poem on pastoral poetry
hail, poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
in chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
fraemon sense, or sunk enerv'd
'mang heaps o' clavers:
and och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,
'mid a' thy favours!
say, lassie, why, thy train amang,
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?
in homer's craft jock milton thrives;
eschylus' pen will shakespeare drives;
wee pope, the knurlin', till him rives
horatian fame;
in thy sweet sang, barbauld, survives
even sappho's flame.
but thee, theocritus, wha matches?
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.
in this braw age o' wit and lear,
will nane the shepherd's whistle mair
blaw sweetly in its native air,