The twa best herds in a' the wast, [pastors, west] That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast [gave] These five an' twenty simmers past— Oh, dool to tell! [sorrow] Hae had a bitter black out-cast [quarrel] Atween themsel, [Between]

and he ends with the hope that if patronage could be abolished and the lairds forced to give

the brutes the power themsels To chuse their herds,

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, An' Learning in a woody dance, [gallows] An' that fell cur ca'd 'common-sense,' That bites sae sair, [sorely] Be banish'd o'er the sea to France; Let him bark there.

More light is thrown on Burns's positive attitude in religious matters by his Epistle to McMath, a young New Licht minister in Tarbolton. From the evidences of the letters, we are justified in accepting at its face value the profession of reverence for true religion made by Burns in this epistle; his hatred of the sham needs no corroboration.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH

Enclosing a Copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which he had requested, September 17, 1785

While at the stook the shearers cow'r [shock, reapers] To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, [driving] Or, in gulravage rinnin', scour; [horseplay running] To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme.

My Musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' douce black-bonnet, [sedate] Is grown right eerie now she's done it, [scared] Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it, And anathem her. [curse]

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple country bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. [Loose]

But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, [elastic] Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. [Worse than]

There's Gau'n, misca't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest [good as] Wha sae abus'd him: An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've used him? [On the fashion]

See him the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word an' deed, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless skellums, [railers] An' not a Muse erect her head To cowe the blellums? [daunt, blusterers]

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, [give] I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' tell aloud Their jugglin', hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd.

God knows I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But, twenty times, I rather would be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be, Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass, An honest man may like a lass; But mean revenge, an' malice fause, [false] He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken.

They tak religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, For what? To gie their malice skouth [scope] On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, [against] To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion, maid divine! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain To join wi' those Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs. In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But hellish spirit.

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground! Within thy presbyterial bound, A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd, Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, (Which gies you honour)— Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, An' if impertinent I've been, Impute it not, good sir, in ane Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye. [was yours]

A further fling at orthodoxy appeared in The Ordination, a piece written to comfort the Kilmarnock liberals when an Auld Licht minister was selected for the second charge there. The tone is again one of ironical congratulation, and Burns describes the rejoicings of the elect with infinite zest. Two stanzas on the church music will illustrate his method.

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, [open the Psalms] An' lilt wi' holy clangor; [sing] O' double verse come gie us four [give] An' skirl up the Bangor: [shriek, a Psalm-tune] This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, [dust] Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, [No more] For Heresy is in her pow'r, And gloriously she'll whang her [thrash] Wi' pith this day.

* * * * *

Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, [hang] Like baby-clouts a-dryin'; Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, [chirp] And o'er the thairms be tryin'; [strings] O, rare! to see our elbucks wheep, [elbows jerk] And a' like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day!

In the same ironical fashion he digresses in his Dedication to Gavin Hamilton to satirize the "high-fliers'" contempt for "cold morality" and for their faith in the power of orthodox belief to cover lapses in conduct.

Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice!

No—stretch a point to catch a plack; [small coin] Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' the winnock frae a whore, [window from] But point the rake that takes the door:

* * * * *

Be to the poor like ony whunstane, [any whinstone] And haud their noses to the grunstane; [hold, grindstone] Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter—stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces; [palms] Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own; I'll warrant them ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

The period within which these satires were written was short—1785 and 1786; but some three years later, on the prosecution of a liberal minister, Doctor McGill of Ayr, for the publication of A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ, which was charged with teaching Unitarianism, Burns took up the theme again. The Kirk's Alarm is a rattling "ballad," full of energy and scurrilous wit, but, like many of its kind, it has lost much of its interest through the great amount of personal detail. A few stanzas will show that, even after his absence from local politics during his Edinburgh sojourn, he had lost none of his gusto in belaboring the Ayrshire Calvinists.

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, To strike evil-doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense upon any pretence, Is heretic, damnable error.

