p. 158¶Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an' me's in great affliction,E'er sin' they laid that curst restrictionOn aqua-vitx;An' rouse them up to strong conviction,An' move their pity.
¶Stand forth an' tell yon Premier youthThe honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,His servants humble:The muckle deevil blaw you southIf ye dissemble!
¶Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!Let posts an' pensions sink or soomWi' them wha grant them;If honestly they canna come,Far better want them.
¶In gath'rin votes you were na slack;Now stand as tightly by your tack:Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,An' hum an' haw;But raise your arm, an' tell your crackBefore them a'.
¶Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a stell,Triumphant crushin't like a mussel,Or limpet shell!
¶Then, on the tither hand present her—A blackguard smuggler right behint her,An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintnerColleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf a' kind coin.[159]Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,To see his poor auld mither's potThus dung in staves,An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?
¶Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,Trode i' the mire out o' sight?But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell, 1There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An' tie some hose well.
¶God bless your Honours! can ye see't—The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,An' no get warmly to your feet,An' gar them hear it,An' tell them wi* a patriot-heatYe winna bear it?
¶Some o' you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an' pause,An' with rhet6ric clause on clauseTo mak harangues;Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa'sAuld Scotland's wrangs.
¶Dempster,' a true blue Scot I'se warran';Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4An' that glib-gabbit Highland baron,The Laird o' Graham; 5An' ane, a chap that's damn'd aulfarran',Dundas his name: 6
¶Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7True Campbells, Frederick and Hay;'[160]An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;1An' mony ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.
p. 160¶See, sodger Hugh,2 0 my watchman stented,If poets e'er are represented;I ken if that your sword were wanted,Ye'd lend a hand;But when there's ought to say anent it,Ye're at a stand.
¶Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle;Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,Ye'll see't or lang,She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,Anither sang.
¶This while she's been in crankous mood,Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play'd her that pliskie!)An' now she's like to rin red-wudAbout her whisky.
¶An' Lord! if ance they pit her till't,Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,An' durk an' pistol at her belt,She'll tak the streets,An' rin her whitde to the hilt,I' the first she meets!
¶For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,An' to the muckle house repair,Wi' instant speed,An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear.To get remead.[161]Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks;But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!E'en cowe the cadielAn' send him to his dicing boxAn' sportin' lady.
p. 161¶Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's,"I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's"Nine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,Wad kindly seek.
¶Could he some commutation broach,I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He needna fear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.
¶Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She's just a devil wi' a rung;An' if she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho' by the neck she should be strung,She'll no desert.
¶And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still your mither's heart support ye;Then, tho' a minister grow dorty,An' kick your place,Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,Before his face.
¶" Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnoclc in Cornwall.
¶" A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R. B.
p. 162¶In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,That haunt St. Jamie's!Your humble poet sings an' prays,While Rab his name is.
Postscript
¶LET half-starv'd slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-dust'ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,But, blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boysTak aff their whisky.
¶What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,The scented groves;Or, hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves!
¶Their gun's a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o' powther;Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring switherTo stan' or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throw'ther,To save their skin.
¶But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George's will,An' there's the foe!He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.
¶Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him;An' when he fa's,His latest draught o' breathin lea'es himIn faint huzzas.[163]Sages their solemn een may steek,An* raise a philosophic reek,An' physically causes seek,In clime an' season;But tell me whisky's name in Greek,I'll tell the reason.
¶Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,Till, whare ye sit on craps o' heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom an* whisky gang thegither!Take aff your draml
The Ordination
¶KJLMAENOCK wabsters, ridge an' claw,An' pour your creeshie nations;An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,Of a' denominations;Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a'An' there tak up your stations;Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,An' pour divine libationsFor joy this day.
¶Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell,Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder; 1But Oliphant 2 aft made her yell,An' Russell 3 sair misca'd her:This day Mackinlay* taks the flail,An' he's the boy will blaud her!He'll clap a shangan on her tail,An' set the bairns to daud herWi' dirt this day.[164]Malt haste an' turn King David owre,And lilt wi' holy clangor;O' double verse come gie us four,An' skirl up the Bangor:This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,For Heresy is in her pow'r,And gloriously she'll whang herWi' pith this day.
p. 164¶Come, let a proper text be read,An' touch it aft" wi' vigour,How graceless Ham 5 leugh at his dad,Which made Canaan a nigger;Or Phineas* drove the murdering blade,Wi' whore-abhorring rigour;Or Zipporah, 7 the scauldin jad,Was like a bluidy tigerI' th' inn that day.
¶There, try his mettle on the creed,An' bind him down wi' caution,That stipend is a carnal weedHe taks but for the fashion;And gie him o'er the flock, to feed,And punish each transgression;Especial, rams that cross the breed,Gie them sufficient threshin;Spare them nae day.
¶Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,An' toss thy horns fu' canty;Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale,Because thy pasture's scanty;For lapfu's large o' gospel kailShall fill thy crib in plenty,An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale,No gi'en by way o' dainty,But ilka day.
¶Genesis ix. 22.—R. B. ' Numbers xxv. 8.—R. B. 7 Exodus iv. 52.—R. B.
p. 165¶Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep,To think upon our Zion;And hing our riddles up to sleep,Like baby-clouts a-dry in!Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep,And o'er the thairms be tryin;Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,And a' like lamb-tails flyinFu' fast this day.
¶Lang, Patronage, with rod o' airn,Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin;As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,Has proven to its ruin:'Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,He saw mischief was brewin;An' like a godly, elect bairn,He's waled us out a true ane,And sound, this day.
¶Now Robertson* harangue nae mair,But steek your gab for ever;Or try the wicked town of Ayr,For there they'll think you clever;Or, nae reflection on your lear,Ye may commence a shaver;Or to the Netherton 1 0 repair,An' turn a carpet weaverAff-hand this day.
¶Mu'trie" and you were just a match,We never had sic twa drones;Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,Just like a winkin baudrons,And aye he catch'd the tither wretch,To fry them in his caudrons;But now his Honour maun detach,Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,Fast, fast this day.
¶Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.Rev. John Robertson. 1 0 A district of Kilmarnock.[166]See, see auld Orthodoxy's faesShe's swingein thro' the city!Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!I vow it's unco pretty:There, Learning, with his Greekish face,Grunts out some Latin ditty;And Common-sense is gaun, she says,To mak to Jamie BeattieHer plaint this day.
p. 166¶But there's Morality himsel',Embracing all opinions;Hear, how he gies the tither yell,Between his twa companions!See, how she peels the skin an' fell,As ane were peelin onions!Now there, they're packed aff to hell,An' banish'd our dominions,Henceforth this day.
¶O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!Come bouse about the porter!Morality's demure decoysShall here nae mair find quarter:Mackinlay, Russell, are the boysThat heresy can torture;They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,And cowe her measure shorterBy th' head some day.
¶Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,And here's—for a conclusion—To ev'ry New Light 1 2 mother's son,From this time forth, Confusion!If mair they deave us wi' their din,Or Patronage intrusion,We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin,We'll rin them aff in fusionLike oil, some day.1 1 "New Light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinionswhich Dr. Tavlor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.—R. B.
Epistle to James Smith
¶Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society!I owe thee much BLAIR.
¶DEAR SMITH, the slee'st, pawkie thief,That e'er attempted stealth or rief!Ye surely hae some warlock-briefOwre human hearts;For ne'er a bosom yet was priefAgainst your arts.
¶For me, I swear by sun an' moon,An' ev'ry star that blinks aboon,Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,Just gaun to see you;An' ev'ry ither pair that's done,Mair taen I'm wi' you.
¶That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,To mak amends for scrimpit stature,She's turn'd you off, a human creatureOn her first plan,And in her freaks, on ev'ry featureShe's wrote the Man.
