The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/Poem on Pastoral Poetry
POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.
Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'dFrae common 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 alangTo death or marriage;Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sangBut wi' miscarriage?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rivesHoratian fame;In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survivesEven Sappho's flame.
But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patchesO' 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 mairBlaw sweetly in its native airAnd rural grace;And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian shareA rival place?
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan - 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!
Thou paints auld nature to the nines,In thy sweet Caledonian lines;Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,Where Philomel,While nightly breezes sweep the vines,Her griefs will tell!
In gowany glens thy burnie strays,Where bonie lasses bleach their claes;Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,Wi' hawthorns gray,Where blackbirds join the shepherd's laysAt close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel';Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;Nae snap conceits; but that sweet spellO' witchin' love;That charm that can the strongest quell,The sternest move.