Condiet appositum dum fercula nostra salinum,
Praebebitque suas mensa secunda nuces;
Dum stantis rhedae aurigam tua pagina fallet,
Contentum in sella taedia longa pati!
Quid, quod et ipsa sibi devinctum Scotia nutrix
Te perget gremio grata fovere senem;
Officiumque pium simili pietate rependens,
Saecula nulla sinet non meminisse Tui.
The TRANSLATION is from the pen of DEAN STANLEY:—
Hail, Twentieth Edition! From Orkney to Tweed,
Let the wits of all Scotland come running to read.
Not in vain hath he lived, who by innocent mirth
Hath lightened the frowns and the furrows of earth:
Not in vain hath he lived, who will never let die
The humours of good times for ever gone by:
Not in vain hath he lived, who hath laboured to give
In himself the best proof how by love we may live.
Rejoice, our dear Dean, thy reward to behold
In united rejoicing of young and of old;
Remembered, so long as our boards shall not lack
A bright grain of salt or a hard nut to crack;
So long as the cabman aloft on his seat,
Broods deep o’er thy page as he waits in the street!
Yea, Scotland herself, with affectionate care,
Shall nurse an old age so beloved and so rare;
And still gratefully seek in her heart to enshrine
One more Reminiscence, and that shall be Thine.
From the DEAN of WESTMINSTER.
The Deanery, Westminster,
February 3, 1872.
My dear elder (I cannot say eldest so long as the Dean of Winchester lives) Brother—I am very glad that you are pleased with my attempt to render into English the Bishop’s beautiful Latinity....
Accept our best wishes
for many happy returns of the day just
On the publication of the Twentieth Edition of the Reminiscences, Professor Blackie addressed to the Dean the following sonnets:—
Hail! wreathed in smiles, thou genial
book! and hail
Who wove thy web of bright and various hue,
The wise old man, who gleaned the social tale
And thoughtful jest and roguish whim, that grew
Freely on Scotland’s soil when Scotland knew
To be herself, nor lusted to assume
Smooth English ways—that they might live and bloom
With freshness, ever old and ever new
In human hearts. Thrice happy he who knows
With sportive light the cloudy thought to clear,
And round his head the playful halo throws
That plucks the terror from the front severe:
Such grace was thine, and such thy gracious part,
Thou wise old Scottish man of large and loving heart.