Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Revised Edition of Poems

Sweetest warbler of the wood,
Rise thy soft bewitching strain,
And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,
Soar again.

With the sun’s returning beam,
First appearance from the east,
Dimpling every limpid stream,
Up from rest.

Thro’ the airy mountains stray,
Chant thy welcome songs above,
Full of sport and full of play,
Songs of love.

When the evening cloud prevails,
And the sun gives way for night,
When the shadows mark the vales,
Return thy flight.

Like the cottar or the swain,
Gentle shepherd, or the herd;
Rest thou till the morn again,
Bonny bird!

Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,
May the poet’s rapturous spark,
Hail the first approach of spring,
Bonny lark!

Home of my boyish days, how can I call
Scenes to my memory, that did befall?
How can my trembling pen find power to tell
The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?
Can I forget the days joyously spent,
That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?
Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,
Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

Can I look back on happy days gone by,
Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh
Ah, no! though never more these eyes may dwell
On thee, old cottage home, I love so well:
Home of my childhood! wherever I be,
Thou art the nearest and dearest to me!

Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,
Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?
Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;
Psalms for the Sabbath, on Sabbath were sung;
And the young minstrels enraptured would come
To the little lone cottage I once called my home.

Can I forget the dear landscape around,
Where in my boyish days I could be found,
Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,
Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?
Then would my mother say – “Where is he gone?
I’m waiting for shuttles that he should have ‘wun’?” —
She in that cottage there, knitting her healds,
And I, her young forester, roaming the fields.

But the shades of the evening gather slowly around,
The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,
Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.
And as I turn round to look on thee again,
To take one fond look, one last fond adieu,
By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view;
But Oh! there’s no darkness – to me – no decay,
Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away!

O welcome, young princess, thou sweetest of dowters,
An’ furst bloomin’ issue o’ King Sixty-four,
Wi’ thi brah deck’d wi’ gems o’ the purest o’ waters,
Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter, is ower.

We hail thi approach wi’ palm-spangled banners;
The plant an’ the saplin’ await thi command;
An’ Natur herseln, to show her good manners,
Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land.

Tha appears in t’ orchard, in t’ garden, an’ t’ grotto,
Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn;
Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,
For thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.

O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin’!
These words they are borne on the wings o’ the wind;
That bids us be early i’ plewin’ an’ sowin’,
Fer him at neglects, tha’ll leave him behind.

I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send,
Ta t’ human race the greatest friend,
An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end
O’ history.
Her name is nah, yah may depend,
A mystery.

But sprang shoo up fra royal blood,
Or some poor slave beyond the Flood,
Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud
Shoo did invent;
Her name sall renk ameng the good,
If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub,
Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub,
Or hed a proper weshin’ tub —
It’s all the same;
Aw’d give a crahn, if aw’d to sub,
To get her name.

I’ this wide world aw’m set afloat,
Th’ poor regg’d possessor of one coat;
Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote,
An’ thus assert,
Tha’rt worthy o’ great Shakespeare’s note —
A clean lin’ shirt.

Low is mi lot, an’ hard mi ways,
While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;
Yet aw will sing t’owd lass’s praise,
Wi’ famous glee;
Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays,
Shoo’s t’lass for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair,
Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair;
The dying lover’s deep despair,
Their harps hev rung;
But useful wimmin’s songs are rare,
An’ seldom sung.

In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr,
Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair;
Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly through the wood,
And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood;
’Twas there, in all her splendour, on a January morn,
Appeared old Coila’s genius – when Robert Burns was born.

Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone,
And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon;
A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow,
She was the darling native muse of Scotia then, as now:
So grand old Coila’s genius on this January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She vowed she ne’er would leave him till he sung old Scotia’s plains —
The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains;
And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes:
And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays,
And sing how Coila’s genius, on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home,
Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome;
But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among,
And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song;
This old Coila’s genius did that January morn,
Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

And in the nights of winter, when stormy winds do roar,
And the fierce dashing waves are heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,
The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire,
Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;
And sing how Coila’s genius on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

“Some books are lies fra end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d;
But this that I am gaun to tell,
* * * Lately on a night befel.” – Burns.

’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet,
Net far fra Kersmas time,
When I met wee this Feffy Goast,
The subject of mi rhyme.