¶Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,My barmie noddle's working prime.My fancy yerkit up sublime,Wi' hasty summon;Hae ye a leisure-moment's timeTo hear what's comin?
¶Some rhyme a neibor's name to lash;Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;Some rhyme to court the countra clash,An' raise a din;For me, an aim I never fash;I rhyme for fun.[168]The star that rules my luckless lot,Has fated me the russet coat,An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;But, in requit,Has blest me with a random-shotO' countra wit.
¶This while my notion's taen a sklent,To try my fate in guid, black prent;But still the mair I'm that way bent,Something cries "Hooliel"I red you, honest man, tak tent?Ye'll shaw your folly;
¶"There's ither poets, much your betters,Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,A' future ages;Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,Their unknown pages."
¶Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,To garland my poetic brows!Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughsAre whistlin' thrang,An' teach the lanely heights an' howesMy rustic sang.
¶I'll wander on, wi' tentless heedHow never-halting moments speed,Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;Then, all unknown,I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,Forgot and gone!
¶But why o' death begin a tale?Just now we're living sound and hale;Then top and maintop crowd the sail,Heave Care o'er-side!And large, before Enjoyment's gale,Let's tak the tide.[169]This life, sae far's I understand,Is a' enchanted fairy-land,Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,That, wielded right,Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,Dance by fu' light.
¶The magic-wand then let us wield;For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,Wi' wrinkl'd face,Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,Wi' creepin pace.
¶When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,An' social noise:An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,The joy of joys!
¶O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,We frisk away,Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,To joy an' play.
¶We wander there, we wander here,We eye the rose upon the brier,Unmindful that the thorn is near,Among the leaves;And tho' the puny wound appear,Short while it grieves.
¶Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,For which they never toil'd nor swat;They drink the sweet and eat the fat,But care or pain;And haply eye the barren hutWith high disdain.[170]With steady aim, some Fortune chase;Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,An' seize the prey:Then cannie, in some cozie place,They close the day.
¶And others, like your humble servan',Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,To right or left eternal swervin,They zig-zag on;Till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin,They aften groan.
¶Alas! what bitter toil an' straining—But truce with peevish, poor complaining!Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?E'n let her gang!Beneath what light she has remaining,Let's sing our sang.
¶My pen I here fling to the door,And kneel, ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,"Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,In all her climes,Grant me but this, I ask no more,Aye rowth o' rhymes.
¶"Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,Till icicles hing frae their beards;Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,And maids of honour;An* yill an* whisky gie to cairds,Until they sconner.
¶"A title, Dempster 1 merits it;A garter gie to Willie Pitt;Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,In cent, per cent.;But give me real, sterling wit,And I'm content.[171]'While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,Be't water-brose or muslin-kail,Wi' cheerfu' face,As lang's the Muses dinna failTo say the grace."
p. 171¶An anxious e'e I never throwsBehint my lug, or by my nose;I jouk beneath Misfortune's blowsAs weel's I may;Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,I rhyme away.
¶0 ye douce folk that live by rule,Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an' cool,Compar'd wi' you—O fool! fool! fool!How much unlike!Your hearts are just a standing pool,Your lives, a dykel
¶Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental tracesIn your unletter'd, nameless faces!In arioso trills and gracesYe never stray;But gravissimo, solemn bassesYe hum away.
¶Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;Nae ferly tho' ye do despiseThe hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys.The rattling squad:I see ye upward cast your eyes—Ye ken the road!
¶Whilst I—but I shall haud me there,Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where—Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,But quat my sang,Content wi' you to mak a pair.Whare'er I gang.
The VisionDuan First1
¶THE sun had clos'd the winter day,The curlers quat their roarin play,And hunger'd maukin taen her way,To kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been.
¶The thresher's weary flingin-tree,The lee-lang day had tired me;And when the day had clos'd his e'e,Far i' the west,Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.
¶There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,The auld clay biggin;An' heard the resdess rattons squeakAbout the riggin.
¶All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward mus'd on wasted time,How I had spent my youthfu' prime,An' done nae thing,But stringing blethers up in rhyme,For fools to sing.
¶Had I to guid advice but harkit,I might, by this, hae led a market,Or strutted in a bank and clarkitMy cash-account;While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit.Is a' th' amount.[173]I started, mutt'ring, "blockhead! coof!"And heav'd on high my waukit loof,To swear by a' yon starry roof,Or some rash aith,That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proofTill my last breath—
p. 173¶When click! the string the snick did draw;An' jee! the door gaed to the wa';An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,Now bleezin bright,A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,Come full in sight.
¶Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;The infant aith, half-form'd, was crushtI glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dushtIn some wild glen;When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht,An' stepped ben.
¶Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughsWere twisted, gracefu', round her brows;I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token;And come to stop those reckless vows,Would soon been broken.
¶A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace"Was strongly marked in her face;A wildly-witty, rustic graceShone full upon her;Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,Beam'd keen with honour.
¶Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,Till half a leg was scrimply seen;An' such a leg! my bonie JeanCould only peer it;Sae straught, sae taper, tight an' clean—Nane else came near it.[174]Her mantle large, of greenish hue,My gazing wonder chiefly drew:Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threwA lustre grand;And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,A well-known land.
¶Here, rivers in the sea were lost;There, mountains to the skies were toss't:Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,With surging foam;There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,The lordly dome.
¶Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,On to the shore;And many a lesser torrent scuds,With seeming roar.
¶Low, in a sandy valley spread,An ancient borough rear'd her head;Still, as in Scottish story read,She boasts a raceTo ev'ry nobler virtue bred,And polish'd grace.1
¶By stately tow'r, or palace fair,Or ruins pendent in the air,Bold stems of heroes, here and there,I could discern;Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,With feature stern.
¶My heart did glowing transport feel,To see a race heroic2 wheel,[175]And brandish round the deep-dyed steel,In sturdy blows;While, back-recoiling, seem'd to reelTheir Suthron foes.
p. 175¶His Country's Saviour, 4 mark him well!Bold Richardton's heroic swell; 5The chief, on Sark who glorious fell, 8In high command;And he whom ruthless fates expelHis native land.
¶There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shadeStalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 7I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'dIn colours strong:Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd,They strode along.
¶Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,*Near many a hermit-fancied cove(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,In musing mood),An aged Judge, I saw him rove,Dispensing good.
¶With deep-struck, reverential awe,The learned Sire and Son I saw:'To Nature's God, and Nature's law,They gave their lore;This, all its source and end to draw,That, to adore.* William Wallace.—R. B. * Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortalpreserver of Scottish independence.—R. B.* Wallace, laird of Craigic, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl ofOrmond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That gloriousvictor)' was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of thegallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.—R. B.[176]Brydon's brave ward1 0 I well could spy,Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye:Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,To hand him on,Where many a patriot-name on high,And hero shone.
Duan Second
¶With musing-deep, astonish'd stare,I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair;A whispering throb did witness bearOf kindred sweet,When with an elder sister's airShe did me greet.
¶"AH hail! my own inspired bard!In me thy native Muse regard;Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,Thus poorly low;I come to give thee such reward,As we bestow!
¶"Know, the great genius of this landHas many a light aerial band,Who, all beneath his high command,Harmoniously,As arts or arms they understand,Their labours ply.
¶"They Scotia's race among them share:Some fire the soldier on to dare;Some rouse the patriot up to bareCorruption's heart:Some teach the bard—a darling care—The tuneful art.
¶" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;[177]Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,They, sightless, stand,To mend the honest patriot-lore,And grace the hand.
p. 177¶"And when the bard, or hoary sage,Charm or instruct the future age,They bind the wild poetic rageIn energy,Or point the inconclusive pageFull on the eye.
