Letter to Robert Allan: 14 March 1808
Mr Robert Allan Kilbarchan Paisley
14th March 1808 Dear Robin, The Muse is now a wee
at leisure, And sits her down wi’ meikle pleasure, To skelp you off the
blaud o’ rhyme, As near’s she can to
true sublime; But here’s the rub –
poor poet devils -- We’re compass’d
’round wi’ mony evels, We jerk oursel’s into
a fever To give the world
something clever, And after a’, perhaps
we muddle, In
vile, prosaic stagnant puddle. For me — I seldom
choose a subject, My rhymes are aft
without an object, I let the Muse e’en
take her win’, And dash awa’ thro’
thick and thin: For Method’s sic a
servile creature, She spurns the wilds
o’ simple nature, And paces on, wi’ easy art, A long day’s journey
frae the heart -- Sae what comes
upermaist ye’ll get it, Be’t good or ill, for
you I write it. How fares my worthy friend, the
Bard? Be peace and honour
his reward, May every ill that
gars us [f]yke, Ill webs, toom
pouches and sic like, And ought that wou’d his spirit bend, Be ten miles distant
from my friend. Alas! this wicked endless War, Rul[’d by] some vile, malignant star, Has sunk poor Britain
low indeed, Has robb’d Industry
o’ her bread, And dash’d the
sair-won cog o’ crowdy, Frae mony an honest
eident body, While Genius, dying
thro’ neglect, Sinks
down amidst the general wreck. Just like twa cats tied tail to
tail, They worry at it
tooth and nail, They girn, they bite in deadly wrath, And
what is’t for?
for nought, in faith! Wee Lowrie Frank, wi’ brazen
snout, Nae doubt wou’d like
to scart us out, For proud John Bull,
ay us’d to hone him, Will no’ gie o’er to
sp— upon him, But Lowrie’s rais’d
to sic degree, John wou’d be wise to
let him be, [#] Else aiblins, as he’s
wearin’ aul’, Frank yet may tear
him spawl frae spawl, For, wi’ the mony
chirt’s he’s gotten I fear his constitution’s
rotten. But while the bullying blades o’
Europe Are boxing ither to a syrup, Let’s mind oursel’s
as weel’s we can, And live in peace
like man and man, And no’ cast out, and
feght like brutes, Without
a cause for our disputes. When I read o’er your kind
Epistle, I didna “dance”,
nor “sing”, nor “whistle,” But jumpt and cried,
hazza, hazza! Like Robin Ruffhead
in the Play-- But to be serious —
jest aside, I felt a glow o’
secret pride, Thus to be roos’d by
ane like you, Yet
doubted if sic praise was due. Till self thus
reason’d on the matter Ye ken’ that Robin
scorns to flatter, And ere he’d
prostitute his quill, He’d rather burn his
rhyming mill -- Enough! I cried —
I’ve gain’d my end, Since I hae pleas’d my worthy friend. My sangs are now afore the warl, And some may sing,
and some may snarl, They ha’e their
faults, yet I can tell, Nane sees them
clearer than mysel’, But still I think
they too inherit Amang the dross some
sparks o’ m[erit.] Then come, my dear Parnassian
Brither! Let’s lay our
poet-heads thegither, And sing our ain
sweet native scenes, Our streams, our
banks, and rural plains, Our woods, our shaws, and flow’ry holms, And mountains clad wi’ purple blooms, Wi burnies bickering down their
braes, Reflecting
back the sunny rays. Ye’ve Semple Woods and Calder
glen And Locher Bank,
sweet fairy den! And Auchenames,
a glorious theme! Where Crawford liv’d,
of deathless name, Where Semple sued,
his lass to win, And Nelly “ ’rose and let him in;” Where Habby Sympson lang did play, The first o’ Pipers
in his day, [#] [no stanza break] And tho’ a’ ’neath
the turf langsyne, Their sangs and tunes
shall never tyne. Sae Robin, briskly ply the Muse, She warms our hearts,
expands our views, Gars ev’ry sordid
passion flee, And
waukens ev’ry sympathy. Now wishing Fate may never tax
you, Wi’ cross nor loss,
to thraw and [v]ex you, But keep you hale
till ninety nine, Till you and y[ou]rs in honour shine, Shall ever be my
earnest pray’r, While I’ve ae
friendly wish to spare. _________________
Yours truly, Ro[bt] Tann[a]hill A.P.S. I neglected to
mention that I wish my good friend Buchanan to write me an account of Semple,
Crawford, and Habby Simpson which I mean to insert as a foot note to the above. Emendations Rul’d by •
Rul[ààààà] merit. • m[ààità] vex • [v]ex yours • y[àà]rs
Robt
Tannahill • Ro[àà] Tann[à]hill Copy Text: MS Robertson 1/13 Previous Publication: Notes: 1This entire
postscript is heavily redacted with at least two thick wavy lines through all
text. Any recovered text should be treated as a questionable or possible
reading at best. No effort has been made to show the amount of redacted text
between recoverable portions. |