“Jam jam residunt cruribus aspera.” – CAR. II., 20.
THE bards are birds an’ born to flee!
If I were ane, an’ choice were free,
I’d be an Eagle! wha but he
To rule the air!
The very sun wi’ open ee
He can ootstare!
–
His flicht is owre the cluds o’ heaven,
He screams abune the flashin’ levin
That sends the wee fools, terror-driven,
Hame when they see’t;
The hieche4st hills are thunder-riven
Aneth his feet!
–
Nae peer has he; an’ wha wad daur
The rushin’ o’ his wings in war?
Or seek wi’ impious bolt to bar
His plumag’d pride?
Nae fear has he; his flicht is far,
His empire wide.
–
Already doun my sides I feel
The feathers creepin’! on my heel
A spur sticks oot as sharp as steel!
My wings are risin’!
I’m ready for the lift! fareweel!
I’m aff, bird-guizin’.
–
Wi’ ae waff o’ my wings I soar
A mile abune the city’s roar;
Then round the globe, shore after shore,
Wi’ pinions regal,
I flee a strang flicht wi’ the core,
A brither eagle!
–
Homer flees first – for wha wad seek
To tak’ that honour fra the Greek?
Then Pindar wi’ triumphant beak
An’ bluidy talons, –
Tho’, whyles, he whummles wi’ a shriek
Clean aff his balance!
–
Then comes a lower flicht, but still
Far, far abune oof loftiest hill;
Yon’s Virgil wi’ his weel-preen’s quill
Alangside Horace;
A band o’ Eaglets screamin’ shrill
Comes next in chorus.
–
But wha is this wi’ brunt ee-bree,
An’ scowther’d on the wings awee?
It’s Dante: he delichts to flee
A’ by himsel’.
The fire that’s in his flamin’ ee
He stole fra hell!
–
An’ yonder, noo, ye may descry
Shakespeare an’ MIlton ridin’ by,
Dimmin’ the haill dome o’ the sky,
Their ain dominion;
While far within their shadow I Streek oot my pinion.
–
But yet it’s grand to sail the air
Altho’ a mile aneth the pair, –
To flap your wings owre yearthly care,
Owre kirk an’ steeple,
An’ see them point Lo here! lo lthere!
The gapin’ people.
–
Nae mound nor monument for me!
An Eagle-poet canna dee!
But when the lightnin’ flashes free,
The tempest sings,
Look up, an’ in the tumult see
My soaring wings!