* * * * *

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

It was inevitable from the nature and purpose of these satirical poems that, however keen an interest they might raise in their time and place, a large part of that interest should evaporate in the course of time. Yet it would be a mistake to regard their importance as limited to raising a laugh against a few obscure bigots. The evils that Burns attacked, however his verses may be tinged with personal animus and occasional injustice, were real evils that existed far beyond the county of Ayr; and in the movement for enlightenment and liberation from these evils and their like that was then sweeping over Scotland, the wit and invective of the poet played no small part. The development that followed did, indeed, take a direction that he was far from foreseeing. The moderate party, which he supported, gradually gained the upper hand in the Kirk, and, upholding as it did the system of patronage, became more and more associated with the aristocracy who bestowed the livings. The result was that the moderate clergy degenerated under prosperity and lost their spiritual zeal; while their opponents, chastened by adversity, became the champions of the autonomy of the church, and, in the "ten years' conflict" that broke out little more than a generation after the death of Burns, showed themselves of the stuff of the martyrs. It would be impossible to trace the extent of the influence of the poet on the purging of orthodoxy or on the limitation of ecclesiastical despotism, since his work was in accord with the drift of the times; but it is fair to infer that, especially among the common people who were less likely to be reached by more philosophical discussion, his share was far from inconsiderable.

The poetical value of the satires is another matter. It may be questioned whether satire is ever essentially poetry, as poetry has been understood for the last hundred years. The dominant mood of satire is too antagonistic to imagination. But if we restrict our attention to the characteristic qualities of verse satire—vividness in depicting its object, blazing indignation or bitter scorn in its attitude, and wit in its expression, we shall be forced to grant that Burns achieved here notable success. Of the rarer power of satire to rise above the local, temporal, and personal to the exhibiting of universal elements in human life, there are comparatively few instances in Burns. The Address to the Unco Guid is perhaps the finest example; and here, as usually in his work, the approach to the general leads him to drop the scourge for the sermon.

In his tendency to preach, Burns was as much the inheritor of a national tradition as in any of his other characteristics. A strain of moralizing is well marked in the Scottish poets even before the Reformation, and, since the time of Burns, the preaching Scot has been notably exemplified not only in a professed prophet like Carlyle, but in so artistic a temperament as Stevenson. Nor did consciousness of his failures in practise embarrass Burns in the indulgence of the luxury of precept. Side by side with frank confessions of weakness we find earnest if not stern exhortations to do, not as he did, but as he taught. And as Scots have an appetite for hearing as well as for making sermons, his didactic pieces are among those most quoted and relished by his countrymen. The morally elevated but poetically inferior closing stanzas of The Cotter's Saturday Night are an instance in point; others are the morals appended to To a Mouse and To a Daisy, and to a number of his rhyming epistles.

These epistles are among the most significant of his writings for the reader in search of personal revelations. The Epistle to James Smith contains the much-quoted stanza on the poet's motives:

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needful cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, [gossip] An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; [trouble about] I rhyme for fun.

Another gives his view of his equipment:

The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An' damned my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random-shot O' countra wit. [country]

Then he passes from literary considerations to his general philosophy of life:

But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound an' hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail; Heave Care o'er-side! And large, before Enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide.

* * * * *

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!

Here, as often, he contrasts his own reckless impulsive temper with that of prudent calculation:

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey: Then cannie, in some cozie place, [quietly] 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.

* * * * *

O 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 dyke! [stone wall]

Nothing is more characteristic of the poet than this attitude toward prudence—this mixture of Intellectual respect with emotional contempt. He admits freely that restraint and calculation pay, but impulse makes life so much more interesting!

The Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, deserves to be quoted in full. It contains the final phrasing of the central point of Burns's ethics, the Scottish rustic's version of that philosophy of benevolence with which Shaftesbury sought to warm the chill of eighteenth-century thought:

The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang.

