JOANNA BAILLIE

JOANNA BAILLIE1762-1851

1762-1851

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye,Thy curled nose and lip awry,Uphoisted arms and noddling head,And little chin with crystal spread,Poor helpless thing! what do I seeThat I should sing of thee?From thy poor tongue no accents come,Which can but rub thy toothless gum:Small understanding boasts thy face;Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:A few short words thy feats may tell;And yet I love thee well.When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,And redder swells thy little cheek;When rattled keys thy woes beguile,And through thine eyelids gleams the smile;Still for thy weakly self is spentThy little silly plaint.But when thy friends are in distress,Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless;Nor with kind sympathy be smittenThough all are sad but thee and kitten;Yet, puny varlet that thou art,Thou twitchest at the heart.Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;Thy silken locks that scantly peep,With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep,Around thy neck in harmless graceSo soft and sleekly hold their place,Might harder hearts with kindness fill,And gain our right good will.Each passing clown bestows his blessing,Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing:E’en lighter looks the gloomy eyeOf surly sense when thou art by;And yet, I think, whoe’er they be,They love thee not like me.Perhaps when time shall add a fewShort months to thee, thou’lt love me too;And after that, through life’s long way.Become my sure and cheering stay:Wilt care for me and be my hold,When I am weak and old.Thou’lt listen to my lengthen’d tale,And pity me when I am frail——But see! the sweepy swimming fly,Upon the window takes thine eye.Go to thy little senseless play;Thou dost not heed my lay.

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye,Thy curled nose and lip awry,Uphoisted arms and noddling head,And little chin with crystal spread,Poor helpless thing! what do I seeThat I should sing of thee?

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye,

Thy curled nose and lip awry,

Uphoisted arms and noddling head,

And little chin with crystal spread,

Poor helpless thing! what do I see

That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come,Which can but rub thy toothless gum:Small understanding boasts thy face;Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:A few short words thy feats may tell;And yet I love thee well.

From thy poor tongue no accents come,

Which can but rub thy toothless gum:

Small understanding boasts thy face;

Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:

A few short words thy feats may tell;

And yet I love thee well.

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,And redder swells thy little cheek;When rattled keys thy woes beguile,And through thine eyelids gleams the smile;Still for thy weakly self is spentThy little silly plaint.

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,

And redder swells thy little cheek;

When rattled keys thy woes beguile,

And through thine eyelids gleams the smile;

Still for thy weakly self is spent

Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress,Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless;Nor with kind sympathy be smittenThough all are sad but thee and kitten;Yet, puny varlet that thou art,Thou twitchest at the heart.

But when thy friends are in distress,

Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless;

Nor with kind sympathy be smitten

Though all are sad but thee and kitten;

Yet, puny varlet that thou art,

Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;Thy silken locks that scantly peep,With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep,Around thy neck in harmless graceSo soft and sleekly hold their place,Might harder hearts with kindness fill,And gain our right good will.

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;

Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;

Thy silken locks that scantly peep,

With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep,

Around thy neck in harmless grace

So soft and sleekly hold their place,

Might harder hearts with kindness fill,

And gain our right good will.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing,Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing:E’en lighter looks the gloomy eyeOf surly sense when thou art by;And yet, I think, whoe’er they be,They love thee not like me.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing,

Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing:

E’en lighter looks the gloomy eye

Of surly sense when thou art by;

And yet, I think, whoe’er they be,

They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a fewShort months to thee, thou’lt love me too;And after that, through life’s long way.Become my sure and cheering stay:Wilt care for me and be my hold,When I am weak and old.

Perhaps when time shall add a few

Short months to thee, thou’lt love me too;

And after that, through life’s long way.

Become my sure and cheering stay:

Wilt care for me and be my hold,

When I am weak and old.

Thou’lt listen to my lengthen’d tale,And pity me when I am frail——But see! the sweepy swimming fly,Upon the window takes thine eye.Go to thy little senseless play;Thou dost not heed my lay.

Thou’lt listen to my lengthen’d tale,

And pity me when I am frail—

—But see! the sweepy swimming fly,

Upon the window takes thine eye.

Go to thy little senseless play;

Thou dost not heed my lay.

