He stuffs his poems, too,
with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch-
man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On
the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he
exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough,
to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay.
THE FARMER'S INGLE.
Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho,
Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG.
1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1]
Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre;
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4]
An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire;
What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld,
An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain;
Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld,
Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain.
2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift,
Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill,
An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift.
The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find,
Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind;
That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean;
For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.
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