Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ECLOGUE, TO THE MEMORY OF DR WILLIAM WILKE, LATE PROFESSOR, by ROBERT FERGUSSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ECLOGUE, TO THE MEMORY OF DR WILLIAM WILKE, LATE PROFESSOR, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Blaw saft, my reed, and kindly to my mane
Last Line: Fam'd as the urn that hads the mantuan swain.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Death; Dreams; Shepherds & Shepherdesses; Dead, The; Nightmares


GEORDIE
Blaw saft, my reed, and kindly to my mane,
Weel may ye thole a saft and dowie strain;
Nae mair to you shall shepherds in a ring
Wi blythness skip, or lasses lilt an' sing;
Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka ee,
An' ilka waefu shepherd, grieve wi me.

DAVIE
Wharefor begin a sad an' dowie strain,
Or banish lilting frae the Fifan plain?
Tho' simmer's gane, an' we nae langer view
The blades o' claver wat wi pearls o' dew,
Cauld winter's bleakest blasts we'll eithly cowr,
Our eldin's driven, an' our har'st is owr;
Our rucks fu thick are stackit i' the yeard,
For the Yule-feast a sautit mart's prepar'd;
The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields,
An' aft as mony gleefu maments yields.
Swyth man! fling a' your sleepy springs awa,
An' on your canty whistle gie's a blaw:
Blythness, I trou, maun lighten ilka ee,
An' ilka canty callant sing like me.

GEORDIE
Na, na; a canty spring wad now impart
Just threefald sorrow to my heavy heart.
Thof to the weet my ripen'd aits had fawn,
Or shake-winds owr my rigs wi pith had blawn,
To this I could hae said, "I carena by",
Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry.
Crosses like thae, or lake o' warld's gear,
Are naething whan we tyne a friend that's dear.
Ah! wae's me for you, Willy! mony a day
Did I wi you on yon broom-thackit brae
Hound aff my sheep, an' lat them careless gang
To harken to your cheery tale or sang;
Sangs that for ay, on Caledonia's strand,
Shall fit the foremost 'mang her tunefu' band.
I dreamt yestreen his deadly wraith I saw
Gang by my een as white's the driven snaw;
My colley, Ringie, youf'd an' yowl'd a' night,
Cour'd an' crap near me in an unco fright;
I waken'd fley'd, an' shook baith lith an' limb;
A cauldness took me, an' my sight grew dim;
I kent that it forspak approachin wae
When my poor doggie was disturbit sae.
Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn,
Than I beyont the knowe fu speedy ran,
Whare I was keppit wi the heavy tale
That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail.

DAVIE
An' wha on Fifan bents can weel refuse
To gie the tear o' tribute to his muse? --
Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note,
Be daffin an' ilk idle play forgot;
Bring ilka herd the mournfu, mournfu boughs,
Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews;
Thae lat be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi hallow'd draps his sacred bier,
Whase sangs will ay in Scotland be rever'd,
While slow-gawn owsen turn the flow'ry swaird;
While bonny lambies lick the dews of spring,
While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing.

GEORDIE
'Twas na for weel tim'd verse or sangs alane,
He bore the bell frae ilka shepherd swain.
Nature to him had gien a kindly lore,
Deep a' her mystic ferlies to explore:
For a' her secret workings he could gie
Reasons that wi her principles agree.
Ye saw yoursel how weel his mailin thrave,
Ay better faugh'd an' snodit than the lave;
Lang had the thristles an' the dockans been
In use to wag their taps upo' the green,
Whare now his bonny rigs delight the view,
An' thrivin hedges drink the caller dew.

DAVIE
They tell me, Geordie, he had sic a gift
That scarce a starnie blinkit frae the lift,
But he would some auld warld name for't find,
As gart him keep it freshly in his mind:
For this some ca'd him an uncanny wight;
The clash gaed round, "he had the second sight",
A tale that never fail'd to be the pride
Of grannies spinnin at the ingle side.

GEORDIE
But now he's gane, an' Fame that, whan alive,
Seenil lats ony o' her vot'ries thrive,
Will frae his shinin name a' motes withdraw,
And on her loudest trump his praises blaw.
Lang may his sacred banes untroubl'd rest!
Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest!
Scholars and bards unheard of yet shall come,
And stamp memorials on his grassy tomb,
Which in yon ancient kirk-yard shall remain,
Fam'd as the urn that hads the Mantuan swain.





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