Poems (Douglas)/The Seaside Village
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The Seaside Village.
This bit waterin' place, sae deserted like noo,
Used to be, simmer seasons, o' visitors fu',
Till those wha let rooms grew as fu' o' conceit
O'er the gran' anes they lodged, as an egg's fu' o' meat.
Wi' ilk ither they vied in apartments sae braw,
Venetian-screen'd windows, an' carpeted ha';
Oh! sic smart rat-tat-tats as would sound frae ilk door,
An' sic rustlin' o' silks to the breeze on the shore.
Ae season's commencement, as days came in warm,
An' ilk brocht arrivals frae fashion's gay swarm.
A stranger, wi' broo brunt as yellow as gowd,
W71' boots awfu' stoury, made way through the crowd.
He carried a staff an' sma' bundle in han',
An' wi' little concern like rubbed claes wi' the gran';
He made a fu' stop as a house met his view,
Where "Apartments to let" shone the window glass through.
Then he rang the door bell, wi' a confident cheek,
An' a message sent ben for the lady to speak.
A rustle o' silks—twas the mistress hersel'—
But at sicht o' the bundle her countenance fell:
An' "What was ye wantin'?" in sharp tones she cried;
"To take your apartments," the stranger replied.
"Na, na! No my rooms; ye'll hae farther to gang:"
An' the door amaist dunted his heels wi' its bang.
"What s the warld turned to, oh, dear me! oh, dear!
A man wi' a bundle to seek lodgings here!"
Caught his ear as the half-open window he passed,
But the confident chiel no a bit seemed downcast,
For the next, an' the next, an' the next door he tried,
Though still unsuccessfu' where'er he applied.
At length, when he'd search'd the proud village a' o'er,
Ane civilly pointed across to a door,
Sayin, "Respectable lodgin's they ance keepit there,
But I doot theyll no noo, for they're turned unco puir."
"I'm right humble mysel'," was the stranger's reply,
"They'll aiblins admit me—at least I maun try."
He surveyed the abode, sae obscure, yet sae clean,
Wi' its mignionette boxes an' white window screen:
Wae is me for the poortith that struggles to hide
'Yond the decent bit curtain, scarce e'er drawn aside,
A' its misery an' trials, privations an' want,
The garment threadbare, an' the furniture scant:
That shrinks frae the proud warld it fan wud beguile,
W1' belief that dame Fortune still gies it a smile.
'Wi his staff an' his bundle the stranger stepped o'er,
An' murm'rin "This ends it!" knocked soft at the door,
Which was oped by a wifie, wha's dress worn an' thin,
An' care-worn face, spake no o plenty within.
Wha wi' voice saft an' sad as a breeze-waken'd lyre,
In accents respectfu' said, "Sir, your desire?"
"I am come to lodge with you, nay, shake not your head,
That I enter just now, let the word, pray, be said:
For, in truth, what with walking and knocking since morn,
Nor gaining admission, I'm weary and worn."
Wi' a little persuasion, the widow complied,
Wi' an effort o'ercoming her scruples o' pride;
But a deep blush o' shame her wan features suffused
As she led to the chamber by him to be used,
For necessity's fingers had 'maist wed awa'
The plenishin' there, ance sae tidy and braw.
But the stranger, wi' delicate tact, set a' right,
An' the widow's embarrassment soon put to flight,
Then, wi' relish fu' keen an' wi' manners fo' free,
Sat him down wi' the widow an' dochter to tea;
An' aye, as on Maggie would rest his dark een,
They plainly pronounced her a braw, bounnie queen.
Puir Maggie was bonnie—surpassin'ly fair,
W1' een o' dark azure, an' rich gowden hair,
Though poortith had garr'd her cheek's bright roses fade,
An' had gi'en to her een a soft languishin' shade;
An' her fair form array'd in the humblest apparel,
It couldna dispoil o' its glory ilk curl
Wi' which her young head was luxuriantly crown'd—
A glad halo glowin' her sad face around;
An' Maggie was blate to an unco degree,
For ne'er a companion but mither had she.
No visitor ca'd on the dolefu' an' lane—
The rich have friends many, but poortith has nane;—
Sae the beauty an' bashfu'ness meetin' his view,
To the weel-travell'd stranger was pleasant as new.
Next morn saw him strollin', as trig as the lave,
Inhalin' the caller breeze sweepin' the wave,
An', ettlin' some village acquaintance to mak',
Gi'en a word to ilk passer, but gettin' nane back:
Then wi' broo on which gathered a thunder-like cloud,
A' alane on the thick-peopled seaside he stood,
When his een caught a glimpse o' a sun-shelter'd seat,
Where smilin'-faced leddies enjoyed the retreat.
