Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
328 . Poem on Pastoral Poetry
H
In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d
’Mang heaps o’ clavers:
And och! o’er aft thy joes hae starv’d,
’Mid a’ thy favours!
While loud the trump’s heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi’ miscarriage? Eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin’, till him rives Horatian fame; Even Sappho’s flame. They’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin’ patches O’ heathen tatters: I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. Will nane the Shepherd’s whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air, And rural grace; And, wi’ the far-fam’d Grecian, share A rival place? There’s ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o’ time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou’s for ever. In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtle twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell! Where bonie lasses bleach their claes, Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi’ hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays, At close o’ day. Nae bombast spates o’ nonsense swell; O’ witchin love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.