by William Thom, the poet of Inverury.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.1 #18 (01 May 1847).
I'm sick o' this Babel, sae heartless an' cauld,
Its din winna suit wi' my nature ava;
We canna graff branches when withered an' auld;
It's time, gentle friends, I were todlin awa.
I fain would be hame, I would fain be alane
In my cotter house, tramping my treadles again.
I'm no made for mingling in fashion's gay thrang,
I'm out o' my element acting the part;
Far better I lo'e to be crooning a sang
By the blithe chimney-cheek 'mang the friends o' my heart;
Whiles blowing a cloud, and whiles blowing a note,
As the cutty or flute comes the first in my thought.
I'll no be a lion, for ennuyed rank;
I winna be trotted nor roar any more;
I scorn Mr. Pelf as he rolls to his bank;
The weaver is sterling, and proud at the core.
My thoughts are my own, I can beck not nor boo,
Duke Supple may cringe, but the weaver is true.
I ne'er see the sun in this dull foggy town,
Tho' I whiles get a glimpse o' the calm Leddy Meen[1]—
Bless, bless her sweet face—blinkin couthily down
On my ain canny, ain bonny, dear Aberdeen.
O when shall I greet thee, again shall I see
Thy saft light reflected in clear flowing Dee?
Fareweel to thee, Caudle! and weel may ye thrive
Who raised me to fame with a dash o' thy pen;
A better mate to thee, when next thou shalt wive;
A blessin' be aye on thy but and thy ben.
Frae auld Aristarchus to Jeffrey the 'cute,
Come show me the critic can stand in thy boot?
Success to thee, Caudle! success to the crew
Round Punch's guffawing, but sovereign board,
Determined that all shall have fairly their due,—
Now raising a weaver, now roasting a lord;
Now snubbing a Jenkins, now higher they go
To clatter a steenie[2] at Albert's chapeau.
And fareweel Knockhespock, my patron and chief,
Mecænas, Glencairn, and father to me;
My heart-strings may crack, but I'll get nae relief
Till the tears fa' in showers in our ain bonny Dee.
What pillow sae saft that can lull to repose
As the green velvet banks where my dear river flows?
Then hyne o'er the water, for noo I'm awa
To breathe caller air by my Ury again;
Tho' Jeanie nae langer can answer my ca',
I pant for my hame, I am weary and fain.
Come rouse ye, my merry men, bend ye the sail,
And let us away on the wings of the gale.
1. Provincialism for Moon.
2. Diminutive for stone.