At once to step to them he made up his mind,
But when his seat was ta'en theirs was quickly resign'd,
An' words again reached him which made him aware
He couldna impose on the guid people there.
"He's the fellow we saw yestermorn walk the town,
Wi' his staff an' his bundle, 'maist a' the forenoon;
The village a' kens he's some bankrupt or swell,
For nae gentleman e'er hawked a bundle himsel'."
The stranger's brown cheek wi' the hot blood was dyed,
While his lips wore a curve o' vexation or pride
As he rose to depart, but next moment was seen
A twinkle o' mischief far ben in his een.
"Weel, I'll hie to the widow's an' pass awa' time,
Fell poverty's theirs, an' the bundle's my crime."
Quo' he, as he turned the hame path to pursue,
When he paused in the street with a "Wheugh! what's to do?"
For a group, through which gladness would seem to abound,
Had gathered the Post-Office window around,
Where close 'gainst the pane which attracted a' een
A letter wi' dashin' address micht be seen,
To the village directed, an honour most rare,
For Lord H. Augustus ——— (the Duke's son and heir),
Wha 'twas said was new hame to the noble Duke's seat
Frae the seas whare he held the command o' a fleet.
We may ha'e a look-out for his comin' ilk hour,
An' receive him wi' a' the respec' in our power,
I can fancy e'en noo his braw carriage in sight,
Quo' the innkeeper a' in a fuss wi' delight;
We maun e'en, said the postmaster, deck off the ha',
An' welcome my lord wi' a most splendid ba';
Ha'e a' things respectable, stan' nae at the cost,
We can soon clear it a', noo nae time to be lost;
This honour, my friends, is 0' greatest import,
'Twill mak' our gay village a' fashions resort.
"I maun gang," said a wifie, in braw satin gown,
"An' mak' known to my leddies wha's comin' to town;
What beautiful bustle we'll be in a' week,
For arrival will follow arrival gae quick!"
A' this time the mother wi' wide open een,
An' an ear to ilk speaker, stood viewin' the scene;
But nearer and nearer he drew to the door,
When he saw ilk gossip the letter turn o'er,
Keek in at the fauldin's, an' try, though in vain,
Some licht frae its hidden contents to obtain.
When the cronies had scann'd it a' round ane by ane,
"Now please," said he, "hand it to me if youre done,
When your curiosity's pleased, pray resign
This wonder to me till I gratify mine."
The postmaster, gaspin' wi' horror an' shame,
Secarce could falter "Is Lord H. Augustus ——— your name?"
"Just so," said the stranger, an', letter in han',
Passed out through the crowd, a' struck dumb to a man.
Next morn a dejected an' crestfallen pair
Presented themsel's at the puir widow's door,
Whilst ane they'd selected as spokesman an' head
Went ben wi' petition excuses to plead.
But when he cam' out a' hope vanished, alas!
For the knight o' the ruefu' face weel micht he pass;
His lordship ne'er deigned to cast een on the scroll,
But dismiss'd him wi' anger he did na control.
"Ye sycophants, fawning and heartless," he cried,
"Ambitious and vain, as of principle void,
Next hour from your village shall see me depart,
And, I'm sorry to add, with disgust at my heart.
Go study the book you profess to peruse,
Learn from writings inspired how the stranger to use,
Keep the great golden precept in practice and view,
And so deal with all men as you'd have them with you;
This is etiquette's essence, 'tis piety's life,
'Tis with honour, humanity, courtesy rife.
Now go, and henceforth you can well understand
That a gentleman can take a parcel in hand,
Nor compromise true dignity aught at the time,
So beware how you couple such actions with crime."
The group an' their delegate moved frae the door,
When dashed round the corner a carriage and four;
Then, midst liv'ried lacquays, his lordship sprang in,
An' the proud little village was soon far ahin'.
Whilst their loss an' disgrace the vain villagers mourned,
Twa hearts had their sorrow to cheerfu'ness turned;
The widow an' daughter, in fu'ness o' joy,
Seem'd wrapt in enchantment a word micht destroy,
Saein wonder they gazed at ilk ither's white face,
Then clung heart to heart in a silent embrace,
Grazed again at the table, where, heaped up an' bricht,
The yellow goud glistened fu' plain on their sicht;
But could it be real? sae dream-like was a',
Micht it no like some fairy goud vanish awa'?
No—they ventured a touch; 'twas substantial an' true,
An' they sank on their knees wi' hearts gratitude fu';
Frae that day their trials o' poortith were o'er,
An' their faces beamed bricht with the joy smile once more,
An' ilk year they haud it—the puir o' the place
Count wi' joy on the day o' the village disgrace.
