POEMS
EPISTLE TO JAMES BARR
Wherever he may be found.
March, 1804.
GUDE Pibrocharian, jorum jirger,
Sae, hae ye turned an Antiburgher ?
Or lang-fac'd Presbyterian El'er ?
Deep read in wiles o gath'rin siller ?
Or cauld, splenetic solitair,
Resolv'd to herd wi man nae mair ?
As to the second I've nae fear for't ;
For siller, feth ! ye ne'er did care for't,
Unless to help a needfu body,
An get an antrin glass o toddy.
But what the black mischief's cam owre ye ?
These three months I've been speirin for you,
Till e'en the Muse, wi downricht grievin,
Has worn her chafts as thin's a shavin.
Say, hae ye ta'en a tramp to Lon'an,
In Co. wi worthy auld Buchanan,*
Wha mony a mile wad streek his shanks,
To hae a crack wi Josie Banks**
Concerning “Shells, an birds, an metals,
Moths, spiders, butterflies, an beetles.”
For you, I think you'll cut a figure,
Wi king o pipers, Malc. M‘Gregor,
An wi your clarion, flute, an fiddle,
Will gar their southron heart-strings diddle.
Or are ye thro' the kintra whiskin,
Accoutr'd wi the sock an buskin,
Thinkin to climb to wealth an fame,
By adding Roscius ***: to your name?
Frae thochts o that, pray keep abeich !
Ye're far ow're auld, an far owre heich;
Since in thir novel-hunting days
There's nane but bairns can act our plays.
At twal year auld, if ye had tried it,
I doubtna but ye micht succeedit ;
But full-grown buirdly chiels like you—
Quite monstrous, man, 'twill never do !
Or are ye gane, as there are few sic,
For teachin o a band o music ?
O, hear auld Scotland's fervent pray'rs,
And teach her genuine native airs !
Whilk simply play'd, devoid o' airt.
Thrill thro the senses to the heart.
Play, when ye'd rouse the patriot's saul,
True valour's tune, “The Garb of Gaul.”
An when laid low in glory's bed,
Let “Roslin Castle” soothe his shade.
“The Bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,”
Its every accent breathes despair ;
An “Ettrick's Banks,” celestial strain !
Mak's simmer's gloamin mair serene ;
An, O how sweet the plaintive muse,
Amang “The Broom o Cowdenknowes !”
To hear the love-lorn swain complain,
Lane, on “The Braes o' Ballendine;”
It e'en micht melt the dortiest she,
That ever sklinted scornfu e'e.
When Beauty tries her vocal pow'rs
Amang the greenwood's echoing bow'rs,
“The Bonnie Birks o Invermay”
Might mend a seraph's sweetest lay.
Then, should grim Care invest your castle,
Just knock him down wi “Willie Wastle,”
An rant blythe “Lumps o' Puddin” owre him ;
And for his dirge sing “Tullochgorum.”
Whan Orpheus charm'd his wife frae hell,
Twas nae Scotch tune he play'd sae well ;
Else had the worthy auld wire scraper
Been keepit for his dielship's piper.
Or if ye're turn'd a feather'd fop,
Licht dancing upon fashion's top,
Wi lofty brow an selfish e'e,
Despising low clad dogs like me ;
Uncaring your contempt or favour,
Sweet butterfly adieu for ever !
But, hold—I'm wrong tae doubt your sense,
For pride proceeds from ignorance.
If peace of mind lay in fine clothes,
I'd be the first of flutt'ring beaux,
An strut as proud as any peacock,
That ever craw'd on tap o haycock ;
And ere I'd know ane vexing thocht,
Get dollar buttons on my coat,
Wi a the lave o fulsome trash on
That constitutes a man o fashion.
O, grant me this, kind Providence,
A moderate, decent competence ;
Thou'lt see me smile in independence,
Above weak-saul'd pride born ascendence.
But whether ye're gane to teach the Whistle,
Midst noise an rough regimental bustle ;
Or gane to strut upon the stage,
Smit wi the mania o the age ;
Or Scotsman like, hae trampt abreed,
To yon big town far south the Tweed ;
Or dourin in the hermit's cell,
Unblessing an unblest yoursel—
In gude's name, write !—tak up your pen
An how ye're daein let me ken.
Sae, hoping quickly your epistle,
Adieu! thou genuine son of song an whistle.
# James Barr, weaver and musician, Kilbarchan, was born at Tarbolton, Ayrshire, in 1781. He died 24th February, 1860.
* Buchanan was an old friend of Tannahill in Kilbarchan, to whom he addressed the Epistle (No. 25) in August, 1806, and the reader is directed to the Notes upon it.—Ed.
** Sir Joseph Banks, an accomplished and laborious naturalist. He accompanied Captain Cook in his first voyage round the world in 1768.—Ed.
*** William Henry West Betty, called “The Young Roscius,” was born on 3th September, 1791, near Shrewsbury in England, and died at London in his 83rd year. Tannahill walked into Glasgow and saw and heard “The Young Roscius” in 1804.—Ed.
POSTSCRIPT
We had a concert here short syne ;
Oh, man ! the music was divine,
Baith plaintive sang and merry glee,
In a the soul o harmony.
When Smith and Stuart * lea this earth,
The gods, in token o their worth,
Will welcome them at heaven's portals
The brichtest, truest, best o mortals ;
Apollo, proud, as weel he may,
Will walk on tip toe a that day ;
While a the Muses kindred claim,
Rememb'ring what they've done for them.
*William Stuart, weaver in Well Street, Paisley, was born 12th November, 1779; married in 1799 ; and died at London in 1862, aged 83. James Barr, to whom this Epistle was addressed, and Smith and Stuart, were three of the “Five Frien's” mentioned as “blythe Jamie Barr,” “Rah frae the south,” and “Will, the guid fallow.” William Stuart was one of the founders of the Burns' Club in 1805, and a very intimate acquaintance of Tannahill's—Ed.