His hamely style let Fashion spurn;
She wants baith taste and skill,
And wiser should she ever turn,
She'll sing his sangs hersel'.
For nae sang sic pathos speaks,
Nae sang ava;
And Fashion's foreign rants and squeaks
Should a' be drumm'd awa'.
Her far-fetch'd figures aye maun fail
To touch the feeling heart;
Simplicity's direct appeal
Excels sic learned art.
And nae modern minstrel's lay,
Nae lay ava,
Sae powerfully the heart can sway,
As Robin's that's awa'.
For o'er his numbers Coila's muse
A magic influence breath'd,
And roun' her darling poet's brows
A peerless crown had wreath'd.
And nae wreath that e'er was seen,
Nae wreath ava,
Will bloom sae lang 's the holly green
O' Robin that's awa'.
Let Erin's minstrel, Tommy Moore,
His lyrics sweetly sing,
'Twad lend his harp a higher power
Would Coila add a string.
For nae harp has yet been kent,
Nae harp ava,
To match the harp by Coila lent
To Robin that's awa'.
And though our shepherd, Jamie Hogg,
His pipe fu' sweetly plays,
It ne'er will charm auld Scotland's lug
Like Ploughman Robin's lays.
For nae pipe will Jamie tune,
Nae pipe ava,
Like that which breath'd by "bonnie Doon"
Ere Robin gaed awa'.
Even Scotland's pride, Sir Walter Scott,
Wha boldly strikes the lyre,
Maun yield to Robin's sweet love-note,
His native wit and fire.
For nae bard hath ever sung,
Nae bard ava,
In hamely or in foreign tongue,
Like Robin that's awa'.
Frae feeling heart Tom Campbell's lays
In classic beauty flow,
But Robin's artless sang displays
The saul'a impassion'd glow.
For nae bard by classic lore,
Nae bard ava,
Has thrill'd the bosom's inmost core
Like Robin that's awa'.
A powerfu' harp did Byron sweep,
But not wi' happy glee;
And though his tones were strong and deep,
He ne'er could change the key.
For nae bard beneath the lift,
Nae bard ava,
Wi' master skill the keys could shift
Like Robin that's awa'.
He needs nae monumental stanes
To keep alive his fame,
Auld Granny Scotland and her weans
Will ever sing his name.
For nae name does fame record,
Nae name ava,
By Caledonia mair ador'd
Than Robin's that's awa'.
O, leave me not.
[From a volume of very clever poetical pieces, entitled, "Rambling Rhymes, by Alexander Smart: Edinburgh, 1834." Mr. Smart is, we understand, a compositor in Edinburgh.]
O, leave me not! the evening hour,
So soft, so still, is all our own;
The dew descends on tree and flower,
They breathe their sweets for thee alone.
O, go not yet!—the evening star,
The rising moon, all bid thee stay;
And dying echoes, faint and far,
Invite our lingering steps to stray.
Far from the city's noisy din,
Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,
That lip to press—those smiles to win—
Will lend a rapture to the night.
Let fortune fling her fiivours free
To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine—
O, what is all the world to me,
While thus I clasp and call thee mine?