Used to be, simmer seasons, o' visitors fu',
Till those wha let rooms grew as fu' o' conceit
O'er the gran' anes they lodged, as an egg's fu' o' meat.
Wi' ilk ither they vied in apartments sae braw,
Venetian-screen'd windows, an' carpeted ha';
Oh! sic smart rat-tat-tats as would sound frae ilk door,
An' sic rustlin' o' silks to the breeze on the shore.
Ae season's commencement, as days came in warm,
An' ilk brocht arrivals frae fashion's gay swarm.
A stranger, wi' broo brunt as yellow as gowd,
W71' boots awfu' stoury, made way through the crowd.
He carried a staff an' sma' bundle in han',
An' wi' little concern like rubbed claes wi' the gran';
He made a fu' stop as a house met his view,
Where "Apartments to let" shone the window glass through.
Then he rang the door bell, wi' a confident cheek,
An' a message sent ben for the lady to speak.
A rustle o' silks—twas the mistress hersel'—
But at sicht o' the bundle her countenance fell:
An' "What was ye wantin'?" in sharp tones she cried;
"To take your apartments," the stranger replied.
"Na, na! No my rooms; ye'll hae farther to gang:"
An' the door amaist dunted his heels wi' its bang.
"What s the warld turned to, oh, dear me! oh, dear!
A man wi' a bundle to seek lodgings here!"
Caught his ear as the half-open window he passed,
But the confident chiel no a bit seemed downcast,
For the next, an' the next, an' the next door he tried,
Though still unsuccessfu' where'er he applied.
At length, when he'd search'd the proud village a' o'er,
Ane civilly pointed across to a door,
Sayin, "Respectable lodgin's they ance keepit there,
But I doot theyll no noo, for they're turned unco puir."
"I'm right humble mysel'," was the stranger's reply,
"They'll aiblins admit me—at least I maun try."
He surveyed the abode, sae obscure, yet sae clean,
Wi' its mignionette boxes an' white window screen:
Wae is me for the poortith that struggles to hide
'Yond the decent bit curtain, scarce e'er drawn aside,
A' its misery an' trials, privations an' want,
The garment threadbare, an' the furniture scant:
That shrinks frae the proud warld it fan wud beguile,
W1' belief that dame Fortune still gies it a smile.
'Wi his staff an' his bundle the stranger stepped o'er,
An' murm'rin "This ends it!" knocked soft at the door,
Which was oped by a wifie, wha's dress worn an' thin,
An' care-worn face, spake no o plenty within.
Wha wi' voice saft an' sad as a breeze-waken'd lyre,
In accents respectfu' said, "Sir, your desire?"
"I am come to lodge with you, nay, shake not your head,
That I enter just now, let the word, pray, be said:
For, in truth, what with walking and knocking since morn,
Nor gaining admission, I'm weary and worn."
Wi' a little persuasion, the widow complied,
Wi' an effort o'ercoming her scruples o' pride;
But a deep blush o' shame her wan features suffused
As she led to the chamber by him to be used,
For necessity's fingers had 'maist wed awa'
The plenishin' there, ance sae tidy and braw.
But the stranger, wi' delicate tact, set a' right,
An' the widow's embarrassment soon put to flight,
Then, wi' relish fu' keen an' wi' manners fo' free,
Sat him down wi' the widow an' dochter to tea;
An' aye, as on Maggie would rest his dark een,
They plainly pronounced her a braw, bounnie queen.
Puir Maggie was bonnie—surpassin'ly fair,
W1' een o' dark azure, an' rich gowden hair,
Though poortith had garr'd her cheek's bright roses fade,
An' had gi'en to her een a soft languishin' shade;
An' her fair form array'd in the humblest apparel,
It couldna dispoil o' its glory ilk curl
Wi' which her young head was luxuriantly crown'd—
A glad halo glowin' her sad face around;
An' Maggie was blate to an unco degree,
For ne'er a companion but mither had she.
No visitor ca'd on the dolefu' an' lane—
The rich have friends many, but poortith has nane;—
Sae the beauty an' bashfu'ness meetin' his view,
To the weel-travell'd stranger was pleasant as new.
Next morn saw him strollin', as trig as the lave,
Inhalin' the caller breeze sweepin' the wave,
An', ettlin' some village acquaintance to mak',
Gi'en a word to ilk passer, but gettin' nane back:
Then wi' broo on which gathered a thunder-like cloud,
A' alane on the thick-peopled seaside he stood,
When his een caught a glimpse o' a sun-shelter'd seat,
Where smilin'-faced leddies enjoyed the retreat.
