Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's And, while the wings of Fancy still are His wonted course, yet what I wished is Thy needles, once a shining store, done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: For my sake restless heretofore, ΙΟ 115 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 15 But well thou playedst the housewife's No braver chief could Albion boast And all thy threads with magic art Than he with whom he went, He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted: nor his friends had failed But so the furious blast prevailed, They left their outcast mate behind, Some succor yet they could afford; But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Alone could rescue them; IO 15 20 25 30 He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, 40 45 50 I therefore purpose not, or dream, But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allayed, ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) From LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK I am nae poet, in a sense, Your critic-folk But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, Ye're maybe wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools? If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs1 your grammars? 55 60 65 50 55 60 Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 65 A set o' dull, conceited hashes3 70 19 Gin24 ye'll go there, yon runkled25 pair, ΙΟ 15 20 11 furrows. 25 30 35 40 45 19 hop-step-and-jump. 22 rip, 23 larking. 20 courtesy. 24 if. His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit, 21 190 195 200 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell In comes a gawsie, 26 gash" guidwife Syne28 draws her kebbuck29 an' her knife; The lasses they are shyer: The auld guidmen about the grace Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, Waesucks!31 for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,34 211 215 220 225 Some swagger hame the best they dow,36 Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies38 halt a blink, 230 Till lasses strip their shoon: |