P O P P（1 / 2）

poe on pastoral poetry

hail, poesie! thou nyph reserv&039;d!

chase o&039; thee, what crowds hae swerv&039;d

frae on sense, or sunk enerv&039;d

&039;ang heaps o&039; cvers:

and och! o&039;er aft thy joes hae starv&039;d,

&039;id a&039; thy favours!

say, ssie, why, thy tra aang,

while loud the trup&039;s heroic cng,

and ck or bk skelp ang

to death or arria;

scarce ane has tried the shepherd—sang

but wi&039; iscarria?

hor&039;s craft jock ilton thrives;

eschys&039; pen will shakespeare drives;

wee pope, the knurl&039;, till hi rives

horatian fa;

thy sweet sang, barbauld, survives

even sappho&039;s f

but thee, theocrit, wha atches?

they&039;re no herd&039;s balts, aro&039;s catches;

sire pope but bks his skkl&039; patches

o&039; heathen tatters:

i pass by hunders, naless wretches,

that ape their betters

this braw a o&039; wit and lear,

will nane the shepherd&039;s whistle air

bw sweetly its native air,

and rural grace;

and, wi&039; the far-fa&039;d grecian, share

a rival pce?

yes! there is ane—a sttish caln!

there&039;s ane; e forrit, honest aln!

thou need na jouk beht the haln,

a chiel sae clever;

the teeth o&039; ti ay gnaw tantaln,

but thou&039;s for ever

thou pats auld nature to the nes,

thy sweet caledonian les;

nae gowden strea thro&039; yrtle es,

where philol,

while nightly breezes sweep the ves,

her griefs will tell!

gowany glens thy burnie strays,

where bonie sses bleach their ces,

or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

wi&039; hawthorns gray,

where bckbirds jo the shepherd&039;s ys,

at close o&039; day

thy rural loves are nature&039;s sel&039;;

nae bobast spates o&039; nonsense swell;

nae snap nceits, but t