Lochwinnoch: A Descriptive Poem
Here as the shepherd ranges o'er the heath,
The speckled adder sweeps across the path,
Or lies collected in the sun's bright beams,
Or wriggles forward to the distant streams;
But sudden caught in vain the felon flies,
He feels the scourging crook and stretched and gaping dies.
Near the bleak border of these lonely moors,
Where o'er the brook the mossy margin lowers,
'Midst clust'ring trees and sweet surrounding dells.
In rural cot a rustic poet dwells ;
Unknown to him the dull elab'rate rules,
And mazy doctrines of pedantic schools:
Yet genius warms his breast with noble fire,
And the rapt Muse seems eager to inspire.
High on the herby hill while morning smiles,
And shoots her beams along the distant isles,
Cheerful he sits, and gazing o'er the plain,
In native language pours his jocund strain;
“How bonny morning speels the eastlin lift,
And waukens lads and lasses to their thrift,
Gars layrocks sing and canty lamies loup,
And me mysel' croon cheery on my doup;”
Or oft rejoiced he sings how best to relit.
Big swelling roots, the peasant's homely cheer,
When drowned with milk amid the pot they're prest,
Or mealy, bursting fill his brawny fist;
How the deep bog or wat'ry marsh to drain,
And bid bare hillocks groan with bending grain.
These are the themes that oft engage his Muse,
Swell his full breast and stretch his wid'ning views;
While wond'ring shepherds as they round him throng,
Survey the hoary bard and bless the instructing song.
When harvest's o'er, his last, his sweetest toil,
And every barn contains the rustling spoil;
When winter growls along the frozen lakes,
And whit'ning snows descend in silent flakes;
When all without is drear, and keen blown frost
Has each hard foot-step on the road embost,
Led by the pale-faced moon o'er drifted plains,
From many a cottage trudge the neighb'ring swains,
To hear his tale, and round his glowing hearth,
To pass the night in innocence and mirth.
Retired from towns, from scenes of guilt and strife,
How blest poor shepherd's your untroubled life!
No deep black schemes employ your jocund hour,
Like birds of prey each other to devour.
The milky flocks throng nibbling o'er the steep,
The tinkling brooks that sweetly lull to sleep.
The warbling bank, the dewy morn's pale light,
While mists rise slowly from each neighb'ring height,
The lark's shrill song, the blackbird's wilder airs,
These are your pleasures, these your happy cares.
Down from this spreading moor with gathering force,
Impetuous Calder leaves his marshy source,
Through deep sunk vales and rude resisting rocks,
His furious current raves and thundering smokes,
While swift he pours along in foamy pride,
Huge massive bulwarks rise on either side;
Rocks grimly lowering o'er the darkened stream,
Hollow'd with caves where ne'er peep'd Phoebus' beam.
Here in red clusters hang the juicy row'n;
There sun-burnt nuts depress the hazel down;
High on yon rock the lucious berries swarm,
Yet mock the efforts of the straining arm;
So when some poet wand'ring through the street,
If chance a sav'ry smell his nostrils meet,
Sudden he stops—looks round on some cook's stall,
And eager gazes—but a look's his all.