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SAMUEL THOMSON (1766–1793–1816) Samuel Thomson lived all his life in a small thatched cottage at Carngranny near Templepatrick, Co. Antrim. Unlike most other self-taught ‘weaver poets’ of his time, Thomson was an educated man and he ran a small school in his house. Though he also wrote in English, Thomson’s best work is in Ulster-Scots. He greatly admired Robert Burns whom he visited in Scotland in 1794. Thomson’s own verse has a sprightly force and a delight in language frequently equal to that of Burns. To a Hedge-hog. Unguarded beauty is disgrace Broome1 While youthful poets, thro’ the grove,2 Chaunt saft their canny lays o’ love, And a’ their skill exert to move The darling object; I chuse, as ye may shortly prove, A rougher subject. 322 ‘The Coquette’, line 15, The Works of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland, 8 vols 1 (Dublin, 1793–1804), V, 470. Rather than clutter the text with annotations of unfamiliar Ulster-Scots words and phrases, 2 we provide a rough paraphrase of this text in modern English: When young poets softly sing their clever love songs in the woods, and exercise all their skill to move the object of their affections, I choose a rougher subject, as you’ll soon see. What use is it for us to bother ourselves in rhyme about [the beauty of] chin and cheek, and forehead and headdress – whistling like a widowed linnet lurching along the whitethorn ditches? The pains of love are hard to bear, I acknowledge: but let’s get to my hedgehog. You are by far the grimmest looking of the rough animals grubbing for your food by thorn-covered walls! Good heavens, you are not short of pikes – sharp, strong ones! You look (Lord save us!) like a creeping flax-comb! Some say you are related to the sow – but I believe you’re closer to the devil! And there are few that can say what use you are – but, as wise men say, nothing was made in vain. Sure, in the beginning, it was the devil that fathered you on some cursed old gorse or thorn bush! And some monstrous, horny-fingered old woman nursed you, you ugly urchin! And the Devil himself, laughing fit to burst, called you ‘hedgehog’! People say that you’re no fool: when windfall fruit lies softly all around, you roll yourself into a ball and carry away, on your back, what you need for a day or two. But whether that’s true is more than I’ll say here and now; if, as some assert, you squeeze the last drop of milk out of a cow in the field, I’ll allow that you are a pretty milkmaid! I’ve heard superstitious people say that, if we meet you in the morning, we’ll have bad luck – some terrible mischance – that day; but I think fools who think that have no common sense. I’ve seen many hedgehogs early in the morning when I’m setting out and also in the evening when I’m coming home – but my fate that day has not been different. How long will mortals blather nonsense, and souls tie themselves to superstition! For witchcraft and omens are just damned nonsense that now mean little to us or to the Scotch folk. Now creep off the way you came, and look after your squeaking little ones at home. If my dog Collie should overhear them, it might be fatal for you, despite all the pikes you claim, to do battle with him. 323 Samuel Thomson What sairs to bother us in sonnet, ’Bout chin an’ cheek, an’ brow an’ bonnet? Just chirlin like a widow’d linnet, Thro’ bushes lurchin; 10 Love’s stangs are ill to thole, I own it, But to my hurchin. Thou grimest far o’ grusome tykes, Grubbing thy food by thorny dykes, Gudefaith thou disna want for pikes,3 Baith sharp an’ rauckle; Thou looks (L–d save’s) array’d in spikes, A creepin’ heckle! Some say thou’rt sib kin to the sow, But sibber to the de’il, I trow; 20 An’ what thy use can be, there’s few That can explain; But naithing, as the learn’d allow, Was made in vain. Sure Nick4 begat thee, at the first, On some auld whin or thorn accurst; An’ some horn-finger’d harpie nurst The ugly urchin; The Belzie,5 laughin, like to...

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