Wanton drole, whose harmless playBeguiles the rustic’s closing day,When drawn the evening fire about,Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,And child upon his three-foot stool,Waiting till his supper cool;And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,As bright the blazing faggot glows,Who, bending to the friendly light,Plies her task with busy sleight;Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,Thus circled round with merry faces.Backward coil’d, and crouching low,With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,The housewife’s spindle whirling round,Or thread, or straw, that on the groundIts shadows throws, by urchin slyHeld out to lure thy roving eye;Then, onward stealing, fiercely springUpon the futile, faithless thing.Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,As oft beyond thy curving sideIts jetty tip is seen to glide;Till, from thy centre starting far,Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air,Erected stiff, and gait awry,Like madam in her tantrums high:Tho’ ne’er a madam of them allWhose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,More varied trick and whim displays,To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.Doth power in varied measures dwell,All thy vagaries wild to tell?Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,The giddy scamper round and round,With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,And many a whirling somerset,(Permitted be the modern museExpression technical to use,)These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill,But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,To thee is but a clumsy wight,Who every limb and sinew strains,To do what costs thee little pains,For which, I trow, the gaping crowdRequites him oft with plaudits loud.But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play,Applauses toothyfeats repay:For then, beneath some urchin’s hand,With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand,While many a stroke of fondness glidesAlong thy back and tabby sides.Dilated swells thy glossy fur,And loudly sings thy busy purr;As, timing well the equal sound,Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,And all their harmless claws disclose,Like prickles of an early rose;While softly from thy whisker’d cheek,Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.But not alone by cottage fireDo rustics rude thy feats admire;The learned sage, whose thoughts exploreThe widest range of human lore,Or, with unfetter’d fancy, flyThro’ airy heights of poesy,Pausing, smiles with alter’d air,To see thee climb his elbow-chair,Or, struggling on the mat below,Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe.The widow’d dame, or lonely maid,Who in the still but cheerless shadeOf home unsocial, spends her age,And rarely turns a letter’d page,Upon her hearth for thee lets fallThe rounded cork, or paper ball,Nor chides thee on thy wicked watchThe ends of ravell’d skein to catch,But lets thee have thy wayward will,Perplexing oft her sober skill.Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,In lonely tower or prison pent,Reviews the coil of former days,And loathes the world and all its ways;What time the lamp’s unsteady gleamDoth rouse him from his moody dream,Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat,His heart with pride less fiercely beat,And smiles, a link in thee to findThat joins him still to living kind.Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss,The magic power to charm us thus?Is it, that in thy glaring eye,And rapid movements, we descry,While we at ease, secure from ill,The chimney-corner snugly fill,A lion darting on the prey,A tiger at his ruthless play?Or is it, that in thee we trace,With all thy varied wanton grace,An emblem view’d with kindred eye,Of tricksy, restless infancy?Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d,To dull and sober manhood grown,With strange recoil our hearts disown.Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,When thou becom’st a cat demure,Full many a cuff and angry word,Chid roughly from the tempting board.And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,So oft our favour’d playmate been,Soft be the change which thou shalt proveWhen time hath spoil’d thee of our love;Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat,A comely, careful, mousing cat,Whose dish is, for the public good,Replenish’d oft with savoury food.Nor when thy span of life is past,Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;But gently borne on goodman’s spade,Beneath the decent sod be laid,And children show, with glistening eyes,The place where poor old Pussy lies.

Wanton drole, whose harmless play

Beguiles the rustic’s closing day,

When drawn the evening fire about,

Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,

And child upon his three-foot stool,

Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,

As bright the blazing faggot glows,

Who, bending to the friendly light,

Plies her task with busy sleight;

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,

Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil’d, and crouching low,With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,The housewife’s spindle whirling round,Or thread, or straw, that on the groundIts shadows throws, by urchin slyHeld out to lure thy roving eye;Then, onward stealing, fiercely springUpon the futile, faithless thing.Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,As oft beyond thy curving sideIts jetty tip is seen to glide;Till, from thy centre starting far,Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air,Erected stiff, and gait awry,Like madam in her tantrums high:Tho’ ne’er a madam of them allWhose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,More varied trick and whim displays,To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.

Backward coil’d, and crouching low,

With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,

The housewife’s spindle whirling round,

Or thread, or straw, that on the ground

Its shadows throws, by urchin sly

Held out to lure thy roving eye;

Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring

Upon the futile, faithless thing.

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,

As oft beyond thy curving side

Its jetty tip is seen to glide;

Till, from thy centre starting far,

Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air,

Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high:

Tho’ ne’er a madam of them all

Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,

More varied trick and whim displays,

To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.

Doth power in varied measures dwell,All thy vagaries wild to tell?Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,The giddy scamper round and round,With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,And many a whirling somerset,(Permitted be the modern museExpression technical to use,)These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill,But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.

Doth power in varied measures dwell,

All thy vagaries wild to tell?

Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,

The giddy scamper round and round,

With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,

And many a whirling somerset,

(Permitted be the modern muse

Expression technical to use,)

These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill,

But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,To thee is but a clumsy wight,Who every limb and sinew strains,To do what costs thee little pains,For which, I trow, the gaping crowdRequites him oft with plaudits loud.But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play,Applauses toothyfeats repay:For then, beneath some urchin’s hand,With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand,While many a stroke of fondness glidesAlong thy back and tabby sides.Dilated swells thy glossy fur,And loudly sings thy busy purr;As, timing well the equal sound,Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,And all their harmless claws disclose,Like prickles of an early rose;While softly from thy whisker’d cheek,Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,

To thee is but a clumsy wight,

Who every limb and sinew strains,

To do what costs thee little pains,

For which, I trow, the gaping crowd

Requites him oft with plaudits loud.

