麻豆社

By Samuel Thomson

While yellow Autumn hies apace,

An鈥� ripening fiels鈥� and blighted braes
Confess the waning year:
To you my frien鈥�, in Burns鈥檚 way,
I thus sooth up a roundelay,
My drooping spirits to chear.
Ah me! dear L---, the season鈥檚 fled 鈥�
The flow鈥檙y months o鈥� joy;
The tuneless wood an鈥� ravish鈥檇 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 鈥榯is the fate of all on earth,
When 鈥榯is 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鈥� 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鈥檙e inclined,
To read this volume o鈥� mankin鈥�,
Ye鈥檒l like it still the worse.
Aroun鈥� the warl, look an鈥� stare,
An鈥� tell me if ye can,
Where I may find in truth sincere.
Ten social, honest men;
But mask all, each rascal,
Deceiving an deceiv鈥檇:
I true Sir! I vow Sir!
There鈥檚 few to be believ鈥檇!

I鈥檝e often read, an鈥� often heard,
That poortith for the rustic bard,
Doth ever lie in wait:
While partial Fate profuse bestows
On wicked sons o鈥� tasteless prose,
Even kingdoms, crowns an鈥� state!
My mind to me鈥檚 a kingdom wide,
Nae mair I wish or want:
Tho鈥� poortith on my riggin ride,
I鈥檓 happily content.
Tho鈥� tost aft, an鈥� crost fok鈥�,
I meet still, an鈥� 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鈥�,
As down life鈥檚 crooked path I steer,
To frighten care awa.
With L-----e whiles, a book whiles,
To pass a happy hour;
I鈥檓 careless an鈥� fearless
How faithless Fortune lour.

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