¶"Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young;Hence, Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sungHis 'Minstrel lays';Or tore, with noble ardour stung,The sceptic's bays.
¶"To lower orders are assign'dThe humbler ranks of human-kind,The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind,The artisan;AH choose, as various they're inclin'd,The various man.
¶"When yellow waves the heavy grain,The threat'ning storm some strongly rein;Some teach to meliorate the plainWith tillage-skill;And some instruct the shepherd-train,Blythe o'er the hill.
¶"Some hint the lover's harmless wile;Some grace the maiden's artless smile;Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toilFor humble gains,And make his cottage-scenes beguileHis cares and pains.[178]"Some, bounded to a district-space,Explore at large man's infant race,To mark the embryotic traceOf rustic bard;And careful note each opening grace,A guide and guard.
¶"Of these am I—Coila my name:And this district as mine I claim,Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,Held ruling pow'r:I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame,Thy natal hour.
¶"With future hope I oft would gazeFond, on thy little early ways,Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase,In uncouth rhymes;Fir'd at the simple, artless laysOf other times.
¶"I saw thee seek the sounding shore,Delighted with the dashing roar;Or when the North his fleecy storeDrove thro' the sky,I saw grim Nature's visage hoarStruck thy young eye.
¶"Or when the deep green-mantled earthWarm cherish'd ev'ry floweret's birth,And joy and music pouring forthIn ev'ry grove;I saw thee eye the general mirthWith boundless love.
¶"When ripen'd fields and azure skiesCall'd forth the reapers' rustling noise,I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys,And lonely stalk,To vent thy bosom's swelling rise,In pensive walk.[179]"When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,Those accents grateful to thy tongue,T V adored Name,I taught thee how to pour in song,To soothe thy flame.
¶"I saw thy pulse's maddening play,Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way,Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,By passion driven;But yet the light that led astrayWas light from Heaven.
¶"I taught thy manners-painting strains,The loves, the ways of simple swains,Till now, o'er all my wide domainsThy fame extends;And some, the pride of Coila's plains,Become thy friends.
¶"Thou canst not learn, nor I can show,To paint with Thomson's landscape glow;Or wake the bosom-melting throe,With Shenstone's art;Or pour, with Gray, the moving flowWarm on the heart.
¶"Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose,The lowly daisy sweetly blows;Tho' large the forest's monarch throwsHis army shade,Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,Adown the glade.
¶"Then never murmur nor repine;Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;And trust me, not Potosi's mine,Nor king's regard,Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,A rustic bard.[180]"To give my counsels all in one,Thy tuneful flame still careful fan:Preserve the dignity of Man,With soul erect;And trust the Universal PlanWill all protect.
¶"And wear thou this"—she solemn said,And bound the holly round my head:The polish'd leaves and berries redDid rustling play;And, like a passing thought, she fledIn light away.
¶[To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the piece in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]
Suppressed Stanzas of " the Vision "
¶After 18th stanza of the text (at "His native land"):—
¶With secret throes I marked that earth,That cottage, witness of my birth;And near I saw, bold issuing forthIn youthful pride,A Lindsay race of noble worth,Famed far and wide.
¶Where, hid behind a spreading wood,An ancient Pict-built mansion stood,I spied, among an angel brood,A female pair;Sweet shone their high maternal blood,And father's air. 1
¶An ancient tower 1 to memory broughtHow Dettingen's bold hero fought;Still, far from sinking into nought,It owns a lordWho far in western climates fought,With trusty sword.[181]Among the rest I well could spyOne gallant, graceful, martial boy,The soldier sparkled in his eye,A diamond water.I blest that noble badge with joy,That owned me jrater?
p. 181¶After 20th stanza of the text (at "Dispensing good"):—Near by arose a mansion fine 4The seat of many a muse divine;Not rustic muses such as mine,With holly crown'd,But th' ancient, tuneful, laurell'd Nine,From classic ground.
¶I mourn'd the card that Fortune dealt,To see where bonie Whitefoords dwelt; 5But other prospects made me melt,That village near;'There Nature, Friendship, Love, I felt,Fond-mingling, dear!
¶Hail! Nature's pang, more strong than death!Warm Friendship's glow, like kindling wrath!Love, dearer than the parting breathOf dying friend!Not ev'n with life's wild devious path,Your force shall end!
¶The Power that gave the soft alarmsIn blooming Whitefoord's rosy charms,Still threats the tiny, feather'd arms,The barbed dart,While lovely Wilhelmina warmsThe coldest heart. 7
¶After 21st stanza of the text (at "That, to adore"):—Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid,*Where lately Want was idly laid,' Captain James Montgomerie, Master of St. James' Lodge, Tarbolton, to which theauthor has the honour to belong.—R B. 1 Auchinleck.—R. B.[182]I marked busy, busding Trade,In fervid flame,Beneath a Patroness's aid,Of noble name.
p. 182¶Wild, coundess hills I could survey,And countless flocks as wild as they;But other scenes did charms display,That better please,Where polish'd manners dwell with Gray,In rural ease.'
¶Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound;"And Irwine, marking out the bound,Enamour'd of the scenes around,Slow runs his race,A name I doubly honour'd found,"With knightly grace.
¶Brydon's brave ward," I saw him stand,Fame humbly offering her hand,And near, his kinsman's rustic band, 1 3With one accord,Lamenting their late blessed landMust change its lord.
¶The owner of a pleasant spot,Near sandy wilds, I last did note; 1 4A heart too warm, a pulse too hotAt times, o'erran:But large in ev'ry feature wrote,Appear'd the Man.
The R Anti N'dog, the Daddie O't
¶Tune—"Whare'll our guidman lie."
¶O WHA my babie-clouts will buy ?O wha will tent me when I cry?Wha will kiss me where I lie?The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
¶•Mr. Farquhar Gray.—R. B. 1 0 Auchinskieth.—R. B. 1 1 Caprington.—R. B."Colonel Fullenon.—R. B. 1 3 D r . Fullerton.—R. B. 1 4Orangefield.—R. B.[183]O wha will own he did the faut?O wha will buy the groanin maut?O wha will tell me how to ca't?The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
¶When I mount the creepie-chair,Wha will sit beside me there?Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair,The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
¶Wha will crack to me my lane?Wha will mak me fidgin' fain?Wha will kiss me o'er again?The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
Her E's His Health in Water
¶Time—"The Job of Journey-work."
¶ALTHO' my back be at the wa',And tho' he be the fautor;Altho' my back be at the wa',Yet, here's his health in water.O wae gae by his wanton sides,Sae brawlie's he could flatter;Till for his sake I'm slighted sair,And dree the kintra clatter:But tho' my back be at the wa',And tho' he be the fautor;But tho' my back be at the wa',Yet here's his health in water!
Address to the Unco Guid, or theRigidly Righteous
¶My Son, those maxims make a rule,An' lump them aye thegither;The Rigid Righteous is a fool,The Rigid Wise anither:The cleanest corn that ere was dightMay hae some pyles o' caff in;[184]So ne'er a fellow-creature slightFor random fits o' dafftn.SOLOMON.—Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.
¶O YE wha are sae guid yoursel',Sae pious and sae holy,Ye've nought to do but mark and tellYour neibours' fauts and folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supplied wi' store o' water;The heaped happer's ebbing still,An' still the clap plays clatter.
¶Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortalsThat frequent pass douce Wisdom's doorFor glaikit Folly's portals:I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences—Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.
¶Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,And shudder at the niffer;But cast a moment's fair regard,What maks the mighty differ;Discount what scant occasion gave,That purity ye pride in;And (what's aft mair than a' the lave),Your better art o' hidin.
