PHOENIX the First, th' Arabian lord
And chief of all the feather'd kind,
A hundred ages had ador'd
The sun with sanctity of mind.
YET, mortal, he maun yield to fate.
He heard the summons with a smile,
And unalarmed, without regret,
He form'd himsell a fun'ral pile.
A howlet, bird of mean degree,
Poor, dosen'd, lame, and doited auld,
Lay lurking in a neighb'ring tree,
Cursing the sun loot him be cauld.
SAID Phoenix: "Brother, why so griev'd
To ban the being gives thee breath?
Learn to die better than thou'st liv'd.
Believe me, there's nae ill in death."
"BELIEVE ye that?" the owl reply'd.
"Preach as ye please, death is an ill.
When young I ilka pleasure try'd,
But now I die against my will.
FOR you, a species by your sell,
Near eeldins with the sun your god,
Nae ferly 'tis to hear you tell
Ye're tired and incline to nod.
IT shou'd be sae; for had I been
As lang upon the warld as ye,
Nae tears shou'd e'er drap frae my een
For tinsel of my hollow tree."
"AND what," return'd the Arabian sage,
"Have ye t'observe ye have not seen?
Ae day's the picture of an age,
'Tis ay the same thing o'er again.
COME, let us baith together die.
Bow to the sun that gave thee life;
Repent thou frae his beams did flee
And end thy poortith, pain and strife.
THOU, wha in darkness took delight,
Frae twangs of guilt could'st ne'er be free:
What won thou by thy shunning light?
But time flees on, I haste to die."
"YE'R servant, sir," reply'd the owl,
"I likena in the dark to lowp:
The by-word ca's that cheil a fool
That slips a certainty for hope."
THEN straight the zealous feather'd king
To's aromatick nest retir'd,
Collected sun-beams with his wing,
And in a spicy flame expir'd.
MEAN time there blew a westlin gale,
Which to the howlet bore a coal.
The saint departed on his pile,
But the blasphemer in his hole,
HE died for ever. — Fair and bright,
The phoenix frae his ashes sprang.
Thus wicked men sink down to night,
While just men join the glorious thrang.
PHAYNIX the First, th'Arabian lord
An chief of aw the feathred kind,
A hunder ages haed adored
The sun wi sanctity o mind.
Yet, mortal, he man yield tae fett.
He heard the summons wi a smile,
An unalarmed, withoot regret,
He furmed himsel a foon'ral pile.
A hoolet, bird o mean degree,
Puir, dosened, lame, an doited auld,
Lay lurkin in a neibrin tree,
Cursin the sun loot him be cauld.
Sayd Phaynix: "Brither, why sae grieved
Ti ban the bein gies thee braith?
Lairn ti dee better than thoo'st leeved.
Believe me, thare's nae ill in daith."
"Believe you that?" the ool replied.
"Preach as ye pleise, daith is an ill.
Whan young Ah ilka pleisur tried,
But noo Ah dee agin ma will.
For you, a species bi yersel,
Near eeldins wi the sun yer god,
Nae ferly 'tis ti hear ye tell
Ye're tired an incline ti nod.
It shoud be sae, for haed Ah been
As lang upon the warld as ye,
Nae tears shoud e'er drap frae ma een
For tinsel o ma hallae tree."
"An what," returned the Arabian sage,
Have ye t'obser ye hanna seen?
Ae day's the pictur of an age,
'Tis aye the same thing ower again.
Come, let us baith thegither dee.
Boo til the sun that gave thee life;
Repent thou frae his beams did flee
An end thy puirtith, payne an strife.
Thoo, wha in darkness teuk delicht,
Frae twangs o guilt coudst neer be free:
What wan thou bi thy shunnin licht?
But time flees on, Ah heist ti dee."
"Yer servant, sir," replied the ool,
Ah likena in the dark ti lowp:
The by-wird caws that chiel a fuil
That slips a certainty for howp."
Then straucht the zeilous feathred king
Tae's aromatick nest retired,
Collected sunbeams wi his wing,
An in a spicy flam expired.
Mean time thare blew a westlin gile,
Whilk til the hoolet buir a coal.
The sant depairtit on his pile,
But the blasphemer in his hole
He dee'ed for iver. Fair an bricht,
The phaynix frae his ashes sprang.
Thus wickit men sink doon tae nicht,
While juist men jyne the glorious thrang.