poem on pastoral poetry

hail, poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!

in chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd

frae mon sense, or sunk enerv'd

'mang heaps o' vers:

and och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,

'mid a' thy favours!

say,ssie, why, thy train amang,

while loud the trump's heroic ng,

and sock or buskin skelp ng

to death or marriage;

scarce ane has tried the shepherd—sang

but wi' miscarriage?

in homer's craft jock milton thrives;

eschylus' pen will shakespeare drives;

wee pope, the knurlin', till him rives

horatian fame;

in thy sweet sang, barbauld, survives

even sappho's me.

but thee, theocritus, wha matches?

they're no herd's bats, maro's catches;

squire pope but busks his skinklin' patches

o' heathen tatters:

i pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

that ape their betters.

in this braw age o' wit and lear,

will nane the shepherd's whistle mair

w sweetly in its native air,