¶Think, when your castigated pulseGies now and then a wallop!What ragings must his veins convulse,That still eternal gallop!Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o' baith to sail,It maks a unco lee-way.[185]See Social Life and Glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,Till, quite transmugrified, they're grownDebauchery and Drinking:O would they stay to calculateTh' eternal consequences;Or your more dreaded hell to state,Damnation of expenses!
¶Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,Tied up in godly laces,Before ye gie poor Frailty names,Suppose a change o' cases;A dcar-lov'd lad, convenience snug,A treach'rous inclination—But let me whisper i' your lug,Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
¶Then gently scan your brother man,Still gender sister woman;Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,To step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,—The moving Why they do it;And just as lamely can ye mark,How far perhaps they rue it.
¶Who made the heart, 'tis He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord, its various tone,Each spring, its various bias:Then at the balance let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted.
The Inventory 1
¶In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes
¶SIR, as your mandate did request,I send you here a faithfu' list,O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith,To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.
¶Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle,As ever drew afore a pettle.My hand-afore's a guid auld has-been,An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been:My hand-ahin's a weel gaun fillie,That aft has borne me hame frae Killie. 1An' your auld borough mony a timeIn days when riding was nae crime.But ance, when in my wooing prideI, like a blockhead, boost to ride,The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,(Lord pardon a' my sins, an' that too!)I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.My furr-ahin's a wordy beast,As e'er in tug or tow was traced.The fourth's a Highland Donald hasde,A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!Foreby a cowt, o' cowts the wale,As ever ran afore a tail:Gin he be spar'd to be a beast,He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few,Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken;I made a poker o' the spin'le,An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.
¶' The "Inventory" was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for
¶the district. 1 Kilmarnock.—R. B.
p. 187¶For men, I've three mischievous boys,Run-deils for ranting an' for noise;A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other:Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.I rule them as I ought, discreedy,An' aften labour them completely;An' aye on Sundays duly, nightly,I on the Questions targe them tighdy;Till, faith! wee Davock's grown sae gleg,Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,As fast as ony in the dwalling.
¶I've nane in female servant station,(Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!)I hae nae wife—and that my bliss is,An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,I ken the deevils darena touch me.Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted!My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,She stares the daddy in her face,Enough of ought ye like but grace;But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,I've paid enough for her already;An' gin ye tax her or her mither,By the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegitherl
¶And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,Nae kind of licence out I'm takin:Frae this time forth, I do declareI'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!The kirk and you may tak you that,It puts but little in your pat;Sae dinna put me in your beuk,Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.[188]This list, wi' my ain hand I wrote it,The day and date as under noted;Then know all ye whom it concerns,Subscripsi huic,
Robert Burns.
¶MOSSCIEL, February 22, 1786.
To John Kennedy, Dumfries House
¶Now, Kennedy, if foot or horseE'er bring you in by Mauchlin corse,(Lord, man, there's lasses there wad forceA hermit's fancy;An' down the gate in faith they're worse,An' mair unchancy).
¶But as I'm sayin, please step to Dow's,An' taste sic gear as Johnie brews,Till some bit callan bring me newsThat ye are there;An' if we dinna hae a bouze,I'se ne'er drink mair.
¶It's no I like to sit an' swallow,Then like a swine to puke an' wallow;But gie me just a true good fallow,Wi' right ingine,And spunkie ance to mak us mellow,An' then we'll shine.
¶Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,An' sklent on poverty their joke,Wi' bitter sneer,Wi' you nae friendship I will troke,Nor cheap nor dear.
¶But if, as I'm informed weel,Ye hate as ill's the very deilThe flinty heart that canna feel—Come, sir, here's to you![189]Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel,An' gude be wi' you.
Robt. Burness.
¶MOSSGIEL, yd March, 1786.
To Mr. M'a Dam, of Craigen - Gillan
¶In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the commencement of my poetic career.SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,I trow it made me proud;"See wha tales notice o' the bard!"I lap and cried fu' loud.
¶Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,The senseless, gawky million;I'll cock my nose abune them a',I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!
¶'Twas noble, sir; 'twas like yoursel',To grant your high protection:A great man's smile ye ken fu' well,Is aye a blest infection.
¶Tho', by his banes wha in a tubMatch'd Macedonian Sandy!On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,I independent stand aye,—
¶And when those legs to gude, warm kail,Wi' welcome canna bear me,A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,An' barley-scone shall cheer me.
¶Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breathO' mony flow'ry simmers!An' bless your bonie lasses baith,I'm tauld they're Ioosome kimmers!
¶An' God bless young Dunaskin's laird,The blossom of our gentry![190]An' may he wear an auld man's beard,A credit to his country.
To a Louse, on Seeing One on a Lad Y'sBonnet, at Church
¶H A ! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?Your impudence protects you sairly;I canna say but ye strunt rarely,Owre gauze and lace;Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparelyOn sic a place.
¶Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,How daur ye set your fit upon her—Sae fine a ladypGae somewhere else and seek your dinnerOn some poor body.
¶Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;There ye may creep, and sprawl, and spratde,Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,In shoals and nations;Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsetdeYour thick plantations.
¶Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,Till ye've got on it—The verra tapmost, tow'rin heightO' Miss's bonnet.
¶My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,As plump an' grey as ony groset:O for some rank, mercurial rozet,Or fell, red smeddum,I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,Wad dress your droddum.[191]I wad na been surpris'd to spyYou on an auld wife's flainen toy;Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,On's wyliecoat;But Miss's fine Lunardi! fye!How daur ye do't?
¶O Jeany, dinna toss your head,An' set your beauties a' abread!Ye little ken what cursed speedThe blastie's makin:Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,Are notice takin.
¶O wad some Power the giftie gie usTo see oursels as ithers see us!It wad frae mony a blunder free us,An' foolish notion:What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,An' ev'n devotion!
Inscribed on a Work of Hannah More's
¶Presented to the Author by a Lady.
¶THOU flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,Still may thy pages call to mindThe dear, the beauteous donor;Tho' sweetly female ev'ry part,Yet such a head, and more the heartDoes both the sexes honour:She show'd her taste refin'd and just,When she selected thee;Yet deviating, own I must,For sae approving me:But kind still I'll mind stillThe giver in the gift;I'll bless her, an' wiss herA Friend aboon the lift.
Song, Composed in Spring
¶Tune—"Jockey's Grey Breeks."
¶AGAIN rejoicing Nature seesHer robe assume its vernal hues:Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
¶Chorus.—And maun I still on Menie doat,And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,An' it winna let a body be.
¶In vain to me the cowslips blaw,In vain to me the vi'lets spring;In vain to me in glen or shaw,The mavis and the lintwhite sing.And maun I still, ice.
¶The merry ploughboy cheers his team,Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;But life to me's a weary dream,A dream of ane that never wauks.And maun I still, &c.
¶The wanton coot the water skims,Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,The stately swan majestic swims,And ev'ry thing is blest but I.And maun I still, &c.
¶The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,And o'er the moorlands whistles shill:Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,I meet him on the dewy hill.And maun I still, &c.
¶And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,And mounts and sings on flittering wings,A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.And maun I still, &c.[193]Come winter, with thine angry howl,And raging, bend the naked tree;Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,When nature all is sad like me!And maun I still, &c.
To a Mountain Daisy,
¶On turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786.
¶WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem:To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonie gem.
¶Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,The bonie lark, companion meet,Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi' spreckl'd breast!When upward-springing, blythe, to greetThe purpling east.
¶Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce rear'd above the parent-earthThy tender form.
¶The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble field,Unseen, alane.
¶There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,[194]Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!
¶Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!By love's simplicity betray'd,And guileless trust;Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laidLow i' the dust.
¶Such is the fate of simple bard,On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!Unskilful he to note the cardOf prudent lore,Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,And whelm him o'er!