But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play,

Applauses toothyfeats repay:

For then, beneath some urchin’s hand,

With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand,

While many a stroke of fondness glides

Along thy back and tabby sides.

Dilated swells thy glossy fur,

And loudly sings thy busy purr;

As, timing well the equal sound,

Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,

And all their harmless claws disclose,

Like prickles of an early rose;

While softly from thy whisker’d cheek,

Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fireDo rustics rude thy feats admire;The learned sage, whose thoughts exploreThe widest range of human lore,Or, with unfetter’d fancy, flyThro’ airy heights of poesy,Pausing, smiles with alter’d air,To see thee climb his elbow-chair,Or, struggling on the mat below,Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe.The widow’d dame, or lonely maid,Who in the still but cheerless shadeOf home unsocial, spends her age,And rarely turns a letter’d page,Upon her hearth for thee lets fallThe rounded cork, or paper ball,Nor chides thee on thy wicked watchThe ends of ravell’d skein to catch,But lets thee have thy wayward will,Perplexing oft her sober skill.Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,In lonely tower or prison pent,Reviews the coil of former days,And loathes the world and all its ways;What time the lamp’s unsteady gleamDoth rouse him from his moody dream,Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat,His heart with pride less fiercely beat,And smiles, a link in thee to findThat joins him still to living kind.

But not alone by cottage fire

Do rustics rude thy feats admire;

The learned sage, whose thoughts explore

The widest range of human lore,

Or, with unfetter’d fancy, fly

Thro’ airy heights of poesy,

Pausing, smiles with alter’d air,

To see thee climb his elbow-chair,

Or, struggling on the mat below,

Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe.

The widow’d dame, or lonely maid,

Who in the still but cheerless shade

Of home unsocial, spends her age,

And rarely turns a letter’d page,

Upon her hearth for thee lets fall

The rounded cork, or paper ball,

Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch

The ends of ravell’d skein to catch,

But lets thee have thy wayward will,

Perplexing oft her sober skill.

Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,

In lonely tower or prison pent,

Reviews the coil of former days,

And loathes the world and all its ways;

What time the lamp’s unsteady gleam

Doth rouse him from his moody dream,

Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat,

His heart with pride less fiercely beat,

And smiles, a link in thee to find

That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss,The magic power to charm us thus?Is it, that in thy glaring eye,And rapid movements, we descry,While we at ease, secure from ill,The chimney-corner snugly fill,A lion darting on the prey,A tiger at his ruthless play?Or is it, that in thee we trace,With all thy varied wanton grace,An emblem view’d with kindred eye,Of tricksy, restless infancy?Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d,To dull and sober manhood grown,With strange recoil our hearts disown.Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,When thou becom’st a cat demure,Full many a cuff and angry word,Chid roughly from the tempting board.And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,So oft our favour’d playmate been,Soft be the change which thou shalt proveWhen time hath spoil’d thee of our love;Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat,A comely, careful, mousing cat,Whose dish is, for the public good,Replenish’d oft with savoury food.

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss,

The magic power to charm us thus?

Is it, that in thy glaring eye,

And rapid movements, we descry,

While we at ease, secure from ill,

The chimney-corner snugly fill,

A lion darting on the prey,

A tiger at his ruthless play?

Or is it, that in thee we trace,

With all thy varied wanton grace,

An emblem view’d with kindred eye,

Of tricksy, restless infancy?

Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,

Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d,

To dull and sober manhood grown,

With strange recoil our hearts disown.

Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,

When thou becom’st a cat demure,

Full many a cuff and angry word,

Chid roughly from the tempting board.

And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,

So oft our favour’d playmate been,

Soft be the change which thou shalt prove

When time hath spoil’d thee of our love;

Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat,

A comely, careful, mousing cat,

Whose dish is, for the public good,

Replenish’d oft with savoury food.

Nor when thy span of life is past,Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;But gently borne on goodman’s spade,Beneath the decent sod be laid,And children show, with glistening eyes,The place where poor old Pussy lies.

Nor when thy span of life is past,

Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;

But gently borne on goodman’s spade,

Beneath the decent sod be laid,

And children show, with glistening eyes,

The place where poor old Pussy lies.

