Edinburgh

Walter, at last, in order due, The minstrel tunes his harp to you; The very notes of friendship dear, Are cordial to a poet’s ear: Then why, my Walter, should I care From whence you come, or who you are. What! tho’ no royal blood should flow Thro’ veins of blue and breast of snow: Tho’ lowest of the low you be, Still you shall hear my minstrelsy: Enough to me it is that you Are vassal to the bold B——h; For to my heart they still are dear, Who serve that stout, that valiant peer. But now, my friend, ’tis right to ask, How thrives your culinary task? Seems it to me the cultured soil, Should glow beneath your sun-burnt toil. I see thy face with ruddy glow Smile on the rising cabbage row; And now, methinks, I feel thy glee, For I, my friend, can feel like thee, E’en at the peeping of a pea; Just when the germ has broke the soil, The very sight repays thy toil. O, Cultivation! Ceres’ child, Foe to the hill and desert wild! Foe to the mountain and the moor, Friend to the hungry and the poor! But let me not, with thoughts elate, Forget my Walter’s garden gate: Of all the gates so wonderous fair Here round the princely dwelling, My Watty’s gate, beyond compare, All these is far excelling! But I forgot the garden fair, And sought the barren mountain bare. O’er Tiviot’s hills, I bent my way, Forgetful of my minstrel lay; Nor thought I much of this or that, Till fancy painted Marrowfat. She painted Walter as I’ve seen, When weeding D——h’s walks so green; To noble dames, just bent to bow; Dejected head, erected hoe, Proclaimed respect to ladye fair, And shewed her that defence was there. ’Twas diffidence and manly pride, That bows, yet shews the power to chide. Above the common height of man, My Walter stands at least a span: A brow of jet, a fiery eye, Like planet in a sable sky, Shone from my fancy’s painted chief; And then, to give the scene relief, A nose projecting curvedly; The nose befitting well the eye. Vails it not me, alas! to speak Of bushy lip, or cherry cheek; To say I saw my Walter smile, I’d rather pause a little while: For bootless is the task to paint, When fancy’s self is far too faint, To shew the gardener of B——h, In form exact, and colours true. How happy passed my early days, With thee in D——h’s groves of bays; When slinking sly, from bush to bush, We sought to catch the nestling thrush; Or when supported, friend, by thee, I climbed the giant cherry-tree; Or ran a race, dear Wat, with you, To please the gallant young B——h. The bower was still, and all was hushed, ’Twas eve, and modest nature blushed; The crimson setting of the sun, Waved o’er the night-cloud’s visage dun, And all creation, so serene, Enjoyed the still, the lovely scene. The thrush, upon the hazel bough, Pour’d calmly forth her evening vow, And every bird, from tree to tree, Joined in the heavenly melody; What heart so fraught with woe or care, But might have tasted pleasure there. Such, Watty, was the night when we Pursued the humming bumble bee; When you averred the beast could sting, And I responded, no such thing! “The question fierce, the stern reply,” Was heard to sound ’twixt U and I. Anon: my Watty dared to fight The fancied foeman Wallace wight; And I, if pleasing mem’ry hold. Dared to the combat, Bruce the bold. Perhaps, my friend, you’ll wish to know Th’ event of each successive blow; How Bruce, transported, swore he’d die, But never, never yield or fly; How Wallace to the combat flew, With fancied pride, but courage true. Alas! my friend, your hopes are vain, For friendship still forbids the strain: The tale, alas! would only tend To make a foeman of a friend. And whilst I live, and whilst I breathe, I swear it is so much beneath The soul of man, to harbour hate Against the good, against the great, That I will ne’er to man disclose The purport of these bloody blows. Enough! enough! it is to me To hate the name of bumble bee.