Original Poetry.

Otago Witness, Issue 1427, 29 March 1879, Page 21

Original Poetry.

TO THE EDITOR. By James Young, Shag Point. Guid morning, Maister Yeditor : Yell wonder what the de'il its for, That ony siccan silly blether Should e'er come nigh ye ; But hearing ye a critic were, I thooht I'd try ye. An' sac if you will read them through, I'll muckle be obliged tae you, If frae ye're wark ye sac tae do The time can spare it, An' tell me, if ye think it true, They ha'e some merit. A' day, while I at warlc was busy, I thocht an' thocht till I was dizzy, Tae gar my muse, the thowless hizzy, The rhyme 3 niak' clink. Confound the jade ! she'll sen' me orazy, Or else tae drink. A' folk maun something dae for bread, * Sac in the Bible ai'b I read ; But few there be, till pressed by need j That e'er incline To labour hard wi' hands or head, Or work in mine. I'm but a simple collier lad, And that I am so makes me sad, For that my intellect's no bad, Fu' weel I ken. I'd take my place, if leave I had, 'Moflg best 0' men. Like maist a' ither collier fools, When I was young I gaed to schools, But carod sac little for their rules I learnt but little ; I liked oure weel my ba's and bools, My taps an' whittle. I little learnt 0' grammar laws, To round the period, point the pause j* But when aught my attention draws I sing my lays. My highest aim, a friend's applause An' kindly praise. An' what though they be rude an' rough, An' though ye solemn critic's gruff May frown ou me an' say, enough, Gi'e us no niair. - Wi' such poor silly doggrel stuff Our heads are sair. Such criticisms sair may fash The bard wha rhymes tor nought but cash j Sic fools it may tae passion ksb, Till i' their spleen They 0' the cutic's name mak' hash, Wi' satire keen. Ye critics, ye're an unco squad ; At times I'm maist like tae gae mad To ccc ye crush a clever lad, Wha nought can gie, But praise him, though he were a cad, Wha weel can pay. Your praise or blame ne'er bothers me j I care na' c'en a single flei, Though 'gainst me a' the critics be 'Tween here an' hell j An' though a thousau' fau'ts ye see, I'll please mysel\ But what needs I dae sic a thing As 'bout my ears sic hornets bring j Nae doubt should I e'er feel their sting I'd raise a dia j Then if I can I'll try tae sing, Their praise tae win. I 'gin tae think, for a' our noise, Our kirks, au' schools, an' sic like toys, We men are still a'maist like boys, Wha, when thoy see Their silly childish wark, rejoice Au' laugh wi' glee. They set some toys a' out iv raws Tae see them, then ilk playmate draws An', fearing still, praise an' applause They frae them claim 5 But greet, an' sair their faces thraw, If they get blame. It's sac wi' me, wha tae ye sent this. I'mproud's a peacock I ha'e penned this ; For trowth, at rhymes I'm bub a 'prentice— I've just begun, An' what a'maist I'd said, what I repent is That sac I've done. Repent ! my nursse she tae me cries, An' straight she in a passion flies; De'il's in ye, daur ye tell sic lies, Ye silly fool ; Wha frae me to escape e'er tries, He'll suffer dool. For wi' me ye sweet pleasure find ; When e'er ye rhyme ye ease your mind ; An' rhymers wiyles teach human kind Hoo they should live, _ An' to the race that comes behind Examples give. Men's fau'ts and follies ye can lash, An' c'en although your rhymes were trash, The weightiest arguments will smash That e'er gat braith : Few men will wi' a poefc fash For fear 0' scaith. _ But a' the pleasures I can gie, Surpasses a' my powers to say ; Although your mood be sad or gay Ye sing your straiu ; Like when your griefs 'fore friends ye lay, Ye ease your pain. I'll no 1 say that wi' comic Hood, Or Pope, or Steele, or Cowper good, Or Byron (wha the highest stood, An' played eic pranks), Or Gray, or Moore, or Johnson rude. Yo'll fill the ranks ; Ye ne'er the skill o' Bums may ha'e, Nor nature's scenes paint wi' Ramsay, Nor wi' poor Taanahill's sweet lay E'er charm the ear, Nor yet wi' Fergusson e'er may The laurels wear ; Yet all beneath each forest king, That spreading wide, their branches fling, Low in their shade the hawthorns spring, And birchen bowers, And each in season ladeu hing Wi' fruits an' flowers : And 'neath the flowering matchless rose, That fragrant essence round hor throws, The humble, lowly daisy blows, By a' unseen, An' glinting through tho lingering snows, Bedecks the greeu. What though ye ne'er may towering climb, Nor rank among the kings o' rhyme j Yet as yo'll gather skill wi' time, There's nane can say ; Ye yet may sing a noble hymn : Then wi 1 mo stay. What mair she'd said Guid only kens, But up I gat an' seized my pens, An' thiokin' tae mak' some amends For my mad folly, An' shaw her that I'd still some sense, Gied her this volley. I swear 'fore God who reigns in heaven, While to mo breath 0' life is given, Should I ou kail an' brose be livin' Out a' my days, Nor patronage nor favour cravin, I'}l sing my laya.

I'll sing what first comes tae my heart, ■ Bet friendship's glow or Cupid's dart, The lover's smile or jealous smart (Fell source o' pain), Au' while I live I'll haud my part, In fear o' nane. Nae mercy I'll ha'e for a knave, Nor pity him wha'd be a slave, An' for the coward all I'll have Is mocking scorn ; But he wha's true, an' leal, an' brave, We're brithers sworn. But truce tae a' this moralising ; By this I fear your anger's rising. An' me nae doubt yell be depriving, Wha' 8 fashed ye sac ; An' sac, although the theme's enticing, My pen I'll stay. De'il'a in me, maist I had forgot 'Bout what 'twas I had meant tae wrote ; Maist I'd sac interested got, It slipped my mind ; If yell dae for me what I'll quote, I'll tak' it kind. The sang that I wi' this ha'e sent I'd like tae see in quid black prent ; * On this my mind is Bae intent, That gin yell do it, De'il be wi' me if I repent Should I sair rue it. I ken it's far frae being good j I ken it's rough an' wretched rude 5 What, then, I've done the best I oould, Then what the matter ; * If I'd been able, sure I would Ha'e done it better. As ye look ower this jingling ware, In fancy I can ice ye stare ; But should ye think it worth ye're care, Ye just can prent it 5 But tent ye, lad, ye're not' declare Wha tae ye sent it. Should ye think theyaro worth a place, 'Fore they the Witness' columns giace, Yell kindly out the places trace An' mark the stops, Or else your paper they'll disgrace Beyond a' hopes. Pleaee dae the like thing wi' the sang, That's if ye shouldna be ower thrang ; Then prent it, an' it' ooht gae wrong I'll bide the storm ; An' though I b9 na big nor atrang, I'm deev'lish dour. An' now, sir, I'd fu' fain be aintin' If ye thae blethers think worth prinfcin', That in the place they got their mintin' There's mony ma'e ; Then dinna 0' your space be stinting, An' yell them ha'e. Then, Maister Yeditor, adieu, If ye in this my wishes do Be sure I'll remember you Where'er I be, An' I'se be tae my promise true, Ye'se hear frae me. Again, dear prenter, fare ye weel, My face is yet as black's the de'il, An' as I'm tired an' Bleepy feel I'll aff tae bed, Sac blest be aye each rhyming chiel An' collier lad. * Burns.