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328 FRANCIS BOYLE (c.1730–c.1795–c.1811) Francis Boyle, one of the earliest poets to write in Ulster-Scots, lived in Gransha, Co. Down and was probably a weaver. He had a boisterous sense of humour which makes his Miscellaneous Poems (Belfast, 1811) more entertaining than the work of some other weaver poets. Address to the Cuckoo Welcome great songster o’ the spring!1 Its aye glad news which thou dost bring, Whan thou return’st again to sing, Thy Maker’s praise; Then a’ our groves an’ woodlands ring, Wi’ thy sweet lays. Since this text is in Ulster-Scots, we provide a rough paraphrase in modern English: 1 Welcome, great songster of the spring! It’s always good news you bring when you return to sing your Maker’s praise; then all our groves and woodlands ring with your sweet song. How silently you wait through all the weary time of winter! When suffering birds are in all kinds of distress, kind nature provides a place of rest for you. You can’t fly to southern climes, for that’s far too long a flight for you; the woods are full of whip-poorwills – they are on every tree – where the famous hero, Washington, set them free. It’s well for you that you sleep so soundly while storms rage around the world; many a beautiful nest has been blown down this very year, and merchants in the bustling town have lost their possessions. Last winter when you were away, we were not too distressed by snow; but we had many a frost and thaw, and wind enough; and heavy rain stopped us from ploughing. A threatening moon appeared at the beginning of the new year – she had a dreadful look about her – and the wind tore the slates and the thatch from farmers’ roofs. But it’s particularly bad for those who go to sea; they get the worst of it when their fine ships are dashed onto rocks or piles of stones; this causes many wives to cease joking and to weep for their children. The foaming ocean roared loudly and Britain’s shipping suffered greatly: large oak trees were torn up by the roots in St James’s Park, and wrecks were strewn along the shore at high-water mark. Now the sun has called you out of your grave, or from some dark and dreary cave, to raise your voice higher than all the rest and sing more loudly than all our splendid songbirds. You won’t sing on the ‘borrowing days’ when the Egyptians lent their clothes and their gold rings to their mortal enemies, the Israelites; but you’ll sing sweetly enough when the daisies are in flower on the hills. Perhaps, about the middle of April (when nature begins to smile), you’ll start singing until the sudden arrival of a short, sharp storm that batters the bushes and strikes us dumb. But in the blooming month of May, you rise early every day to charm the beautifully dew-covered woodlands with your sweet song – even though you have nothing to sing or say except ‘cuckoo’. Then comes the pleasant month of June, when barley ripens; your throat grows hoarse, you lose your voice and seem as if you’re choking; you slip away to lay yourself down, you poor, weak fool! And after all the noise of your singing, you are just like the rest of your false race and leave behind a worthless, whinging, whining bastard, without even a feather to protect him from the wet. 329 Francis Boyle In what a silence dost thou bide Through a’ the weary winter’s tide, When grief pours in frae every side, On birds distrest, 10 Kind Nature does for thee provide, A place o’ rest. To southern climes thou canst not flee For that’s owre far a flight for thee, Wi’ whipper-wills on ev’ry tree The woods aboun’2 Whare the great hero set them free, Fam’d Washington. It’s weel for thee thou sleepst sae sound, While tempests rage the warl’ round; 20 There’s monie a bonie nest blawn down This vera year; An’ merchants in the bustlin’ town Hae lost their gear. Last winter when thou wast awa We werna much distrest wi’ snaw, But we had monie a frost an’ thaw An’ win’ enough: An’ heavy pours o’ rain did fa’, An’ stapt the pleugh. 30 About the first o...

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