The gowan glitters on the sward,The lavrock’s in the sky,And colley on my plaid keeps ward,And time is passing by.Oh no! sad and slow!I hear nae welcome sound;The shadow of our trysting-bush,It wears so slowly round!My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,My lambs are bleating near;But still the sound that I lo’e best,Alack! I canna hear!Oh no! sad and slow!The shadow lingers still;And like a lanely ghaist I stand,And croon upon the hill.I hear below the water roar,The mill wi’ clacking din;And Luckey scolding frae the door,To bring the bairnies in.Oh no! sad and slow!These are nae the sounds for me;The shadow of our trysting-bush,It creeps sae drearily!I coft yestreen from chapman TamA snood o’ bonnie blue,And promis’d when our trysting cam,To tie it round her brow.Oh no! sad and slow!The time it winna pass!The shadow of that weary thornIs tether’d on the grass.O now I see her on the way,She’s past the Witch’s knowe;She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae;My heart is in a lowe.Oh no! sad and slow!’Tis glamrie I hae seen;The shadow of that hawthorn bushWill move nae mair till e’en.My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill;When colley barks, I’ll raise my head,And find her on the hill.Oh no! ’tis nae so!The time will ne’er be gane!The shadow of the trysting-bushIs fix’d like ony stane.

The gowan glitters on the sward,

The lavrock’s in the sky,

And colley on my plaid keeps ward,

And time is passing by.

Oh no! sad and slow!

I hear nae welcome sound;

The shadow of our trysting-bush,

It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,My lambs are bleating near;But still the sound that I lo’e best,Alack! I canna hear!Oh no! sad and slow!The shadow lingers still;And like a lanely ghaist I stand,And croon upon the hill.

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,

My lambs are bleating near;

But still the sound that I lo’e best,

Alack! I canna hear!

Oh no! sad and slow!

The shadow lingers still;

And like a lanely ghaist I stand,

And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,The mill wi’ clacking din;And Luckey scolding frae the door,To bring the bairnies in.Oh no! sad and slow!These are nae the sounds for me;The shadow of our trysting-bush,It creeps sae drearily!

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi’ clacking din;

And Luckey scolding frae the door,

To bring the bairnies in.

Oh no! sad and slow!

These are nae the sounds for me;

The shadow of our trysting-bush,

It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen from chapman TamA snood o’ bonnie blue,And promis’d when our trysting cam,To tie it round her brow.Oh no! sad and slow!The time it winna pass!The shadow of that weary thornIs tether’d on the grass.

I coft yestreen from chapman Tam

A snood o’ bonnie blue,

And promis’d when our trysting cam,

To tie it round her brow.

Oh no! sad and slow!

The time it winna pass!

The shadow of that weary thorn

Is tether’d on the grass.

O now I see her on the way,She’s past the Witch’s knowe;She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae;My heart is in a lowe.Oh no! sad and slow!’Tis glamrie I hae seen;The shadow of that hawthorn bushWill move nae mair till e’en.

O now I see her on the way,

She’s past the Witch’s knowe;

She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae;

My heart is in a lowe.

Oh no! sad and slow!

’Tis glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow of that hawthorn bush

Will move nae mair till e’en.

My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill;When colley barks, I’ll raise my head,And find her on the hill.Oh no! ’tis nae so!The time will ne’er be gane!The shadow of the trysting-bushIs fix’d like ony stane.

My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,

Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill;

When colley barks, I’ll raise my head,

And find her on the hill.

Oh no! ’tis nae so!

The time will ne’er be gane!

The shadow of the trysting-bush

Is fix’d like ony stane.

The chough and crow to roost are gone,The owl sits on the tree,The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,Like infant charity.The wild-fire dances on the fen,The red star sheds its ray,Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!It is our opening day.Both child and nurse are fast asleep,And clos’d is every flower,And winking tapers faintly peepHigh from my Lady’s bower;Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d kenShrink on their murky way,Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!It is our opening day.Nor board nor garner own we now,Nor roof nor latchèd door,Nor kind mate bound by holy vowTo bless a good man’s store;Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,And night is grown our day,Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!And use it as ye may.

The chough and crow to roost are gone,

The owl sits on the tree,

The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,

Like infant charity.

The wild-fire dances on the fen,

The red star sheds its ray,

Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!

It is our opening day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,And clos’d is every flower,And winking tapers faintly peepHigh from my Lady’s bower;Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d kenShrink on their murky way,Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!It is our opening day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,

And clos’d is every flower,

And winking tapers faintly peep

High from my Lady’s bower;

Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken

Shrink on their murky way,

Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!

It is our opening day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,Nor roof nor latchèd door,Nor kind mate bound by holy vowTo bless a good man’s store;Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,And night is grown our day,Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!And use it as ye may.

Nor board nor garner own we now,

Nor roof nor latchèd door,

Nor kind mate bound by holy vow

To bless a good man’s store;

Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,

And night is grown our day,

Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!

And use it as ye may.

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