Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 3

Though murky are the days and short,

And man he finds but little sport,

   These gloomy days, to cheer him;

Yet, if a Dobie should, perchance,

Come out before an audience,

   ’Tis worth our while to hear him.

Right pleased was I, dear sir, to hear

Your lecture on that subject dear,

   So grand and superhuman;

For all the world doth pay regard

To Bobbie Burns, the Scottish bard,

   The patriot and the ploughman.

Your words, indeed, were passing good,

On him who kenned and understood

   The kirk and all its ranting;

Who “held the mirror” up, indeed,

To show the “muckle unco-guid”

   Their double-dyéd canting.

You painted him sometimes in glee

While other times in poverty —

   To gold without alliance;

Yet, after all he kept his pace,

And looked grim fortune in the face,

   And set him at defiance.

But, alas! the picture, was it true?

Of Burns’ parents, poor and low —

   So furrowed and so hoary —

It makes our very hearts to burn

To think that “man was made to mourn,”

   And tell the sad, sad story.

You brought me back to days bygone,

When glad its banks I strolled upon,

   The river Doon so bonnie;

The roofless kirk and yard so green,

Where many a tombstone may be seen,

   With Tam and Souter Johnnie.

And when ye spake of yond bright star

That lingers in the lift afar,

   Where Burns was never weary

Of gazing on the far-off sphere,

Where dwells his angel lassie dear —

   His ain sweet Highland Mary!

But here my Muse its wings may lower;

Such flights are far beyond its power;

   So I will stop the jingle.

Sir, I am much obliged to you,

And I am much indebted to

   The Choir and Mr. Pringle.