¶Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,By human pride or cunning driv'nTo mis'ry's brink;Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,He, ruin'd, sink!
¶Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,That fate is thine—no distant date;Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,Full on thy bloom,Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,Shall be thy doom!
To Ruin
¶ALL hail! inexorable lord!At whose destruction-breathing word,The mightiest empires fall!Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,The ministers of grief and pain,A sullen welcome, all![195]With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,I see each aimed dart;For one has cut my dearest tie,And quivers in my heart.Then low'ring, and pouring,The storm no more I dread;Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning,Round my devoted head.
¶And thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd,While life a pleasure can afford,Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!Nor more I shrink appall'd, afraid;I court, I beg thy friendly aid,To close this scene of care!When shall my soul, in silent peace,Resign life's joyless day—My weary heart its throbbing cease,Cold mould'ring in the clay?No fear more, no tear more,To stain my lifeless face,Enclasped, and grasped,Within thy cold embrace!
The Lament
¶Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend's Amour.
Home.
¶0 THOU pale orb that silent shinesWhile care-untroubled mortals sleep!Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.And wanders here to wail and weep!With woe I nightly vigils keep,Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;And mourn, in lamentation deep,How life and love are all a dream!
¶I joyless view thy rays adornThe faindy-marked, distant hill;[196]I joyless view thy trembling horn,Reflected in the gurgling rill:My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!Ah! must the agonizing thrillFor ever bar returning peace!
¶No idly-feign'd, poetic pains,My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim:No shepherd's pipe—Arcadian strains;No fabled tortures, quaint and tame.The plighted faith, the mutual flame,The oft-attested pow'rs above,The promis'd father's tender name;These were the pledges of my love!
¶Encircled in her clasping arms,How have the raptur'd moments flown!How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,For her dear sake, and her's alone!And, must I think it! is she gone,My secret heart's exulting boast?And does she heedless hear my groan?And is she ever, ever lost?
¶Oh! can she bear so base a heart,So lost to honour, lost to truth,As from the fondest lover part,The plighted husband of her youth?Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!Her way may lie thro' rough distress!Then, who her pangs and pains will sootheHer sorrows share, and make them less?
¶Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd,Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,Your dear remembrance in my breastMy fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:That breast, how dreary now, and void,For her too scanty once of room!Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,And not a wish to gild the gloom![197]The morn, that warns th' approaching day,Awakes me up to toil and woe;I sec the hours in long array,That I must suffer, lingering, slow:Full many a pang, and many a throe,Keen recollection's direful train,Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low,Shall kiss the distant western main.
¶And when my nighdy couch I try,Sore harass'd out with care and grief,My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,Keep watchings with the nightly thief:Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright:Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings reliefFrom such a horror-breathing night.
¶O thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanseNow highest reign'st, with boundless swayOft has thy silent-marking glanceObserv'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray!The time, unheeded, sped away,While love's luxurious pulse beat high,Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,To mark the mutual-kindling eye.
¶Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!Scenes, never, never to return!Scenes, if in stupor I forget,Again I feel, again I burn!From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mournA faithless woman's broken vow!
DespondencyAn Ode
¶OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,A burden more than I can bear,I set me down and sigh;[198]O life! thou art a galling load,Along a rough, a weary road,To wretches such as I!Dim backward as I cast my view,What sick'ning scenes appear!What sorrows yet may pierce me through,Too justly I may fear!Still caring, despairing,Must be my bitter doom;My woes here shall close ne'erBut with the closing tomb!
¶Happy! ye sons of busy life,Who, equal to the bustling strife,No other view regard!Ev'n when the wished end's denied,Yet while the busy means are plied,They bring their own reward:Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,Unfitted with an aim,Meet ev'ry sad returning night,And joyless morn the same!You, busding, and jusding,Forget each grief and pain;I, lisdess, yet resdess,Find ev'ry prospect vain.
¶How blest the solitary's lot,Who, all-forgetting, all forgot,Within his humble cell,The cavern, wild with tangling roots,Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits,Beside his crystal well!Or haply, to his ev'ning thought,By unfrequented stream,The ways of men are distant brought,A faint, collected dream;While praising, and raisingHis thoughts to heav'n on high,As wand'ring, meand'ring,He views the solemn sky.[199]Than I, no lonely hermit plac'dWhere never human footstep trac'd,Less fit to play the part,The lucky moment to improve,And just to stop, and just to move,With self-respecting art:But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,Which I too keenly taste,The solitary can despise,Can want, and yet be blest!He needs not, he heeds not,Or human love or hate;Whilst I here must cry hereAt perfidy ingrate!
¶O, enviable, early days,When dancing thoughdess pleasure's maze,To care, to guilt unknown!How ill exchang'd for riper times,To feel the follies, or the crimes,Of others, or my own!Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,Like linnets in the bush,Ye little know the ills ye court,When manhood is your wish!The losses, the crosses,That active man engage;The fears all, the tears all,Of dim declining age!
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline,
¶I HOLD it, sir, my bounden dutyTo warn you how that Master Tootie,Alias, Laird M'Gaun,Was here to hire yon lad away'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,An' wad hae don't aff han';[200]But lest he learn the callan tricks—An' faith I muckle doubt him—Like scrapin out auld Crummie's nicks,An' tellin lies about them;As lieve then, I'd have thenYour clerkship he should sair,If sae be ye may beNot fitted otherwhere.
¶Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough,The boy might learn to swear;But then, wi' you, he'll be sae taught,An' get sic fair example straught,I hae na ony fear.Ye'll catechise him, every quirk,An' shore him weel wi' hell;An' gar him follow to the kirk—Aye when ye gang yoursel.If ye then maun be thenFrae hame this comin' Friday,Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir,The orders wi' your lady.
¶My word of honour I hae gi'en,In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,To meet the warld's worm;To try to get the twa to gree,An' name the aides an' the fee,In legal mode an' form:I ken he weel a snick can draw,When simple bodies let him:An' if a Devil be at a',In faith he's sure to get him.To phrase you and praise you,Ye ken your Laureat scorns:The pray'r still you share still
¶Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.
Versified Reply to an Invitation
¶S n ,Yours this moment I unseal,And faith I'm gay and hearty!To tell the truth and shame the deil,I am as fou as Bartie:But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal,Expect me o' your partie,If on a beastie I can speel,Or hurl in a cartie.Yours,
Robert Burns.
¶MAUCHLIN, Monday night, 10 o'clock,.
¶SONG — WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES , MY MARY ?Tune—"Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion."WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,And leave auld Scotia's shore?Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,Across th' Atlantic's roar?
¶0 sweet grows the lime and the orange,And the apple on the pine;But a' the charms o' the IndiesCan never equal thine.
¶I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;And sae may the Heavens forget me,When I forget my vow!
¶O plight me your faith, my Mary,And plight me your lily-white hand;O plight me your faith, my Mary,Before I leave Scotia's strand.
¶We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,In mutual affection to join;And curst be the cause that shall part us!The hour and the moment o' time!
Song — My Highland Lassie, O
¶Tune—"The dcuks dang o'er my daddy."
¶NAE gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,Shall ever be my muse's care:Their tides a' are empty show;Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
¶Chorus.—Within the glen sae bushy, O,Aboon the plain sae rashy, O,I set me down wi' right guid will,To sing my Highland lassie, O.
¶0 were yon hills and vallics mine,Yon palace and yon gardens fine!The world then the love should knowI bear my Highland lassie, O.
¶But fickle fortune frowns on me,And I maun cross the raging sea!But while my crimson currents flow,I'll love my Highland lassie, O.
¶Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,I know her heart will never change,For her bosom burns with honour's glow,My faithful Highland lassie, O.
¶For her I'll dare the billow's roar,For her I'll trace a distant shore,That Indian wealth may lustre throwAround my Highland lassie, O.
