1793 Poem, Samuel Thomson, ‘Elegy on R— I—’
Author: Samuel Thomson
Date: 1793
Source: Poem: ‘Elegy on R— I—’ from Poems, on Different Subjects, partly in the Scottish Dialect by Samuel Thomson (Belfast: printed for the author, 1793).
Comments: Samuel Thomson (1766–1816) from Lyles Hill near Templepatrick in South Antrim was the editor of the ‘Poets’ Corner’ in the Belfast United Irishman newspaper Northern Star until the paper was closed down in 1797. He exchanged poems with, and visited, Robert Burns, and published three books containing Ulster-Scots poetry — in 1793, 1799 and 1806. An account of his life and poetry can be found in the Introduction to The Country Rhymes of Samuel Thomson, by Philip Robinson and Ernest Scott (Belfast, 1992).
Doc. ref. no.: USLS/TB/Poetry/1700-1799/013
Elegy on R— I—
Come a’ ye younkers o’er the dale,
Let grief a while your mirth assail;
Death wi’ a smite o’ his lang flail
Has reach’d his head,
An’ gien us a’ cause to bewail
R— I— dead.
Our Norland lasses may look wae,
And glowr about wi’ aspect blae:
Poor Rab, that erst was heard to play
Wi’ lively screed,
Is ruthless flung to worms a prey
Amang the dead!
He was nae man o’ meikle lear —
O’ country lore he had his share,
Wi’ deep disputes he didna care
Ava to meddle:
In short he kent but little mair
Than play the fiddle.
Some said he cou’dna play’d a reel
As true as monie anither chiel;
I thought his music did as weel,
For a’ their blethers,
T’ inspire a countra’ fellow’s heel,
As onie ither’s.
Wi’ A—n monie a day he jinket,
An’ monie a penny frae him clinket;
He’d fix’t his specks, an’ gravely winkit,
An’ spungt the cash!
But never ran awa to drink it,
Like him, fool hash!
He was nae drinker, ne’ertheless
He dearly lo’ed a social glass;
But if he chanced to transgress
And bounds o’er shoot,
It chang’d the fidler to the ass,
That lang-ear’d brute.
Ah R------n! aft thy chearing fiddle
Has made the wee anes twine and widdle,
An’ youthfu’ spunkies skip and striddle,
In barns at e’en,
Wi’ maidens jimp about the middle;
Baith blithe an’ keen.
Mysel’ I’ve aften been right vogie
To hear thee skirl up Bally bogie;
Tho’ some loons ca’d thee selfish rogue ay,
An’ catch the money,
Thou kept thy ain auld sleepy, jog ay
Nor minded ony. —
A lie like clatter ance gaed roun’,
That Rab, when tempted wi’ a crown,
To please, O fye! a graceless loon,
Ae Sunday night,
Sat down and play’d tune after tune
Till clear day-light.
Now pithless lies that artfu’ arm
That taught the nice extended thairm,
Wi’ music’s silver, magic charm
To thrill sea clear;
The youthfu’, tunefu’ heart to warm
An’ age to chear.
He’s dead an’ burry’d! let him lie,
And if misconduct ye do spy,
Ah! fling it in oblivion by,
Ye cantin’ core!
He has an awfu’ judge on high
To come before!
