HERDS, blythesome tune your canty reeds,
An' welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang;
Unfald ilk buss an' ilka brier,
The bounties o' the gleesome year,
To him whase voice delights the spring,
Whase soughs the fastest slumbers bring.
The trees in simmer-cleething drest,
The hillocks in their greenest vest,
The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see,
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee,
Blythely to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts o' spring.
Whan fields hae got their dewy gift,
An' dawnin breaks upo' the lift,
Then gang your wa's thro' hight an' how,
Seek caller haugh or sunny know,
Or ivy'd craig, or burn-bank brae,
Whare Industry shall bid you gae,
For hiney, or for waxen store,
To ding sad poortith frae the door.
Cou'd feckless creature, Man, be wise,
The simmer o' his life to prize,
In winter he might fend fu' bauld,
His eild unkend to nippen cauld,
Yet thir, alas! are antrin fock
That lade their scape wi' winter stock.
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour
Upo' the ailings o' the poor,
Wha hope for nae comforting, save
That dowie dismal house the grave.
Then feeble Man, be wise, tak tent
How Industry can fetch content :
Behad the bees whare'er they wing,
Or thro' the bonny bowers o' spring,
Whare vi❜lets or whare roses blaw,
An' siller dew-draps nightly fa',
Or whan on open bent they're seen,
On hether hill or thristle green;
The hiney's still as sweet that flows
Frae thistle cauld, or kendling rose.
Frae this the human race may learn
Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn,
Whether they tramp life's thorny way,
Or thro' the sunny vineyard stray.
Instructive bee! attend me still,
Owr a' my labours sey your
For thee shall hiney-suckles rise,
Wi' lading to your busy thighs,
An' ilka shrub surround my cell,
Whareon ye like to hum an' dwell:
My trees in bourachs owr my ground
Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind:
Nor e'er shall herd, wi' ruthless spike,
Delve out the treasures frae your bike,
But in my fence be safe, an' free
To live, an' work, an' sing like me.
Like thee, by fancy wing'd, the Muse
Scuds ear' an' heartsome owr the dews,
Fu' vogie, an' fu' blythe to crap
The winsome flow'rs frae Nature's lap,
Twining her living garlands there,
That lyart Time can ne'er impair.
DAFT gowk, in macaroni dress,
Are ye come here to shaw your face,
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross;
An' glowr at mony a twa-legg'd creature,
Flees braw by art, tho' worms by nature?
Like country laird in city cleeding,
Ye're come to town to lear' good breeding;
To bring ilk darling toast an' fashion
In vogue amang the flie creation,
That they, like buskit belles an' beaus,
May crook their mu' fu' sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While ye, wi' wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird an' reptiles skim;
Newfangle grown wi' new got form,
You soar aboon your mither worm.
Kind Nature lent but for a day
Her wings to mak ye sprush an' gay;
In her habauliments a while
Ye may your former sell beguile,
An' ding awa' the vexing thought
O' hourly dwyning into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brither's,
Black corbies dress'd in peacocks' feathers;
Like thee they dander here an' there,
Whan simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
An' loo to snuff the healthy balm
Whan E'ening spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she grins an' glowrs sae dow'r
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r,
Like thee they scoug frae street or field,
An' hap them in a lyther bield;
For they were never made to dree
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's eie,
Nor ever pried life's pining woes,
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose.
Poor Butterfly! thy case I mourn,
To green kail-yard and fruits return :
How cou'd you troke the mavis' note
For "penny pies all-piping hot ?"
Can lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City Guard ?
Or can our flow'rs at ten hours bell
The gowan or the spink excell?
Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring, What cabbage-fauld wad screen your wing?
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