¶She has my heart, she has my hand,By secret troth and honour's band!Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O.
¶Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!Farewell the plain sae rashy, O!To other lands I now must go,To sing my Highland lassie, O.
Epistle to a Young Friend
¶May—, 1786I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,A something to have sent you,Tho' it should serve nae ither endThan just a kind memento:But how the subject-theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang:Perhaps turn out a sermon.
¶Ye'll try the world soon, my lad;And, Andrew dear, believe me,Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,And muckle they may grieve ye:For care and trouble set your thought,Ev'n when your end's attained;And a' your views may come to nought,Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
¶I'll no say, men are villains a';The real, harden'd wicked,Wha hae nae check but human law,Are to a few restricked;But, Och! mankind are unco weak,An' little to be trusted;If self the wavering balance shake,It's rarely right adjusted!
¶Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,Their fate we shouldna censure;For still, th' important end of lifeThey equally may answer;A man may hae an honest heart,Tho' poortith hourly stare him;A man may tak a neibor's part,Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
¶Aye free, aff-han', your story tell,When wi' a bosom crony;[204]But still keep something to yoursel',Ye scarcely tell to ony:Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye canFrae critical dissection;But keek thro' ev'ry other man,Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
¶The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,Luxuriantly indulge it;But never tempt th' illicit rove,Tho' naething should divulge it.I waive the quantum o' the sin,The hazard of concealing;But, Och! it hardens a' within,And petrifies the feeling!
¶To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,Assiduous wait upon her;And gather gear by ev'ry wileThat's justified by honour;Not for to hide it in a hedge,Nor for a train attendant;But for the glorious privilegeOf being independent.
¶The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,To haud the wretch in order;But where ye feel your honour grip,Let that aye be your border;Its slightest touches, instant pause—Debar a' side-pretences;And resolutely keep its laws,Uncaring consequences.
¶The great Creator to revere,Must sure become the creature;But still the preaching cant forbear,And ev'n the rigid feature:Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,Be complaisance extended;An atheist-laugh's a poor exchangeFor Deity offended![205]When ranting round in pleasure's ring,Religion may be blinded;Or if she gie a random sting,It may be little minded;But when on life we're tempest driv'n—A conscience but a canker—A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,Is sure a noble anchor!
¶Adieu, dear, amiable youth!Your heart can ne'er be wanting!May prudence, fortitude, and truth,Erect your brow undaunting!In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed,"Still daily to grow wiser;And may ye better reck the rede,Then ever did th' adviser!
Address of Beelzebub
¶To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare, Covcnt Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M'Kenzic of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glcngary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—
Liberty.
¶LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,Unskaithed by hunger'd Highland boors;Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,May twin auld Scotland o' a lifeShe likes—as butchers like a knife.
¶Faith you and Applecross were rightTo keep the Highland hounds in sight:I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,Than let them ance out owre the water,Then up among thae lakes and seas,They'll mak what rules and laws they please:Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;[206]Some Washington again may head them,Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,Till God knows what may be effectedWhen by such heads and hearts directed,Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mireMay to Patrician rights aspire!Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,—An' whare will ye get Howes and ClintonsTo bring them to a right repentance—To cowe the rebel generation,An' save the honour o' the nation?They, an* be d—d! what right hae theyTo meat, or sleep, or light o' day?Far less—to riches, pow'r, or freedom,But what your lordship likes to gie them?
¶But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!Your hand's owre light to them, I fear;Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,I canna say but they do gayliej;They lay aside a' tender mercies,An' tirl the hall ions to the birses;Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:But smash them! crash them a' to spails,An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;Let wark an' hunger mak them sober!The hizzies, if they're aughdins fawsont,Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!An' if the wives an' dirty bratsCome thiggin at your doors an' yetts,Flaffin wi' duds, an' grey wi' beas',Frightin away your ducks an' geese;Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,The langest thong, the fiercest growler,An' gar the tatter'd gypsies packWi' a' their bastards on their back!Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,[207]An' in my house at hame to greet you;Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,The benmost neuk beside the ingle,At my right han' assigned your seat,'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate:Or if you on your station tarrow,Between Almagro and Pizarro,A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;An' till ye come—your humble servant,
Beelzebub.
¶June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.
A Dream
¶Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.
¶On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the otherparade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, thanhe imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in hisdreaming fancy, made the following Address:
¶GUID-MORMN' to your Majesty!May Heaven augment your blissesOn ev'ry new birth-day ye see,A humble poet wishes.My hardship here, at your LeveeOn sic a day as this is,Is sure an uncouth sight to see,Amang thae birth-day dressesSae fine this day.
¶I see ye're complimented thrang,By mony a lord an' lady;"God save the King" 's a cuckoo sangThat's unco easy said aye:The poets, too, a venal gang,Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready,Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,But aye unerring steady,On sic a day.[208]For me! before a monarch's face,Ev'n there I winna flatter;For neither pension, post, nor place,Am I your humble debtor:So, nae reflection on your Grace,Your Kingship to bespatter;There's mony waur been o' the race,And aiblins ane been betterThan you this day.
¶Tis very true, my sovereign King,My skill may weel be doubted;But facts are chiels that winna ding,An' downa be disputed:Your royal nest, beneath your wing,Is e'en right reft and clouted,And now the third part o' the string,An' less, will gang aboot itThan did ae day.1
¶Far be't frae me that I aspireTo blame your legislation,Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,To rule this mighty nation:But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,Ye've trusted ministrationTo chaps wha in a barn or byreWad better fill'd their stationThan courts yon day.
¶And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,Her broken shins to plaister,Your sair taxation does her fleece,Till she has scarce a tester:For me, thank God, my life's a lease,Nae bargain wearin' faster,Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese,I shortly boost to pastureI' the craft some day.[209]I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,When taxes he enlarges,(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,A name not envy spairges),That he intends to pay your debt,An' lessen a' your charges;But, God-sake! let nae saving fitAbridge your bonie bargesAn' boats this day.
p. 209¶Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geekBeneath your high protection;An' may ye rax Corruption's neck,And gie her for dissection!But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,In loyal, true affection,To pay your Queen, wi' due respect,My fealty an' subjectionThis great birth-day.
¶Hail, Majesty most Excellent!While nobles strive to please ye,Will ye accept a compliment,A simple poet gies ye?Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent,Still higher may they heeze yeIn bliss, till fate some day is sentFor ever to release yeFrae care that day.
¶For you, young Potentate o' Wales,I tell your highness fairly,Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;But some day ye may gnaw your nails,An' curse your folly sairly,That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,Or ratd'd dice wi' CharlieBy night or day.
¶Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known,To mak a noble aiver;[210]So, ye may doucely fill the throne,For a' their dish-ma-claver:There, him 2 at Agincourt wha shone,Few better were or braver:And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,'He was an unco shaverFor mony a day.
¶For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,Altho' a ribbon at your lugWad been a dress completer:As ye disown yon paughty dog,That bears the keys of Peter,Then swith! an' get a wife to hug,Or trowth, yell stain the mitreSome luckless day!
¶Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,Ye've lately come athwart her—A glorious galley, 4 stem and stern,Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;But first hang out, that she'll discern,Your hymeneal charter;Then heave aboard your grapple aim,An', large upon her quarter,Come full that day.
¶Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a',Ye royal lasses dainty,Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,An' gie you lads a-plenty!But sneer na British boys awa!For kings are unco scant aye,An' German gentles are but sma',They're better just than want ayeOn ony day.[211]Gad bless you a'! consider now,Ye're unco muckle dautit;But ere the course o' life be through,It may be bitter sautit:An' I hae seen their coggie fou,That yet hae tarrow't at it.But or the day was done, I trow,The laggen they hae clautitFu' clean that day.
