Classic Poem

A SATIRE .

To all whom it may concern.

Some fock, like bees, fu' glegly rin
To bikes hang'd fu' o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they have scrap'd the dautit Plumb,
Then craw fell crously o' their wark,
Tell o'er their turners mark by mark,
Yet dare na think to lowse the pose,
To aid their neighbours 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 coft 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 caller shady trees,
(Far frae the din o' Borrowstown,)
Whare water plays the haughs bedown;
To jouk the simmer's rigour there,
And breathe a while the caller air,
'Mang herds, an' honest cottar fock,
That till the farm an' feed the flock;
Careless o' mair, who never fash
To lade their kist wi' useless cash,
But thank the gods for what they've sent,
O' health eneugh, and blythe content,
An' pith that helps them to stravaig
Owr ilka cleugh an' 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 an' fauld their weary clay,
To rax an' 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 fav'rite dishes, fav'rite 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 fatt'ning clover lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.
Unyoke thee, man, an' binna swear
To ding a hole in ill-hain'd gear!
O think that eild, wi' wyly fit,
Is wearing nearer bit by bit!
Gin yence he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for? Fiend hate 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 de'il,
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 o' schools,
They're baith but lifeless, dowy 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 show'rs
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bow'rs,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While Echo's tongue commends their pains;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple saft bewitching art.
On Leader haughs an' Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Twida's bank or Cowdenknows.
That ta'en'wi' thy enchanting 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 you only wear
The simple garb o' Nature here;
Mair comely far and fair to sight
Whan in her easy cleething 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' watry e'e,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowy 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.