,
A’ future ages;
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages.”
Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistlin’ thrang,
An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes
My rustic sang.
I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead
Forgot and gone!
But why o’ death being a tale?
Just now we’re living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o’er-side!
And large, before Enjoyment’s gale,
Let’s tak the tide.
This life, sae far’s I understand,
Is a’ enchanted fairy-land,
Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu’ light.
The magic-wand then let us wield;
For ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d,
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,
Wi’ wrinkl’d face,
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
We’ creepin pace.
When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin,
An’ social noise:
An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman,
The Joy of joys!
O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,
Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning,
To joy an’ play.
We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Among the leaves;
And tho’ the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot,
For which they never toil’d nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And haply eye the barren hut
With high disdain.
With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace;
Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,
An’ seize the prey:
Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan’,
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,
To right or left eternal swervin,
They zig-zag on;
Till, curst with age, obscure an’ starvin,
They aften groan.
Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining—
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning?
E’n let her gang!
Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let’s sing our sang.
My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel, ye Pow’rs! and warm implore,
“Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o’ rhymes.
“Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
And maids of honour;
An’ yill an’ whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.
“A title, Dempster 1 merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit,
In cent. per cent.;
But give me real, sterling wit,
And I’m content.
“While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale,
I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal,
Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail,
Wi’ cheerfu’ face,
As lang’s the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace.”
An anxious e’e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows
As weel’s I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an’cool,
Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces
In your unletter’d, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray;
But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise;
Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattling squad:
I see ye upward cast your eyes—
Ye ken the road!
Whilst I—but I shall haud me there,
Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where—
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content wi’ you to mak a pair.
Whare’er I gang.
Note 1. George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P. [back]
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXII. Più di me lieta non si vede a terra. ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Than me more joyful never reach'd the shoreA vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,More glad than me, that weapon laid asideWhich to my lord hostility long bore.All ye who honour love in poet strain,To the good minstrel of the amorous layReturn due praise, though once he went astray;For greater glory is, in Heaven's blest reign,Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,Than e'en for ninety-nine of perfect ways. Macgregor.
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