Classic Poem

WEALTH, OR THE WOODY:

A POEM ON THE SOUTH SEA

T HALIA , ever welcome to this isle,
Descend, and glad the nation with a smile:
See frae yon bank where South Sea ebbs and flows,
How sand-blind Chance woodies and wealth bestows:
Aided by thee, I 'll sail the wond'rous deep,
And thro' the crowded alleys cautious creep.
No easy task to plow the swelling wave,
Or in stock-jobbing press my guts to save;
But naithing can our wilder passions tame,
Wha rax for riches or immortal fame.

Long had the grumblers us'd this murm'ring sound,
" Poor Britain in her public debt is drown'd! "
At fifty millions late we started a',
And, wow, we wonder'd how the debt wad fa';
But sonsy sauls, wha first contriv'd the way,
With project deep our charges to defray,
O'er and aboon it heaps of treasure brings,
That fouk, by guess, become as rich as kings.
Lang heads they were that first laid down the plan,
Into whose bottom round anes headlang ran,
'Till, overstock'd, they quat the sea, and fain wad been at land.
Thus when braid flakes of snaw have clad the green,
Aften I have young sportive gilpies seen,
The waxing ba' with meikle pleasure row,
'Till past their pith it did unwieldy grow.

'Tis strange to think what changes may appear,
Within the narrow circle of a year;
How can ae project, if it be well laid,
Supply the simple want of trifling trade!
Saxty lang years a man may rack his brain,
Hunt after gear baith night and day wi' pain,
And die at last in debt, instead of gain.
But, O South Sea! what mortal mind can run
Thro' a' the miracles that thou hast done?
Nor scrimply thou thyfell to bounds confines,
But like the sun on ilka party shines,
To poor and rich, the fools as well as wise,
With hand impartial stretches out the prize.

Like Nilus swelling frae his unkend head,
Frae bank to brae o'erflows ilk rig and mead,
Instilling lib'ral store of genial sap,
Whence sun-burn'd Gypsies reap a plenteous crap;
Thus flows our sea, but with this diff'rence wide,
But anes a year their river heaves his tide,
Ours aft ilk day, t' enrich the common weal,
Bangs o'er its banks, and dings Egyptian Nile.

Ye rich and wife, we own success your due,
But your reverse their luck with wonder view:
How, without thought, these dawted pets of Fate
Have jobb'd themselves into sae high a state,
By pure instinct sae leal the mark have hit,
Without the use of either fear or wit.
And ithers wha last year their garrets kept,
Where duns in vision fash'd them while they slept,
Wha only durst in twilight, or the dark,
Steal to a common cook's with haff a mark,
A' their half stock: — now, by a kanny gale,
In the o'erflowing ocean spread their sail;
While they in gilded gallies cut the tide,
Look down on fishers' boats wi' meikle pride.

Mean time, the thinkers wha are out of play,
For their ain comfort kenna what to say;
That the foundation 's loose fain wa'd they shaw,
And think na but the fabric soon will fa:
That 's but a sham — for inwardly they fry,
Vext that their fingers were na in the pye:
Faint-hearted wights, wha dully stood afar,
Tholling your reason great attempts to mar;
While the brave dauntless of sic fetters free,
Jumpt headlong glorious in the golden sea;
Where now, like gods, they rule each wealthy jaw,
While you may thump your pows against the wa'.

On summer's e'en, the welkin cawm and fair,
When little midges frisk in lazy air,
Have ye not seen thro' ither how they reel,
And time about how up and down they wheel?
Thus eddies of stock-jobbers drive about,
Upmost to-day, the morn their pipe 's put out.
With pensive face, whene'er the market 's hy,
Minutius cries, " Ah! what a gowk was I. "
Some friend of his wha wisely seems to ken
Events of causes mair than ither men,
" Push for your interest yet, nae fear, " he cries,
" For South Sea will to twice ten hundred rise. "
Waes me for him that sells paternal land,
And buys when shares the highest sums demand;
He ne'er shall taste the sweets of rising stock,
Which saws neist day; — na help for 't, he is broke.

Dear Sea, be tenty how thou flows at shams
Of Hogland Gad'rens in their froggy dams,
Lest in their muddy bogs thou chance to sink,
Where thou may'st stagnate, syne of course maun stink.

This I foresee, and time shall prove I 'm right,
For he 's nae poet wants the second sight;
When autumn's stores are ruck'd up in the yard,
And sleet and snaw dreeps down cauld winter's beard;
When bleak November winds make forests bare,
And with splenetic vapours fill the air;
Then, then in gardens, parks, or silent glen,
When trees bear naithing else, they 'll carry men,
Wha shall like paughty Romans greatly swing
Aboon earth's disappointments in a string:
Sae ends the tow'ring saul that downa see
A man move in a higher sphere than he.

Happy that man wha has thrawn up a main,
Which makes some hundred thousands a' his ain,
And comes to anchor on so firm a rock,
Britannia's credit, and the South Sea stock:
Ilk blythsome pleasure waits upon his nod,
And his dependants eye him like a god:
Closs may he bend champain frae e'en to morn,
And look on cells of tippony with scorn:
Thrice lucky pimps, or smug-fac'd wanton fair,
That can in a' his wealth and pleasure skair:
Like Jove he sits, like Jove, high heav'n's goodman,
While the inferior gods about him stand,
'Till he permits, with condescending grace,
That ilka ane in order take their place:
Thus with attentive look mensfou they sit,
'Till he speak first, and shaw some shining wit;
Syne circling wheels the flattering gaffaw,
As well they may, he gars their beards wag a'.
Imperial gowd! what is 't thou canna grant?
Possest of thee, what is 't a man needs want?
Commanding coin! there 's nothing hard to thee;
I canna guess how rich fowk come to die.

Unhappy wretch! link'd to the threed-bare nine,
The dazzling equipage can ne'er be thine:
Destin'd to toil thro' labyrinths of verse,
Dar'st speak of great stock-jobbing as a farce.
Poor thoughtless mortal! vain of airy dreams,
The flying horse, and bright Apollo's beams,
And Helicon's wersh well thou ca's divine,
Are naithing like a mistress, coach, and wine.

Wad some good patron, whase superior skill
Can make the South Sea ebb and flow at will,
Put in a stock for me, I own it fair,
In epic strain I 'd pay him to a hair;
Immortalize him, and whate'er he loves,
In flowing numbers I shall sing " approves: "
If not, fox like, I 'll thraw my gab and gloom,
And ca' your hundred thousand a sour plum.