THE RESOLVE. ___ “Him, who ne’er listen’d
to the voice of praise The silence of neglect can ne’er
appal.” BEATTIE. * * * * * * * * ’TWAS on a sunny
Sabbath-day, When
wark-worn bodies get their play, (Thanks
to the rulers o’ the nation, Wha
gi’e us all a toleration, To
gang, as best may please oursel’s; Some
to the kirk, some to the fiel’s) I
wander’d out, wi’ serious leuk,
To
read twa page on Nature’s beuk; For
lang I’ve thought, as little harm in Hearing
a lively out-fiel’ sermon, Even
tho’ rowted by a stirk, As
that aft bawl’d in crowded kirk, By
some proud, stern, polemic wight Wha
cries, “My way alone is right!” Wha
lairs himsel’ in controversy, Then
d***s his neighbours without mercy; As
if the fewer that were spar’d, These few would be the better
ser’d. Now
to my tale—Digression o'er-- I
wander’d out by Stanely Tow'r, The
lang grass on its tap did wave, Like
weeds upon a warrior’s grave; Whilk
seem to mock the bloody braggers, An
grow on theirs’ as rank’s on beggars’-- But
hold, I’m frae the point again.—
I
wander’d up Gleniffer glen; There,
leaning ’gainst a mossy rock, I,
musing, ey’d the passing brook, That
in its murmurs seem’d to say, “ ’Tis thus thy life glides fast away: Observe
the bubbles on my stream; Like
them, They
blink a moment to the sun, Then
burst, So
Fame’s a bubble of the mind; Possess’d,
’tis nought, but empty win, No
courtly gem e’er purchas’d dearer, An ne’er can satisfy the wearer. Let
them wha hae a bleezing share o’t Confess
the truth, they sign for mair o’t. Then
let contentment be thy cheer, An’
never soar aboon thy sphere; Rude
storms assail the mountains brow, That lightly skiff the vale below.” A gaudy rose
was growing near, Proud,
tow’ring on its leafy brier, In
fancy’s ear it seem’d to say-- “Sir,
have you seen a flow’r so gay? The
poets in my praise combine, Comparing
Chloe’s charms to mine; The
sun-beams for my favour sue me, And
dark-brow’d night comes down to woo
me; But
when I shrink from his request, He
draps his tears upon my breast, And
in his misty cloud sits wae, Till
chas’d awa’ by rival day—-- That
streamlet's grov’ling grunting fires
me, Since
no’ ane sees me, but admires me, See
yon bit violet ’neath my view: Wee
sallow thing, its nose is blue! An’
that but primrose ’side the breckan, Poor
yellow ghaist, it seems forsaken! The
sun ne’er throws’t ae transient glow, Unless
when passing whether or no; But
wisely spurning ane sae mean, He
blinks on me frae morn till e’en.” To which the primrose calm replied-- “Poor
gaudy gowk suppress your pride, For
soon the strong flow’r-sweeping blast Shall
strew your honours in the dust; While
I beneath my lowly bield, Will
live an’ bloom frae harm conceal’d; An’
while the heavy-rain draps pelt you, Ye’ll
may-be think on what I’ve tell’t you.”-- The
rose derisive seem’d to sneer, An wav’d upon its bonny brier. Now dark’ning clouds began to gather, Presaging
sudden change of weather; I
wandered hame by Stanely green, Deep pond'ring what I’d heard an’ seen,
Firmly
resolved to shun from hence, The
dangerous steeps of eminence; To
drap this rhyming trade for ever, And
creep thro’ life, a plain, day-plodding weaver. |