The mood of this poem is Burns's middle mood, lying between the black melancholy of his poems of despair and remorse and the exhilaration of his more exalted bacchanalian and love songs—the mood, we may infer, of his normal working life. We may again observe the correspondence between the change of dialect and change of tone in stanzas nine and ten, the increase of artificiality coming with his literary English and culminating in the unspeakable "tenebrific scene." His humor returns with his Scots in the last verse.

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET

While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, [hang, fire] I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely westlin jingle. [west-country] While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, [In, chimney-corner] I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, That live sae bien an' snug; [comfortable] I tent less, and want less [value] Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whyles in want [fellows, sometimes] While coofs on countless thousands rant [dolts, roister] And ken na how to wair't: [spend it] But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, [trouble] Tho' we hae little gear, [wealth] We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: [lusty] 'Mair spier na, nor fear na,' [More ask not] Auld age ne'er mind a feg; [fig] The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, [bones] Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could mak us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', [ball] Has aye some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; [not small] Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'.

What tho' like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal'? [Without] Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, [hill-sides] We'll sit and sowth a tune [hum] Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, [Then] And sing't when we hae done.

It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in making muckle, mair: [much, more] It's no in books, it's no in lear, [learning] To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I, [such] Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, [note] As hardly worth their while? Alas! how oft in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess! Baith careless, and fearless, Of either heav'n or hell! Esteeming, and deeming It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. [And am] They gie the wit of age to youth; They let us ken oursel; They mak us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! [note] (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, [cards] And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne'er could buy; And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean! It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, [kindles] And sets me a' on flame!

O all ye pow'rs who rule above! O Thou, whose very self art love! Thou know'st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow! Long since this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still, It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean.

O, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin', rank and file, [spanking] Amaist before I ken! [Almost] The ready measure ring as fine As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin' owre my pen. [staring over] My spavied Pegasus will limp, [spavined] Till ance he's fairly het; [once, hot] And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jump, [hobble, limp, jump] An' rin an unco fit: [surprising spurt] But lest then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now [wipe] His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

The didactic tendency reaches its height in the Epistle to a Young Friend. Here there is no personal confession, but a conscious and professed sermon, unrelated, as the last line shows, to the practise of the preacher. It is, of course, only poetry in the eighteenth-century sense—

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed—

and as such it should be judged. The critics who have reacted most violently against the attempted canonization of Burns have been inclined to sneer at this admirable homily, and to insinuate insincerity. But human nature affords every-day examples of just such perfectly sincere inconsistency as we find between the sixth stanza and Burns's own conduct; while not inconsistency but a very genuine rhetoric inspires the characteristic quatrain which closes the seventh.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento; [sort of] 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, [queer] And muckle they may grieve ye: [much] 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, [extremely] 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 life They equally may answer. A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; [poverty] 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; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man [pry] Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, [flame] Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, [attempt, roving] 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 wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; [hold] 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 exchange For Deity offended.

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, [frolicking] 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 [heed the advice] Than ever did th' adviser!

The general level of the rhyming letters of Burns is astonishingly high. They bear, as such compositions should, the impression of free spontaneity, and indeed often read like sheer improvisations. Yet they are sprinkled with admirable stanzas of natural description, shrewd criticism, delightful humor, and are pervaded by a delicate tactfulness possible only to a man with a genius for friendship. They are usually written in the favorite six-line stanza, the meter that flowed most easily from his pen, and in language are the richest vernacular. His ambition to be "literary" seldom brings in its jarring notes here, and indeed at times he seems to avenge himself on this besetting sin by a very individual jocoseness toward the mythological figures that intrude into his more serious efforts. His Muse is the special victim. Instead of the conventional draped figure she becomes a "tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie," "saft at best an' something lazy;" she is a "thowless jad;" or she is dethroned altogether:

"We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help or roose us, [inspire] But browster wives an' whisky stills— [brewer] They are the Muses!"

Again the tone is one of affectionate familiarity:

Leeze me on rhyme! It's aye a treasure, [Blessings on] My chief, amaist my only pleasure; [almost] At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie, Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, [homespun] She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: The warl' may play you monie a shavie, [ill turn] But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae puir; [so poor] Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie [spavin] Frae door to door!

