Â鶹Éç

By Samuel Thomson

While yellow Autumn hies apace,

An’ ripening fiels’ and blighted braes
Confess the waning year:
To you my frien’, in Burns’s way,
I thus sooth up a roundelay,
My drooping spirits to chear.
Ah me! dear L---, the season’s fled –
The flow’ry months o’ joy;
The tuneless wood an’ ravish’d mead
Proclaim the winter nigh.
Come see now, with me now,
How Flora quits the lees;
Whilst Boreas before us
Is stipping all the trees.

But what need I in tears complain,
Of grief beset, in lowly strain,
Thus pour my plaint of woe:
When ‘tis the fate of all on earth,
When ‘tis for this we have our birth,
On terra here below.
All flesh is like the grassy vest
That haps the Simmer brae,
When winter cauld the plains arrest,
It withers straight away.
The youngest, the strongest,
Return alas! they must,
With oldest an’ boldest,
At all events to dust.

What boots it here to grasp at rules?
Even all the knowledge of the schools
Is but a poor resource!
For ay the mair that ye’re inclined,
To read this volume o’ mankin’,
Ye’ll like it still the worse.
Aroun’ the warl, look an’ stare,
An’ tell me if ye can,
Where I may find in truth sincere.
Ten social, honest men;
But mask all, each rascal,
Deceiving an deceiv’d:
I true Sir! I vow Sir!
There’s few to be believ’d!

I’ve often read, an’ often heard,
That poortith for the rustic bard,
Doth ever lie in wait:
While partial Fate profuse bestows
On wicked sons o’ tasteless prose,
Even kingdoms, crowns an’ state!
My mind to me’s a kingdom wide,
Nae mair I wish or want:
Tho’ poortith on my riggin ride,
I’m happily content.
Tho’ tost aft, an’ crost fok’,
I meet still, an’ greet still,
Misfortune with a joke.

My life as like the chrystal rill
That wimpling flows, with sweetest thrill,
Adown the gowany brae:
That ceaseless frae its rocky source,
Pursues its pebbly, winding course,
Still murmuring to the sea
Amid the landscape, lonely here
I up my whistle bla’,
As down life’s crooked path I steer,
To frighten care awa.
With L-----e whiles, a book whiles,
To pass a happy hour;
I’m careless an’ fearless
How faithless Fortune lour.

Wi’ glowan heart I’m right content
To see your name wi’ mine in prent,
In humble rural rhyme:
The swains unborn of other days,
Will jocund chaunt our simple lays,
Adown the vale o’ time:
Whilst you an’ I neglected sleep
Aneath some mossy stone,
Where nightly owls their vigils keep,
And wae-worn turtles moan!
Reposing, there dosing,
We’ll wear the years away,
Baith roun’ly, an’ soun’ly,
Until the Judgment day.