poem on pastoral poetry
hail, poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
in chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
frae on sense, or sunk enerv'd
'mang heaps o' cvers:
and och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,
'mid a' thy favours!
say, ssie, why, thy train amang,
while loud the trump's heroig,
and sock or buskin skelp ang
to death or marriage;
scare has tried the shepherd—sang
but wi' miscarriage?
in homer's craft jock milton thrives;
eschylus' pen will shakespeare drives;
wee pope, the knurlin', till him rives
horatian fame;
in thy sweet sang, barbauld, survives
even sappho's fme.
but thee, theocritus, wha matches?
they're no herd's balts, 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 braw age o' wit and lear,
will he shepherd's whistle mair
bw sweetly in its native air,
and rural grace;
and, wi' the far-fam'd gre, share
a rival pce?
yes! there is ane—a scottish !
there's ane; e forrit, ho aln!
thou need na jouk behint the haln,
a chiel sae clever;
the teeth o' time may gnaw tantaln,
but thou's for ever.
thou paints auld nature 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 gowany glens thy burrays,
where bonie sses bleach their ces,
or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
wi' hawthray,
where bckbirds join the shepherd's ys,
at close o' day.
thy rural loves are nature's sel';
nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
nae snap ceits, but that sweet spell
o' wit love,
that charm that the stro quell,
the ster move.