Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv’d!
In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d
Fraecommon sense, or sunk enerv’d
‘Mang heaps o’ clavers:
And och! o’er aftthy joes haestarv’d,
‘Mid a’thy favours!
Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang,
While loud the trump’s heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelpalang
To death or marriage;
Scarce anehas tried the shepherd-sang
But wi’ miscarriage?
In Homer’s craftJock Milton thrives;
Eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare drives;
WeePope, the knurlin’, tillhim rives
Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho’s flame.
But thee, Theocritus, whamatches?
They’re noherd’s ballats, Maro’s catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin’ patches
O’ heathen tatters:
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.
In this brawage o’ wit and lear,
Will nanethe Shepherd’s whistle mair
Blawsweetly in its native air,
And rural grace;
And, wi’ the far-fam’d Grecian, share
A rival place?
Yes! there is ane-a Scottish callan!
There’s ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need najoukbehint the hallan,
A chielsaeclever;
The teeth o’ time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou’s for ever.
Thou paints auldNature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtle twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!
In gowanyglens thy burniestrays,
Where bonielasses bleach their claes,
Ortrots byhazelly shaws and braes,
Wi’hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays,
At close o’ day.
Thy rural loves are Nature’s sel’;
Nae bombast spateso’ nonsense swell;
Naesnapconceits, butthat sweet spell
O’witchin love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.