Once more, half scolding, half flattering:

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, [giddy] Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies [winding] Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, [Dance] Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men.

The epigrams, epitaphs, elegies, and other occasional verses thrown off by Burns and diligently collected by his editors need little discussion. They not infrequently exhibit the less generous sides of his character, and but seldom demand rereading on account of their neatness or felicity or energy. One may be given as an example:

ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER

Here lies Johnie Pigeon: What was his religion Whae'er desires to ken In some other warl' [world] Maun follow the carl [Must, old fellow] For here Johnie Pigeon had none!

Strong ale was ablution; Small beer, persecution; A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory!



CHAPTER V

DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE POETRY

The "world of Scotch drink, Scotch manners, and Scotch religion" was not, Matthew Arnold insisted, a beautiful world, and it was, he held, a disadvantage to Burns that he had not a beautiful world to deal with. This famous dictum is a standing challenge to any critic who regards Burns as a creator of beauty. It is true that when Burns took this world at its apparent worst, when Scotch drink meant bestial drunkenness, when Scotch manners meant shameless indecency, when Scotch religion meant blasphemous defiance, he created The Jolly Beggars, which the same critic found a "splendid and puissant production." We must conclude, then, that sufficient genius can sublimate even a hideously sordid world into a superb work of art, which is presumably beautiful.

But the verdict passed on the Scottish world of Burns is not to be taken without scrutiny. A review of those poems of Burns that are primarily descriptive will recall to us the chief features of that world.

Let us begin with The Cotter's Saturday Night, Burns's tribute to his father's house. Let us discard the introductory stanza of dedication, as not organically a part of the poem. The scene is set in a gray November landscape. The tired laborer is shown returning to his cottage, no touch of idealization being added to the picture of physical weariness save what comes from the feeling for home and wife and children. Then follow the gathering of the older sons and daughter, the telling of the experiences of the week, and the advice of the father. The daughter's suitor arrives, and the girl's consciousness as well as the lover's shyness are delicately rendered. Two stanzas in English moralize the situation, and for our present purpose may be ignored. The supper of porridge and milk and a bit of cheese is followed by a reverent account of family prayers, the father leading, the family joining in the singing of the psalm. And as they part for the night, the poet is carried away into an elevated apostrophe to the country whose foundations rest upon such a peasantry, and closes with a patriotic prayer for its preservation.

The truth of the picture is indubitable. The poet could, of course, have chosen another phase of the same life. The cotter could have come home rheumatic and found the children squalling and the wife cross. The daughter might have been seduced, and the sons absent in the ale-house. But what he does describe is just as typical, and it is beautiful, though the manners and religion are Scottish.

Another social occasion is the subject of Halloween. The poem, with Burns's notes, is a mine of folk-lore, but we are concerned with it as literature. Here the tone is humorous instead of reverent, the characters are mixed, the selection is more widely representative. With complete frankness, the poet exhibits human nature under the influence of the mating instinct, directed by harmless, age-old superstitions. The superstitions are not attacked, but gently ridiculed. The fundamental veracity of the whole is seen when we realize that, in spite of the strong local color, it is psychologically true for similar festivities among the peasantry of all countries.

HALLOWEEN[4]

Upon that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans[5] dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, [over, pastures] On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, [road] Beneath the moon's pale beams; There, up the Cove,[6] to stray an' rove Amang the rocks and streams To sport that night;

Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins wimplin' clear, [winding] Where Bruce[7] ance ruled the martial ranks [once] An' shook his Carrick spear, Some merry friendly country-folks Together did convene To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, [nuts, pull, stalks] An' haud their Halloween [keep] Fu' blythe that night:

The lasses feat, an cleanly neat, [trim] Mair braw than when they're fine; [more handsome] Their faces blythe fu' sweetly kythe [show] Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin': [loyal, kind] The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs [love-knots] Weel knotted on their garten, [garter] Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs [very shy, chatter] Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' [Make] Whyles fast at night. [Sometimes]