A Dedication
¶To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace—Perhaps related to the race:Then, when I'm tir'd—and sae are ye,Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,Set up a face how I stop short,For fear your modesty be hurt.
¶This may do—maun do, sir, wi' them whaMaun please the great folk for a wamefou;For me! sae laigh I need na bow,For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;And when I downa yoke a naig,Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;Sae I shall say—an' that's nae flatt'rin—It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron.
¶The Poet, some guid angel help him,Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!He may do weel for a' he's done yet,But only—he's no just begun yet.
¶The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me;I winna lie, come what will o' me),[212]On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,He's just—nae better than he should be.
¶I readily and freely grant,He downa see a poor man want;What's no his ain, he winna tak it;What ance he says, he winna break it;Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,Till aft his guidness is abus'd;And rascals whiles that do him wrang,Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang;As master, landlord, husband, father,He does na fail his part in either.
¶But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;It's naething but a milder featureOf our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature:Ye'll get the best o' moral works,'Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks,Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,Wha never heard of orthodoxy.That he's the poor man's friend in need,The gentleman in word and deed,It's no thro' terror of damnation;It's just a carnal inclination.
¶Morality, thou deadly bane,Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!Vain is his hope, whasc stay an' trust isIn moral mercy, truth, and justice!
¶No—stretch a point to catch a plack:Abuse a brother to his back;Steal through the winnock frae a whore,But point the rake that taks the door;Be to the poor like ony whunstane,And haud their noses to the grunstane;Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;No matter—stick to sound believing.[213]Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces,Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces;Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,And damn a' parties but your own;I'll warrant then ye're nae deceiver,A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
¶O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin,For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!Ye sons of Heresy and Error,Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror,When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath.And in the fire throws the sheath;When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him;While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
¶Your pardon, sir, for this digression:I maist forgat my Dedication;But when divinity comes 'cross me,My readers still are sure to lose me.
¶So, sir, you see 'twas nae daft vapour;But I maturely thought it proper,When a' my works I did review,To dedicate them, sir, to you:Because (ye need na tak it ill),I thought them something like yoursel'.
¶Then patronize them wi' your favor,And your petition r shall everI had amaist said, ever pray,But that's a word I need na say;For prayin, I hae little skill o't,I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,That kens or hears about you, sir.[214]"May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark,Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk!May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart,For that same gen'rous spirit smart!May Kennedy's far-honour'd nameLang beet his hymeneal flame,Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen,Are frae their nuptial labours risen:Five bonie lasses round their table,And sev'n braw fellows, stout an' able,To serve their king an' country weel,By word, or pen, or pointed steel!May health and peace, with mutual raysShine on the ev'ning o' his days;Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe,When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"
¶I will not wind a lang conclusion,With complimentary effusion;But, whilst your wishes and endeavoursAre blest with Fortune's smiles and favours,I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,Your much indebted, humble servant.
¶But if (which Pow'rs above prevent)That iron-hearted carl, Want,Attended, in his grim advances,By sad mistakes, and black mischances,While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,Make you as poor a dog as I am,Your humble servant then no more;For who would humbly serve the poor?But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!While recollection's pow'r is giv'n—If, in the vale of humble life,The victim sad of fortune's strife,I, thro' the tender-gushing tear,Should recognise my master dear;If friendless, low, we meet together,Then, sir, your hand—my Friend and Brother!
Versified Note to Dr. Mackenzie,Mauchline
¶FRIDAY first's the day appointedBy the Right Worshipful anointed,To hold our grand procession;To get a blad o' Johnie's morals,And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrelsI' the way of our profession.The Master and the BrotherhoodWould a' be glad to see you;For me I would be mair than proudTo share the mercies wi' you.If Death, then, wi' skaith, then,Some mortal heart is hechtin,Inform him, and storm him,That Saturday you'll fecht him.
Robert Burns.
¶Mossgiel, An. M. 5790.
The Farewell
¶To the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton.Tune—"Guidrught, and joy be wi' you a'."ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu;Dear brothers of the mystic tielYe favoured, enlighten d few,Companions of my social joy;Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba';With melting heart, and brimful eye,I'll mind you still, tho' far awa.
¶Oft have I met your social band,And spent the cheerful, festive night;Oft, honour'd with supreme command,Presided o'er the sons of light:And by that hieroglyphic bright,Which none but Craftsmen ever sawStrong Mem'ry on my heart shall writeThose happy scenes, when far awa.[216]May Freedom, Harmony, and Love,Unite you in the grand Design,Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above,The glorious Architect Divine,That you may keep th' unerring line,Still rising by the plummet's law,Till Order bright completely shine,Shall be my pray'r when far awa.
¶And you, farewell! whose merits claimJustly that highest badge to wear:Heav'n bless your honour'd noble name,To Masonry and Scotia dear!A last request permit me here,—When yearly ye assemble a',One round, I ask it with a tear,To him, the Bard that's far awa.
¶ON A SCOTCH BARD , GONE TO THE WEST INDIES
¶A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,A' ye wha live and never think,Come, mourn wi' me!Our billie 's gien us a' a jink.An' owre the sea!
¶Lament him a' ye rantin core,Wha dearly like a random splore;Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,In social key;For now he's taen anither shore,An' owre the sea!
¶The bonie lasses weel may wiss him.And in their dear petitions place him;The widows, wives, an' a' may bless himWi' tearfu' e'e;For weel I wat they'll sairly miss himThat's owre the sea![217]O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,'Twad been nae plea;But he was gleg as ony wumble,That's owre the sea!
¶Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,In flinders flee:He was her Laureat mony a year,That's owre the sea!
¶He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-westLang mustering up a bitter blast;A jillet brak his heart at last,111 may she be!So, took a berth afore the mast,An' owre the sea.
¶To tremble under Fortune's cummock,On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,Wi' his proud, independent stomach,Could ill agree;So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,An' owre the sea.
¶He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin;He dealt it free:The Muse was a' that he took pride in,That's owre the sea.
¶Jamaica bodies, use him weel,An' hap him in a cozie biel:Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,An' fou o' glee:He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,That's owre the sea.[218]Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!Your native soil was right ill-willie;But may ye flourish like a lily,Now bonilie!I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie,Tho' owre the sea!
Song — Farewell to Eliza
¶Tune—"Gilderoy."
¶FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,And from my native shore;The cruel fates between us throwA boundless ocean's roar:But boundless oceans, roaring wide,Between my love and me,They never, never can divideMy heart and soul from thee.Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,The maid that I adore!A boding voice is in mine ear,We part to meet no more!But the latest throb that leaves my heart,While Death stands victor by,—That throb, Eliza, is thy part,And thine that latest sight
A Bar D's Epitaph
¶Is there a whim-inspired fool,Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,Let him draw near;And owre this grassy heap sing dool,And drap a tear.Is there a bard of rustic song,Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,That weekly this area throng,O, pass not by!But, with a frater-feeling strong,Here, heave a sigh.[219]Is there a man, whose judgment clearCan others teach the course to steer,Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,Wild as the wave,Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear,Survey this grave.
¶The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to know,And keenly felt the friendly glow,And softer flame;But thoughdess follies laid him low,And stain'd his name!
¶Reader, attend I whether thy soulSoars fancy's flights beyond the pole,Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,In low pursuit:Know, prudent, cautious, self-controlIs wisdom's root.
Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq.
¶KNOW thou, O stranger to the fameOf this much lov'd, much honoured name!(For none that knew him need be told)A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.
Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
¶THE poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps,Whom canting wretches blam'd;But with such as he, where'er he be,May I be sav'd or damn'd!
Epitaph on " We E Johnie "
¶Hie ]acrt wee Johnie.
