1799 Poem, Samuel Thomson, ‘To a Hedge-Hog’
Author: Samuel Thomson
Date: 1799
Source: Poem: ‘To a Hedge-Hog’, from New Poems, on a variety of different subjects by Samuel Thomson (Belfast: Doherty & Simms, 1799)
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/1700-1799/030
TO A HEDGE-HOG.
“Unguarded beauty is disgrace.”
BROOME.
While youthful poets, thro’ the grove,
Chaunt saft their canny lays o’ love,
And a’ their skill exert to move
The darling object;
I chuse, as ye may shortly prove,
A rougher subject.
What sairs to bother us in sonnet,
’Bout chin an’ cheek, an’ brow an’ bonnet?
Just chirlin like a widow’d linnet,
Thro’ bushes lurchin;
Love’s stangs are ill to thole, I own it,
But to my hurchin.
Thou grimest far o’ grusome tykes,
Grubbing thy food by thorny dykes,
Gudefaith thou disna want for pikes,
Baith sharp an’ rauckle;
Thou looks (L----d save’s) array’d in spikes,
A creepin heckle!
Some say thou’rt sib kin to the sow,
But sibber to the deil, I trow;
An’ what thy use can be, there’s few
That can explain;
But naithing, as the learn’d allow,
Was made in vain.
Sure Nick begat thee, at the first,
On some auld whin or thorn accurst;
An’ some horn-finger’d harpie nurst
The ugly urchin;
Then Belzie, laughin, like to burst
First ca’d thee Hurchin!
Fok tell how thou, sae far frae daft,
Whar wind fa’n fruit lie scatter’d saft,
Will row thysel’, wi’ cunning craft,
An’ bear awa
Upon thy back, what sairs thee aft
A day or twa.
But whether this account be true,
Is mair than I will here avow;
If that thou stribs the outler cow,
As some assert,
A pretty milkmaid, I allow,
Forsooth thou art.
I’ve heard the superstitious say,
To meet thee on our morning way,
Portends some dire misluck that day —
Some black mischance;
Sic fools, howe’er, are far astray
Frae common sense.
Right monie a hurchin I hae seen,
At early morn, and eke at e’en,
Baith setting off, an’ whan I’ve been
Returning hame;
But Fate, indifferent, I ween,
Was much the same.
How lang will mortals nonsense blether,
And sauls to superstition tether!
For witch-craft, omens, altogether,
Are damn’d hotch-potch mock,
That now obtain sma credit ether
Frae us or Scotch fok.
Now creep awa the way ye came,
And tend your squeakin pups at hame;
Gin Colley should o’erhear the same,
It might be fatal,
For you, wi’ a’ the pikes ye claim,
Wi’ him to battle.
