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The Brigs of Ayr.
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thornbush,
The soaring lark, thic piercing red-breast shrill.
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lonely shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field;
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes!
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the vepal soul of dedicating Prose!
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spies of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B. . . . . . . . . befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike blies, to give, alone excels.
. . . . . . . . .
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath;
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thornbush,
The soaring lark, thic piercing red-breast shrill.
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lonely shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field;
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes!
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the vepal soul of dedicating Prose!
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spies of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B. . . . . . . . . befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike blies, to give, alone excels.
. . . . . . . . .
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath;
B3
