The Goblin Groom: A Tale of Dunse

Walter, at last, in order due,

The minstrel tunes his harp to you;

The very notes of friendship dear,

Are cordial to a poet’s ear:

Then why, my Walter, should I care

From whence you come, or who you are.

What! tho’ no royal blood should flow

Thro’ veins of blue and breast of snow:

Tho’ lowest of the low you be,

Still you shall hear my minstrelsy:

Enough to me it is that you

Are vassal to the bold B— —h;

For to my heart they still are dear,

Who serve that stout, that valiant peer.

But now, my friend, ’tis right to ask,

How thrives your culinary task?

Seems it to me the cultured soil,

Should glow beneath your sun-burnt toil.

I see thy face with ruddy glow

Smile on the rising cabbage row;

And now, methinks, I feel thy glee,

For I, my friend, can feel like thee,

E’en at the peeping of a pea;

Just when the germ has broke the soil,

The very sight repays thy toil.

O, Cultivation! Ceres’ child,

Foe to the hill and desert wild!

Foe to the mountain and the moor,

Friend to the hungry and the poor!

But let me not, with thoughts elate,

Forget my Walter’s garden gate:

Of all the gates so wonderous fair

Here round the princely dwelling,

My Watty’s gate, beyond compare,

All these is far excelling!