No More Learning

Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle time, on' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,
"Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here! "
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good withers, shore before ye strike. --
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks:
God help us! we're but poor--ye'se get but thanks.

* * * * *




CVII.

SKETCH.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty
sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions,
was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was
afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops
served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of
General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.
]


This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated follow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow--
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow--
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever. "
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on! "
Rest on--for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days more--a few years must--
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes--all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night. --

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important _now_ employ,
And live as those who never die.