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[To Alexander Cunningham] - Die große eBook-Bibliothek der Weltliteratur

[To Alexander Cunningham]



My godlike Friend – nay do not stare,

You think the phrase is odd like;

But, »God is love,« the Saints declare,

Then surely thou art Godlike.

 

And is thy Ardour still the same?

And kindled still at Anna?

Others may boast a partial flame,

But thou art a Volcano. –

 

Even Wedlock asks not Love beyond

Death's tie-dissolving Portal;

But thou, omnipotently fond,

May'st promise Love Immortal. –

 

Prudence, the Bottle and the Stew

Are fam'd for Lovers' curing:

Thy Passion nothing can subdue,

Nor Wisdom, Wine, nor Whoring. –

 

Thy Wounds such healing powers defy;

Such Symptoms dire attend them;

That last, great Antihectic try,

Marriage, perhaps, may mend them. –

 

Sweet Anna has an air, a grace,

Divine magnetic touching!

She takes, she charms – but who can trace

The process of BEWITCHING?

 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet



Chorus

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,

Mally's modest and discreet,

Mally's rare, Mally's fair,

Mally's ev'ry way compleat.

 

As I was walking up the street,

A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet,

But O, the road was very hard

For that fair maiden's tender feet.

Chorus, Mally's meek &c.

 

It were mair meet, that those fine feet

Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon,

And twere more fit that she should sit

Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

Chorus, Mally's meek &c.

 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,

Comes trinkling down her swan white neck,

And her two eyes like stars in skies

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.

 

I love my Jean



Tune – Miss admiral Gordon's Strathspey –

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the West;

For there the bony Lassie lives,

The Lassie I lo'e best:

There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;

But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean. –

 

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bony flower, that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green;

There's not a bony bird that sings

But minds me o' my Jean. –

 

O, were I on Parnassus Hill



Tune, My love is lost to me

O were I on Parnassus hill;

Or had o' Helicon my fill;

That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.

But Nith maun be my Muses well,

My Muse maun be thy bonie sell;

On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!

For a' the lee-lang simmer's day,

I coudna sing, I coudna say,

How much, how dear, I love thee.

I see thee dancing o'er the green,

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,

Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een –

By Heaven and Earth I love thee.

 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;

And ay I muse and sing thy name,

I only live to love thee.

Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,

Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,

Till my last, weary sand was run;

Till then – and then I love thee.

 

The Banks of Nith



Tune, Robie donna gorach

The Thames flows proudly to the sea,

Where royal cities stately stand;

But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command:

When shall I see that honor'd Land,

That winding Stream I love so dear!

Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand

For ever, ever keep me here.

 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where bounding hawthorns gayly bloom;

And sweetly spread thy sloping dales

Where lambkins wanton through the broom!

Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom,

Far from thy bonie banks and braes,

May there my latest hours consume,

Amang the friends of early days!

 

To Robt Graham of Fintry Esqr., with a request for an Excise Division –



Ellisland – Sept. 8 th 1788

When Nature her great Masterpiece designed,

And framed her last, best Work, The Human Mind,

Her eye intent on all the mazy Plan,

She forms of various stuff the various Man. –

The USEFUL MANY first, she calls them forth,

Plain, plodding Industry, and sober Worth:

Thence Peasants, Farmers, native sons of earth,

And Merchandise' whole genus take their birth:

Each prudent Cit a warm existence finds,

And all Mechanics' many-aproned kinds. –

Some other, rarer Sorts are wanted yet,

The lead and buoy are needful to the net. –

The caput mortuum of Gross Desires,

Makes a material for mere knights and squires:

The Martial Phosphorus is taught to flow;

She kneads the lumpish Philosophic dough;

Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave Designs,

Law, Physics, Politics and deep Divines:

Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the Poles,

The flashing elements of Female Souls. –

 

The ordered System fair before her stood,

Nature, well-pleased, pronounced it very good;

Yet, ere she gave creating labor o'er,

Half-jest, she tryed one curious labor more. –

Some spumy, fiery, ignisfatuus matter,

Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter,

With arch-alacrity, and conscious glee,

(Nature may have her whim as well as we;

Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it)

She forms the Thing, and christens it – A POET. –

Creature, tho' oft the prey of Care and Sorrow,

When blest today, unmindful of tomorrow;

A being formed t' amuse his graver friends,

Admired and praised – and there the wages ends;

A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife,

Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;

Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,

Yet haply wanting wherewithall to live;

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,

Yet frequent all-unheeded in his own. –

 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk;

She laught at, first, then felt for her poor Work:

Viewing the propless Climber of mankind,

She cast about a Standard-tree to find;

In pity for his helpless woodbine-state,

She clasp'd his tendrils round THE TRULY GREAT:

A title, and the only one I claim,

To lay strong hold for help on generous GRAHAM. –

 

Pity the tuneful Muses' hapless train,

Weak, timid Landsmen on life's stormy main!

Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff

That never gives – tho' humbly takes enough;

The little Fate allows they share as soon,

Unlike sage, proverbed Wisdom's hard-wrung boon:

The world were blest, did bliss on them depend,

Ah, that the FRIENDLY e'er should want a FRIEND!

 

Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son

Who life and wisdom at one race begun,

Who feel by reason and who give by rule,

(Instinct's a brute, and Sentiment a fool!)

Who make poor,»Will do,« wait upon,»I should,«

We own they're prudent – but who owns they're good?

Ye Wise Ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye;

God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy!

But come, ye who the godlike pleasure know,

Heaven's attribute distinguished, – to bestow,

Whose arms of love would grasp all human-race;

Come, thou who givest with all a courtier's grace,

Friend of my life! (true Patron of my rhymes)

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. –

 

Why shrinks my soul, half-blushing, half-afraid,

Backward, abashed, to ask thy friendly aid?

I know my need, I know thy giving hand,

I tax thy friendship at thy kind command:

But, there are such, who court the tuneful Nine,

Heavens, should the branded character be mine!

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows,

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.

Mark, how their lofty, independant spirit

Soars on the spurning wing of injured Merit!

Seek you the proofs in private life to find? –

Pity, the best of words should be but wind!

So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends,

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. –

In all the clamorous cry of starving Want

They dun Benevolence with shameless front:

Oblidge them, patronize their tinsel lays,

They persecute you all your future days. –

 

E'er my poor soul such deep damnation stain,

My horny fist, assume the Plough again;

The pie-bald jacket, let me patch once more;

On eighteenpence a week I've lived before. –

Tho', thanks to Heaven! I dare even that last shift,

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:

That, placed by thee upon the wished-for height,

Where Man and Nature fairer in her sight,

My Muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.

 

The seventh of November –



The day returns, my bosom burns,

The blissful day we twa did meet:

Tho' Winter wild, in tempest toil'd,

Ne'er simmer-sun was half sae sweet.

Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry Line;

Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more – it made thee mine. –

 

While day and night can bring delight,

Or Nature aught of pleasure give;

While Joys Above, my mind can move,

For Thee and Thee alone I live!

When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part;

The iron hand that breaks our Band,

It breaks my bliss – it breaks my heart!

 

The blue-eyed Lassie



I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;

I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely e'en o' bonie blue.

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew,

Her heaving bosom, lily-white,

It was her een sae bonie blue.

 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd,

She charm'd my soul I wist na how;

And ay the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam frae her een sae bonie blue.

But spare to speak, and spare to speed;

She'll aiblins listen to my vow:

Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead

To her twa een sae bonie blue.

 

A Mother's Lament for the loss of her only Son –



»Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,«

And pierc'd my Darling's heart;

And with him all the joys are fled,

Life can to me impart. –

 

By cruel hands the Sapling drops,

In dust dishonor'd laid:

So fell the pride of all my hopes,

My age's future shade. –

 

The mother-linnet in the brake

Bewails her ravish'd young;

So I, for my lost Darling's sake,

Lament the live day long. –

 

Death! oft, I've fear'd thy fatal blow;

Now, fond, I bare my breast;

O, do thou come and lay me low,

With him I love at rest!

 

The lazy mist



The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,

As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,

And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown:

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,

How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues.

 

How long I have liv'd – but how much liv'd in vain;

How little of life's scanty span may remain:

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn;

What ties, cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!

Life is not worth having with all it can give,

For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

 

Whistle o'er the lave o't –



First when Maggy was my care,

Heaven, I thought, was in her air;

Now we're married – spier nae mair –

Whistle o'er the lave o't. –

 

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,

Sweet and harmless as a child –

Wiser men than me's beguil'd;

Whistle o'er the lave o't. –

 

How we live, my Meg and me,

How we love and how we gree;

I carena by how few may see,

Whistle o'er the lave o't. –

 

Wha I wish were maggots' meat,

Dish'd up in her winding-sheet;

I could write – but Meg maun see't –

Whistle o'er the lave o't. –

 

Tam Glen –



Tune, Merry beggars –

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,

Some counsel unto me come len';

To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? –

 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,

In poortith I might mak a fen':

What care I in riches to wallow,

If I mauna marry Tam Glen. –

 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller,

»Gude day to you brute« he comes ben:

He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen. –

 

My Minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men;

They flatter, she says, to deceive me,

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen. –

 

My Daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,

He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten:

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,

O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

 

Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing,

My heart to my mou gied a sten;

For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. –

 

The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken;

His likeness cam up the house staukin,

And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!

 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry;

I'll gie you my bonie black hen,

Gif ye will advise me to Marry

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. –

 

2010-07-19 18:44 Читать похожую статью
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