Tennyson himself confesses,
The radiance of the dewdrop shares,
The berry's perfect shape possesses;
And even William Wordsworth praises
The magic of his faultless phrases.
But he, whose books bedeck our shelves,
Whose lofty genius we adore so,
Was only human, like ourselves, —
Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!
And joined a thirst that nought could quench
To morals which were frankly French.
And ev'ry night he made his way,
With boon companions, bent on frolic,
To inns of ill-repute, where lay
Refreshments – chiefly alcoholic!
(But I decline to raise your gorges,
Describing these nocturnal orgies.)
Of love-affairs he knew no end,
So long and ardently he flirted,
And e'en the least suspicious friend
Would feel a trifle disconcerted,
When Burns was sitting with his "sposa,"
"As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"
A Cockney Chiel who found him thus,
And showed some conjugal alarm,
When Burns implored him not to fuss,
Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"
Replied at once, with perfect taste,
"The harm is round my consort's waist!"
"A poor thing but my own," said he,
His fair but fickle bride denoting,
And she, with scathing repartee,
Assented, wilfully misquoting,
(Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah),
"A poorer thing – and yet my owner!"
The most bucolic hearts were burnt
By Burns' amatory glances;
The most suburban spinsters learnt
To welcome his abrupt advances;
When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said,
They wished that they were there instead!
They loved him from the first, in spite
Of angry parents' interference;
They deemed his courtship so polite,
So captivating his appearance;
So great his charm, so apt his wit,
In local parlance, Burns was IT!
The rustic maids from far and wide,
Encouraged his unwise flirtations;
For love of Burns they moped and sighed,
And, while their nearest male relations
Were up in arms, the sad thing is
That they themselves were up in his!
His crest a mug, with open lid,
The kind in vogue with ancient Druids, —
Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"
(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"),
On either side, as meet supporters,
The village blacksmith's lovely daughters.
"Men were deceivers ever!" True,
As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!),
But one should always keep in view
That "tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny";
In judging poets it suffices
To scan their verses, not their vices.
The poets of the present time
Attempt their feeble imitations;
Are economical of rhyme,
And lavish with reiterations;
The while a patient public swallows
A "Border Ballad" much as follows: —
Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,
Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither,
Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,
Like a mither.
Jamie's ganging doon the burn,
Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer,
Jamie's ganging doon the burn,
To Strathpeffer!
Jamie's comin' hame to dee,
Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin',
Jamie's comin' hame to dee,
Dee o' drinkin'!
Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!
Dinna greet sae sair!
Gin ye canna, winna, shanna
See yer lassie mair!
Wha' hoo!
Wha' hae!
Strathpeffer!
I give you now, as antidote,
Some lines which I myself indited.
Carnegie, when he read them, wrote
To say that he was quite delighted;
Their pathos cut him to the quick,
Their humour almost made him sick.
The queys are moopin' i' the mirk,
An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk,
I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,
Sae straught an' primsie;
In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,
The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,
The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,
Or warl a whimsy.
The cootie muircocks crousely craw,
The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,
I gie their wames a random paw,
For a' they're skilpy;
For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,
To but the ben, or loup the linn,
Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pin
Sae frae an' gilpie?
Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,
The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,
Och, hand me o'er
Ma lang claymore,
Twa, bannocks an' a bap,
Wha hoo!
Twa bannocks an' a bap!
O fellow Scotsman, near and far,
Renowned for health and good digestion,
For all that makes you what you are, —
(But are you really? That's the question) —
Be grateful, while the world endures,
That