POEMS
EPISTLE TO JAMES SCADLOCK
On receiving from him a small MS. volume of Original Scottish Poems.
April, 1803.
WHILE colleg'd Bards bestride Pegasus,
An' try to gallop up Parnassus,
By dint o' meikle lear,
The lowe o friendship fires my saul,
Tae write you this poetic scrawl,—
Prosaic dull, I fear !
But, weel I ken, your gen'rous heart
Will overlook its failings,
And whar the poet has come short,
Let frien'ship cure his ailings ;
Tis kind, man, divine, man,
Tae hide the faut we see,
Or try tae men't, as far's we ken't,
Wi true sincerity.
This last observe, bring'st in my head,
Tae tell you here my social creed—
Let's use a' mankind weel,
An ony Bumph wha'd use us ill,
Wi' dry contempt let's treat him still,
He'll feel it warst himsel :
I never flatter—praise but rare,
I scorn a double pairt ;
An when I speak, I speak sincere,
The dictates o my heart ;
I truly hate the dirty gait
That mony a bodie tak's,
Wha fraise ane, syne blaze ane
As soon's they turn their backs.
In judging, let us be richt hooly ;
I've heard some fouks distant sae freely,
On ither people's matters,
As if theirsel's war real perfection,
Whan, had they stood a fair inspection,
The abus'd war far their betters :
But gossips ay maun hae their crack,
Though moralists shoud rail.
Let's end the matter wi this fac',
That, “Goodness pays itsel.”
The joys, man, that rise, man,
To ane frae daeing weel,
Are siccan joys that harden'd vice
Can seldom ever feel.
O Jamie, man ! I'm proud to see't,
Our ain auld muse yet keeps her feet,
Maist healthy as before ;
For sad predicting fears foretauld,
When Robin's glowing heart turn'd cauld,
Then a our joys war o'er,
(Ilk future Bard revere his name,
Through thousan years to come,
And though we cannot reach his fame,
Busk laurels roun his tomb :)
Yet, though he's dead, the Scottish reed,
This mony a day may ring,
In Livingston,* in Anderson,**
In Scadlock, and in King.
“The Tap-room,”—what a glorious treat!
“Complaint and wish”—how plaintive sweet !
“The Weaver's” just “Lament.”
“The Gloamin' Fragment”***—how divine !
There Nature speaks in every line,
The Bard's immortal in't !
Yon “Epigram on Jeanie Lang,”
Is pointed as the steel,
An “Hoot ! ye ken yoursel's,”—a sang
Would pleas'd e'en Burns himsel !
Let snarling, mean quarr'ling,
Be doubly damn'd henceforth,
And let us raise the voice of praise,
To hearten modest worth.
And you, my dear respectit frien,
Your “Spring's” a precious evergreen,
Fresh beauties budding still.
Your “Levern Banks,” an “Killoch Burn,”
Ye sing them wi sae sweet a turn,
Ye gar the heart-strings thrill.
“October Winds”—e'en let them rave,
Wi Nature-blasting howl,
If, in return, kind heaven gi'e
The sunshine of the soul:
The feeling heart that bears a part,
In ithers' joys and woes,
May still depend to find a frien
Howe'er the tempest blows.
Yet, lang I've thocht, and think it yet,
True frien's are rarely to be met,
Wha share in ithers' troubles,
Wha jointly joy, or drap the tear
Reciprocal—and kindly bear
Wi ane anither's foibles ;
Ev'n such a frien I ance could boast,
Ah ! now in death he's low—
But fond anticipation hopes
For such a frien in you.
Dear Jamie, forgi'e me,
That last presumptive line ;
See—here's my han at your comman‑
Ye hae my heart langsyne.
Note in 1825 Edition.—“James Scadlock, engraver, was born at Paisley on 7th Oct„ 1775, and died in 1818. His posthumous works, consisting of Poems. Odes, and Songs, etc., have since been published. along with 4 short sketch of his life.”—Ed.
*William Livingston, weaver, poet, and comedian, was born in 1776. He was an early and intimate acquaintance and correspondent of Tannahill.
**William Anderson, clockmaker, precentor, teacher of music, and poet.
*** “The Gloamin : a Fragment” (by the author of “The Weaver's Lament,” “Complaint and Wish,” etc., transmitted by a Correspondent) appeared in the Glasgow Selector of 1805, Vol. III., page 199. The Correspondent would be Tannahill.—Ed.