A willing heart adds feather to the heel.
quote by Joanna Baillie
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Pampered vanity is a better thing perhaps than starved pride.
quote by Joanna Baillie
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I wish I were with some of the wild people that run in the woods, and know nothing about accomplishments!
quote by Joanna Baillie
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I have seen the day, when, if a man made himself ridiculous, the world would laugh at him. But now, everything that is mean, disgusting, and absurd, pleases them but so much the better!
quote by Joanna Baillie
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Rhymes For Chanting
BUTTERFLY, butterfly, speed through the air,
The ring-bird follows thee fast,
And the monkey looks up with a greedy stare;
Speed on till the peril be past!
O, wert thou but safe in my garden bower,
And wouldst thou no further stray,
Thou shouldst feed on the rose and the gilliflower,
And be my play-mate gay.
poem by Joanna Baillie
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Song written At Mr. Thomson’s Request
AS A KIND OF INTRODUCTION
TO HIS IRISH MELODIES.
SWEET power of song! that canst impart
To lowland swain or mountaineer
A gladness thrilling through the heart,
A joy so tender and so dear!
Sweet power! that on a foreign strand
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move
With feelings of his native land,
As gentle as an infant's love!
Sweet power! that makest youthful heads,
With thistle, leek or shamrock crowned,
Nod proudly as the carol sheds
Its spirit through the social round!
Sweet power! that cheerest the daily toil
Of cottage maid or beldame poor,
The ploughman on the furrowed soil,
Or herd-boy on the lonely moor:
Or he by bards the Shepherd hight,
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poem by Joanna Baillie
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Lines For A Friend’s Album
LINES , in addition to the treasure
Of poesy, culled for the pleasure
Of beau and belle and gentle dame,
When seated round the evening flame,
What time the social hour is waning,
And tardy coachman guests detaining,--
A courteous friend hath bid me write
Upon her Album's pages white.
But age the easy grace hath lost
That would become such pages most,
While of a quondam rhymester's skill,
Scarce aught is extant but the will;
And sober, stinted age must use
The school-girl's worn and stale excuse,
When, long her correspondent's debtor,
The apology becomes the letter.
Apologies for those who need 'em!
An Album is a thing of freedom,
Receiving all with right good will
That fortune sends from many a quill,
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poem by Joanna Baillie
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Song, Poverty Parts Good Company
WHEN my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow an brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.
How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight,
When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright,
And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holy-day gear!
Woe is me; and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic company?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk;
And the sound o'her voice, and the blinks o'her een,
The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree, at Mertimass flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.
At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride,
The bruise I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride;
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poem by Joanna Baillie
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On Memory
WRITTEN AT AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.
NO ! this is not the land of Memory,
It is not the home where she dwells,
Though her wandering, wayward votary
Is ever the thrall of her spells;
Far off were the fetters woven which bind
Still closer and closer the exile's mind!
Yet this land was the boast of minstrelsy,
Of the song of the Troubadour,
Whence Charlemagne led his chivalry
To the fields which were fought of yore;
Still the eye of Fancy may see them glance,
Gilded banner, and quivering lance!
But Memory from Fancy turns away,
She has wealth of her own to guard;
And whisperings come to her ear, which say
Sweeter things than the song of the bard:
They are solemn and low, and none can hear
The whispers which come to Memory's ear.
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poem by Joanna Baillie
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Epistle To Earl Harcourt, On His Wishing Her To Spell Her Name With Of Catherine With A K.
AND can his antiquarian eyes,
My Anglo-Saxon C despise?
And does Lord Harcourt, day by day,
Regret th' extinct initial K?
And still, with ardour unabated,
Labour to get it reinstated?--
I know, my Lord, your generous passion
For ev'ry long-exploded fashion;
And own the Catherine you delight in,
Looks irresistibly inviting,
Appears to bear the stamp, and mark,
Of English, used in Noah's Ark;
'But all that glitters is not gold,'
Nor all things obsolete, are old.
Would you but take the pains to look
In Doctor Johnson's quarto book,
(As I did, wishing much to see
Th' aforesaid letter's pedigree),
Believe me, 't would a tale unfold,
Would make your Norman blood run cold.
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poem by Joanna Baillie
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