2110-5-12-11

HARLECH, 68, MARINE PARADE, LEIGH-ON-SEA, ESSEX.

16th April 1932

Dear Mr Buchan,

I am very grateful to you for your kindness in reading my study of Goethe and for your good opinion of it. Your views of the chances of publication confirm my own impression that the demand of the reading public for books on Goethe has for the time being been more than

satisfied. And yet there is something lacking in all that I have seen.

I have recently been amusing myself by making Scots imitations of Horace, following the example of my elders and betters from Allan Ramsay to Hugh Haliburton. Here is "Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume," which may be imagined as addressed by one Horace Affleck, an unknown 18th century poet to Thomas MacAdam of that ilk.

Eh Tammas, Tammas, years slip on & flee

Ye'll no' hand back the wrinkles, honest man!

Gar Death unbiddable bide still awee

Or pressing Age - yon's mair nor Virtue can.

And though ye built a thousand parish kirks

Ye'd find Auld Sma'back juist as ill to please.

He sorted ancient Romans, Greeks & Turks

Giants and monsters, saunts and savages.

Oorsels maun cross the ferry like the lave,

Whatever penny-fee we drew on earth,

Puir hard-wrocht crofters toiling to the grave

Or kings and princes frae oor very birth.

In vain we jink the bluidy battlefield

Or when the Firth is roarin' hide at hame

Or ilka winter seek a cosy bield

Far frae snell blasts - the end is age the same.

Your winsome wife ye'll leave, your hame your land

And sprigs o' yew (for them ye never cared)

O' a' the trees ye planted and ye planned

Will follow you - sae short a while the Laird

(over)

Some heir, your better (set him up) will drain

Your locked Glenlivet, heedless o' your whim;

He'll pour it freely - aye the flure he'll stain

When Auld Kirk elders come to sup wi' him.

Yours very truly

N. Macleod