¶WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, knowThat Death has murder'd Johnie;An' here his body lies fu' low;For saul he ne'er had ony.
The Lass O'b All Och Myle
¶Tune—"Ettrick Banks."
¶T WAS even—the dewy fields were green,On every blade the pearls hang;The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,And bore its fragrant sweets alang:In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,All nature list'ning seem'd the while,Except where greenwood echoes rang,Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
¶With careless step I onward stray'd,My heart rcjoic'd in nature's joy,When, musing in a lonely glade,A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy:Her look was like the morning's eye,Her air like nature's vernal smile:Perfection whisper'd, passing by,"Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle 1"
¶Fair is the morn in flowery May,And sweet is night in autumn mild;When roving thro' the garden gay,Or wand'ring in the lonely wild:But woman, nature's darling child!There all her charms she does compile;Even there her other works are foil'dBy the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.
¶O, had she been a country maid,And I the happy country swain,Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shedThat ever rose on Scotland's plain!Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,With joy, with rapture, I would toil;And nightly to my bosom strainThe bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.
¶Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,Where fame and honours lofty shine;[221]And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,Or downward seek the Indian mine:Give me the cot below the pine,To tend the flocks or till the soil;And ev'ry day have joys divineWith the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.
Lines to an Old Sweetheart
¶ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,Sweet early object of my youthful vows,Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.And when you read the simple artless rhymes,One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes,Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.
Motto Prefixed to the Au Tho R's FirstPublication
¶THE simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art,He pours the wild effusions of the heart;And if inspir'd 'tis Nature's pow'rs inspire;Her's all the melting thrill, and her's the kindling fire.
Lines to Mr. John Kennedy
¶FAREWELL, dear friend! may guid luck hit you,And 'mang her favourites admit you:If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,May nane believe him,And ony deil that thinks to get you,Good Lord, deceive him!
Lines Written on a Bank Note
¶WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass!I see the children of affliction[222]Unaided, through thy curst restriction:I've seen the oppressor's cruel smileAmid his hapless victim's spoil;And for thy potence vainly wished,To crush the villain in the dust:For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore,Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.R. B.
Stanzas on Naething
¶Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.To you, sir, this summons I've sent,Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing;But if you demand what I want,I honestly answer you—naething.
¶Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me,For idly just living and breathing,While people of every degreeAre busy employed about—naething.
¶Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,And grumble his hurdies their claithing,He'll find, when the balance is cast,He's gane to the devil for—naething.
¶The courtier cringes and bows,Ambition has likewise its plaything;A coronet beams on his brows;And what is a coronet—naething.
¶Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;But every good fellow will ownTheir quarrel is a' about—naething.
¶The lover may sparkle and glow,Approaching his bonie bit gay thing:But marriage will soon let him knowHe's gotten—a buskit up naething.[223]The Poet may jingle and rhyme,In hopes of a laureate wreathing,And when he has wasted his time,He's kindly rewarded wi'—naething.
¶The thundering bully may rage,And swagger and swear like a heathen;But collar him fast, I'll engage,You'll find that his courage is—naething.
¶Last night wi* a feminine whig—A Poet she could na put faith in;But soon we grew lovingly big,I taught her, her terrors were naething.
¶Her whigship was wonderful pleased,But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing.Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,And kissed her, and promised her—naething.
¶The priest anathemas may threat—Predicament, sir, that we're baith in;But when honour's reveille is beat,The holy artillery's naething.
¶And now I must mount on the wave—My voyage perhaps there is death in;But what is a watery grave?The drowning a Poet is naething.
¶And now, as grim death's in my thought,To you, sir, I make this bequeathing;My service as long as ye've ought,And my friendship, by God, when ye've naething.
The Farewell
¶The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?Or what does he regard his single woes?But when, alas! he multiplies himself,To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,To helpless children,—then. Oh then, he feelsThe point of misery festering in his heart.And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:Such, such am 1!—undone!THOMSON'S Edward and Eleanora
¶FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains,Far dearer than the torrid plains,Where rich ananas blow!Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!My Jean's heart-rending throe!Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereftOf my paternal care,A faithful brother I have left,My part in him thou'lt share!Adieu, too, to you too,My Smith, my bosom fricn';When kindly you mind me,O then befriend my Jean!
¶What bursting anguish tears my heart;From thee, my Jeany, must I part!Thou, weeping, answ'rest—"No!"Alas! misfortune stares my face,And points to ruin and disgrace,I for thy sake must go!Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,A grateful, warm adieu:I, with a much-indebted tear,Shall still remember you!AH hail then, the gale then,Wafts me from thee, dear shore!It rustles, and whistlesI'll never see thee more!
The Calf
¶To the Rev. JAMES STEVEN, on his text, MALACHI, ch. iv. vers. 2. "And ye shallgo forth, and grow up, as CALVES of the stall."
¶RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true,Tho' heretics may laugh;For instance, there's yoursel just now,God knows, an unco calf.
¶And should some patron be so kind,As bless you wi' a kirk,I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find,Ye're still as great a stir\.
¶But, if the lover's raptur'd hour,Shall ever be your lot,Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power,You e'er should be a slot!
¶Tho' when some kind connubial dearYour but-and-ben adorns,The like has been that you may wearA noble head of horns.
¶And, in your lug, most reverend James,To hear you roar and rowt,Few men o' sense will doubt your claimsTo rank amang the nowt.
¶And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,Below a grassy hillock,With justice they may mark your head—"Here lies a famous bullock}"
Natur E's Law — a Poem
¶Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
¶Great Nature spoke: observant man obey'd—POPE.
¶LET other heroes boast their scars,The marks of sturt and strife:And other poets sing of wars.The plagues of human life:[226]Shame fa' the fun, wi' sword and gunTo slap mankind like lumber!I sing his name, and nobler fame,Wha multiplies our number.
¶Great Nature spoke, with air benign,"Go on, ye human race;This lower world I you resign;Be fruitful and increase.The liquid fire of strong desireI've pour'd it in each bosom;Here, on this hand, does Mankind stand,And there is Beauty's blossom."
¶The Hero of these artless strains,A lowly bard was he,Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains,With meikle mirth an' glee;Kind Nature's care had given his shareLarge, of the flaming current;And, all devout, he never soughtTo stem the sacred torrent.
¶He felt the powerful, high behestThrill, vital, thro' and thro';And sought a correspondent breast,To give obedience due:Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'iFrom mildews of abortion;And low! the bard—a great reward—Has got a double portion!
¶Auld cantie Coil may count the day,As annual it returns,The third of Libra's equal sway,That gave another Burns,With future rhymes, an' other times,To emulate his sire:To sing auld Coil in nobler styleWith more poetic fire.[227]Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,Look down with gracious eyes;And bless auld Coila, large and long,With multiplying joys;Lang may she stand to prop the land,The flow'r of ancient nations;And Burnses spring, her fame to sing,To endless generations!
Song — Willie Chalmers
¶Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:—
¶Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,And eke a braw new brechan,My Pegasus I'm got astride,And up Parnassus pechin;Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,The doited beastie stammers;Then up he gets, and off he sets,For sake o' Willie Chalmers.
¶I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd nameMay cost a pair o' blushes;I am nae stranger to your fame,Nor his warm urged wishes.Your bonie face sae mild and sweet,His honest heart enamours,And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers.
¶Auld Truth hersel' might swear yer'e fair,And Honour safely back her;And Modesty assume your air,And ne'er a ane mistak her:And sic twa love-inspiring eenMight fire even holy palmers;Nae wonder then they've fatal beenTo honest Willie Chalmers.[228]I doubt na fortune may you shoreSome mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,Fu* lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,And band upon his breastie:But oh! what signifies to youHis lexicons and grammars;The feeling heart's the royal blue,And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.