Revised Edition of Poems. Bill o'th' Hoylus End
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Revised Edition of Poems
The Author respectfully submits to the general public of his native town and district, this volume of poems, containing some of the chief results of his musings for the past thirty years. He hopes that the volume, which is in reality the production of a life-time, will in many ways be deemed worthy of the kind and courteous approbation of his numerous patrons and friends, as well as the indulgence of literary critics.
In launching forth the work, the Author begs to tender to his patrons and the public generally, his most sincere and hearty thanks for the assistance they have ever rendered him so as to enable him to acquire the necessary leisure for the cultivation of his muse. The result now achieved is not the comprehensive collection of the efforts of the author, but it may he taken as a selection and a representation of his more generally interesting productions from time to time.
Various reasons have operated in the time of the publication and the curtailment of this volume; but it is now submitted with every respect to the public for their perusal. Many of his poems, which are not found in the present volume, the author trusts will be deemed worthy of being treasured in the scrap books of his friends. Of the literary merits of the composition, it would ill become the author in any way to descant upon; but in regard to these he leaves himself entirely and absolutely in the hands of a critical, and, he hopes, an indulgent public, feeling assured that he may trust himself in the hands of his readers.
No formal dedication is here made to any particular patron, but the book is submitted without the powerful influence of any conspicuous name or the commendation of any well-known literary friend; and like Dr. Johnson of old, failing patrons, he trusts that his work will, in the midst of his numerous competitors, locally and generally, be thought worthy of the attention of the various classes of the public.
AUGUST, 1891.
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth
Come, hand me down that rustic harp,
From off that rugged wall,
For I must sing another song
To suit the Muse’s call,
For she is bent to sing a pœan,
On this eventful year,
In praise of the philanthropist
Whom all his friends hold dear —
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
Beyond his eightieth year!
No flattery! My honest Muse,
Nor yet be thou servile;
But tinkle up that harp again,
A moment to beguile.
Altho’ the bard be rude and rough,
Yet, he is ever proud
To do the mite that he can do,
And thus proclaim aloud —
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
Of whom we all are proud!
For base indeed were any bard
That ever sang on earth,
Did he not wish his neighbour well,
And praise his sterling worth.
Leave state affairs and office
To those of younger blood,
But I am with the patriot,
The noble, wise, and good —
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
The wise, the great, the good!
This worthy old philanthropist,
Whom all his neighbours greet;
Who has a smile for every one
Whom he may chance to meet —
Go to yon pleasant village,
On the margin of the moor,
And you will hear his praises sung
By all the aged poor —
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
A friend unto the poor!
Long may he live! and happy be,
The patriot and the sire;
And may some other harp give praise,
Whose notes will sound much higher.
His thirst for knowledge, worth, and lore —
His heart was ever there —
This worthy old philanthropist,
Beyond his eightieth year! —
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
Beyond his eightieth year.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED ON HEARING
Dr. Dobie’s Lecture on Burns
Though murky are the days and short,
And man he finds but little sport,
These gloomy days, to cheer him;
Yet, if a Dobie should, perchance,
Come out before an audience,
’Tis worth our while to hear him.
Right pleased was I, dear sir, to hear
Your lecture on that subject dear,
So grand and superhuman;
For all the world doth pay regard
To Bobbie Burns, the Scottish bard,
The patriot and the ploughman.
Your words, indeed, were passing good,
On him who kenned and understood
The kirk and all its ranting;
Who “held the mirror” up, indeed,
To show the “muckle unco-guid”
Their double-dyéd canting.
You painted him sometimes in glee
While other times in poverty —
To gold without alliance;
Yet, after all he kept his pace,
And looked grim fortune in the face,
And set him at defiance.
But, alas! the picture, was it true?
Of Burns’ parents, poor and low —
So furrowed and so hoary —
It makes our very hearts to burn
To think that “man was made to mourn,”
And tell the sad, sad story.
You brought me back to days bygone,
When glad its banks I strolled upon,
The river Doon so bonnie;
The roofless kirk and yard so green,
Where many a tombstone may be seen,
With Tam and Souter Johnnie.
And when ye spake of yond bright star
That lingers in the lift afar,
Where Burns was never weary
Of gazing on the far-off sphere,
Where dwells his angel lassie dear —
His ain sweet Highland Mary!
But here my Muse its wings may lower;
Such flights are far beyond its power;