The Brigs Of Ayr（1 / 9）
the brigs of ayr
a poem
inscribed to john ballantine, esq., ayr.
the simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,
learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
the chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
the soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
shall he—nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
to hardy independence bravely bred,
by early poverty to hardship steel'd.
and train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field—
shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
the servile, mercenary swiss of rhymes?
or labour hard the panegyric close,
with all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
no! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
and throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
he glows with all the spirit of the bard,
fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace,
skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
when ballantine befriends his humble name,
and hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
with heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
the godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.
'twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
and thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith ↑返回顶部↑
a poem
inscribed to john ballantine, esq., ayr.
the simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,
learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
the chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
the soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
shall he—nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
to hardy independence bravely bred,
by early poverty to hardship steel'd.
and train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field—
shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
the servile, mercenary swiss of rhymes?
or labour hard the panegyric close,
with all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
no! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
and throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
he glows with all the spirit of the bard,
fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace,
skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
when ballantine befriends his humble name,
and hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
with heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
the godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.
'twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
and thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith ↑返回顶部↑