Poem by Allan Cunningham

* * *

My task is ended – farewell, Robin!
My prentice muse stands sad and sobbin’
To think thy country kept thee scrubbin’
            Her barmy barrels,
Of strains immortal mankind robbin’,
            And thee of laurels.

Let learning’s Greekish grubs cry humph!
Hot zealots groan, cold critics grumph,
And ilka starr’d and garter’d sumph
            Yawn, hum and ha;
In glory’s pack thou art a trumph,
            And sweeps them a’.

Round thee flock’d scholars mony a cluster,
And dominies came in a fluster,
In words three span laag ’gan they bluster
            Of classic models, 
Of Tulles light and Virgil’s lustre,
            And shook their noddles.

Ye laugh’d, and muttering, “Learning! D – n her!” 
Stood bauldly up, but start or stammer 
Wi’ Nature’s fire for lore and grammar,
            And classic rules, 
Crush’d them as Thor’s triumphant hammer
            Smash’d paddock stools.

And thou wert right and they were wrang – 
The sculptor’s toil, the poet’s sang, 
In Greece and Rome free nature sprang,
            And bauld and free, 
In sentiment and language strang
            They spake like thee.

Thy muse came like a giggling taupie 
Dancing her lane; her sangs sae sappy 
Cheer’d men like drink’s inspiring drappie –
            Then, grave and stern, 
High moral truths sublime and happy
            She made them learn.

Auld grey-beard Lear, wi’ college lantern, 
O’er rules of Horace stoitering, venturin' 
At song, glides to oblivion saunterin’
            And starless night; 
Whilst thou, up cleft Parnassus canterin’,
            Lives on in light.

In light thou liv’st. While birds lo’e simmer, 
Wild bees the blossom, buds the timmer, 
And man lo’es woman – rosie limmer!
            I’ll prophecie 
Thy glorious halo nought the dimmer
            Will ever be.

For me – though both sprung from ae mother 
I’m but a weakly young half brother, 
Sae O! forgive my musing swither,
            Mid toils benighted, 
’Twas lang a wish that nought could smother
            To see thee righted.

Frae Kyle, wi’ music in her bowers;           
Frae fairy glens, where wild Doon pours; 
Frae hills, bedropp’d wi’ sunny showers,
            On Solway strand, 
I’ve gathered, Burns, thy scattered flowers
            Wi’ filial hand.

And O! bright and immortal Spirit, 
If ought that lessens thy rare merit 
I’ve utter’d – like a god thou’lt bear it,
            Thou canst but know 
Thy stature few or none can peer it
            Now born below.

1. Gordon of Brackley
2. The Lily of Nithsdale
3. The Lass of Gleneslan-Mill
4. Phemie Irving
5. The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill

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