At once to step to them he made up his mind,
But when his seat was ta'en theirs was quickly resign'd,
An' words again reached him which made him aware
He couldna impose on the guid people there.
"He's the fellow we saw yestermorn walk the town,
Wi' his staff an' his bundle, 'maist a' the forenoon;
The village a' kens he's some bankrupt or swell,
For nae gentleman e'er hawked a bundle himsel'."
The stranger's brown cheek wi' the hot blood was dyed,
While his lips wore a curve o' vexation or pride
As he rose to depart, but next moment was seen
A twinkle o' mischief far ben in his een.
"Weel, I'll hie to the widow's an' pass awa' time,
Fell poverty's theirs, an' the bundle's my crime."
Quo' he, as he turned the hame path to pursue,
When he paused in the street with a "Wheugh! what's to do?"
For a group, through which gladness would seem to abound,
Had gathered the Post-Office window around,
Where close 'gainst the pane which attracted a' een
A letter wi' dashin' address micht be seen,
To the village directed, an honour most rare,
For Lord H. Augustus ——— (the Duke's son and heir),
Wha 'twas said was new hame to the noble Duke's seat
Frae the seas whare he held the command o' a fleet.
We may ha'e a look-out for his comin' ilk hour,
An' receive him wi' a' the respec' in our power,
I can fancy e'en noo his braw carriage in sight,
Quo' the innkeeper a' in a fuss wi' delight;
We maun e'en, said the postmaster, deck off the ha',
An' welcome my lord wi' a most splendid ba';
Ha'e a' things respectable, stan' nae at the cost,
We can soon clear it a', noo nae time to be lost;
This honour, my friends, is 0' greatest import,
'Twill mak' our gay village a' fashions resort.
"I maun gang," said a wifie, in braw satin gown,
"An' mak' known to my leddies wha's comin' to town;
What beautiful bustle we'll be in a' week,
For arrival will follow arrival gae quick!"
A' this time the mother wi' wide open een,
An' an ear to ilk speaker, stood viewin' the scene;
But nearer and nearer he drew to the door,
When he saw ilk gossip the letter turn o'er,
Keek in at the fauldin's, an' try, though in vain,
Some licht frae its hidden contents to obtain.
When the cronies had scann'd it a' round ane by ane,
"Now please," said he, "hand it to me if youre done,
When your curiosity's pleased, pray resign
This wonder to me till I gratify mine."
The postmaster, gaspin' wi' horror an' shame,
Secarce could falter "Is Lord H. Augustus ——— your name?"
"Just so," said the stranger, an', letter in han',
Passed out through the crowd, a' struck dumb to a man.
Next morn a dejected an' crestfallen pair
Presented themsel's at the puir widow's door,
Whilst ane they'd selected as spokesman an' head
Went ben wi' petition excuses to plead.
But when he cam' out a' hope vanished, alas!
For the knight o' the ruefu' face weel micht he pass;
His lordship ne'er deigned to cast een on the scroll,
But dismiss'd him wi' anger he did na control.
"Ye sycophants, fawning and heartless," he cried,
"Ambitious and vain, as of principle void,
Next hour from your village shall see me depart,
And, I'm sorry to add, with disgust at my heart.
Go study the book you profess to peruse,
Learn from writings inspired how the stranger to use,
Keep the great golden precept in practice and view,
And so deal with all men as you'd have them with you;
This is etiquette's essence, 'tis piety's life,
'Tis with honour, humanity, courtesy rife.
Now go, and henceforth you can well understand
That a gentleman can take a parcel in hand,
Nor compromise true dignity aught at the time,
So beware how you couple such actions with crime."
The group an' their delegate moved frae the door,
When dashed round the corner a carriage and four;
Then, midst liv'ried lacquays, his lordship sprang in,
An' the proud little village was soon far ahin'.
Whilst their loss an' disgrace the vain villagers mourned,
Twa hearts had their sorrow to cheerfu'ness turned;
The widow an' daughter, in fu'ness o' joy,
Seem'd wrapt in enchantment a word micht destroy,
Saein wonder they gazed at ilk ither's white face,
Then clung heart to heart in a silent embrace,
Grazed again at the table, where, heaped up an' bricht,
The yellow goud glistened fu' plain on their sicht;
But could it be real? sae dream-like was a',
Micht it no like some fairy goud vanish awa'?
No—they ventured a touch; 'twas substantial an' true,
An' they sank on their knees wi' hearts gratitude fu';
Frae that day their trials o' poortith were o'er,
An' their faces beamed bricht with the joy smile once more,
An' ilk year they haud it—the puir o' the place
Count wi' joy on the day o' the village disgrace.