"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow;
But, ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.—
"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name ?
No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs,"
She said, and vanished with the sweeping blast.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE
FIRST EDITION, WHICH I PRESENTED TO AN OLD
SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.
ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere;
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.
THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.1
THOU's welcome, wean! mischanter2 fa' me,
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
Shall ever danton me, or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tit-ta, or daddy.
Wee image of my bonnie Betty,
I, fatherly, will kiss and dauts thee,
1 The mother was Elizabeth Paton, of Largieside, and her daughter died in 1817, the wife of the overseer at Polkemmet.
As dear an' near my heart I set thee
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' h-ll.
What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintra clatter:
The mair they talk I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warld asklent,1
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't-
The better half o't.
An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin' father I'll be to thee,
If thou be spar'd;
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee,
An' think't weel war'd.
may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't,
Than stockit mailins.2
LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, ON THE
PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.
O GOUDIE! terror o' the Whigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin' looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.
Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition;
Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple ;1
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;
See how she fetches at the thrapple,2
An' gasps for breath.
Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Death soon will end her.
'Tis you and Taylors are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,
A toom4 tar-barrel
An' twa red peats wad send relief,
An' end the quarrel.
LETTER TO JAMES TAIT, GLENCONNER.5
AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner;
How do you this blae eastlin win',
That's like to blaw a body blin'?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'.
I've sent you here by Johnnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid, to common sense appealing,
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
An' in the depth of Science mir'd,
3 Dr. Taylor, of Norwich,
According to Burns, "the most intelligent farmer in the country."
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives an' wabsters1 see an' feel.
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse,
I pray an' ponder but the house,
My shins, my lane,2 I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston;
Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my een up like a pyet,3
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring an' gaspin' in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.
My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an' wale1 of honest men :
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs,
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May he who made him still support him,
An' views beyond the grave comfort him.
His worthy fam❜ly far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear
My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar,5 my mason Billie,
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.
An' Lord remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock.
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;
An' her kind stars hae airted till her
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet;
Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious:
To grant a heart is fairly civil.-
1 Weavers. 2 Myself alone. Magpie.
5 The "manly tar" was probably Richard Brown.-Cunningham.
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,
May guardian angels tak a spell,
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heav'n's glory,
May ye get monie a merry story,
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,
An' aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.
Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you,
For my sake this I beg it o' you,
Assist poor Simson a' ye can,
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man;
Sae I conclude and quat my chanter,
Your's, saint or sinner,
EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS1 TO MARIA.
FROM those drear solitudes and frowzy cells,
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells;
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,
And deal from iron hands the spare repast;
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin,"
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ;
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,
Resolve to drink, nay half to w-
Where tiny thieves, not destin'd yet to swing,
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string:
From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.
"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!"
'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear!
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,
By barber woven, and by barber sold,
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare.
The hero of the mimic scene, no more
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;
Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms,
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms;
While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high,
And steal from me Maria's prying eye.
1 The Esopus of this strange epistle was Williamson the actor, and the Maria to whom it is addressed was Mrs. Riddel.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
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