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail, Their stocks[8] maun a' be sought ance: [must, once] They steek their een, an' grape an' wale [shut, eyes, grope, choose] For muckle anes an' straught anes. [big ones, straight] Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, [foolish, lost the way] An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, [cabbage] An' pou'd, for want o' better shift, [pulled, choice] A runt was like a sow-tail, [stalk] Sae bow'd, that night. [bent]

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, [earth] They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; [pell-mell] The very wee things toddlin' rin— [run] Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; [over, shoulder] An' gif the custock's sweet or sour, [if, pith] Wi' joctelegs they taste them; [pocket-knives] Syne coziely, aboon the door, [Then, above] Wi' cannie care they've plac'd them [cautious] To lie that night.

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' [stole] To pou their stalks o' corn;[9] But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, [dodges] Behint the muckle thorn: He grippit Nelly hard an' fast; Loud skirled a' the lasses; [squealed] But her tap-pickle maist was lost, [almost] When kiutlin' i' the fause-house[10] [cuddling] Wi' him that night.

The auld guidwife's well-hoordit nits[11] [well-hoarded nuts] Are round an' round divided, An' mony lads' an' lasses' fates Are there that night decided: Some kindle, couthie, side by side, [comfortably] An' burn thegither trimly; Some start awa, wi' saucy pride, An' jump out-owre the chimlie [out of the chimney] Fu' high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e; [watchful] Wha 'twas, she wadna tell; But this is Jock, an' this is me, She says in to hersel: [whispers] He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, [blazed] As they wad never mair part; Till fuff! he started up the lum, [chimney] An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that night.

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, [cabbage stump] Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, [precise Molly] An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, [huff] To be compar'd to Willie: Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling, [leapt, start] An' her ain fit it brunt it; [foot] While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, [by Jove] 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min', [mind] She pits hersel an' Rob in; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, Till white in ase they're sobbin: [ashes] Nell's heart was dancin' at the view: She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't: Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou', [by stealth, tasted, mouth] Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, [corner] Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs, [Marian] Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, [leaves, gabbing, chat] An' slips out by hersel: She thro' the yard the nearest taks, [nearest way] An' to the kiln she goes then, An' darklins grapit for the bauks, [in the dark, groped, beams] And in the blue-clue[12] throws then, Right fear'd that night. [frightened]

An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, [wounded, sweated] I wat she made nae jaukin'; [know, trifling] Till something held within the pat, [kiln-pot] Guid Lord! but she was quaukin'! But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', [beam-end] Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin To spier that night. [ask]

Wee Jenny to her grannie says, 'Will ye go wi' me, grannie? I'll eat the apple[13] at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnie:' She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, [puffed, smoke] In wrath she was sae vap'rin, She noticed na an aizle brunt [cinder burnt] Her braw new worset apron [worsted] Out-thro' that night.

'Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! [young hussy's] I daur you try sic sportin', [dare] As seek the foul Thief ony place, [Devil] For him to spae your fortune! [tell] Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it; For mony a ane has gotten a fright, An' lived an' died deleerit, [delirious] On sic a night.

'Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,— [One harvest, Sherriffmuir] I mind't as weel's yestreen, [remember, last night] I was a gilpey then, I'm sure [young girl] I was na past fyfteen: The simmer had been cauld an' wat, An' stuff was unco green; [grain, extremely] An' aye a rantin' kirn we gat, [rollicking harvest-home] An' just on Halloween It fell that night.

'Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, [chief harvester] A clever, sturdy fallow; His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, [son, child] That liv'd in Achmacalla; He gat hemp-seed,[14] I mind it weel, An' he made unco light o't: [very] But mony a day was by himsel, [beside himself] He was sae sairly frighted [sorely] That vera night.'

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, [fighting] An' he swoor by his conscience That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; [sow] For it was a' but nonsense: [merely] The auld guidman raught down the pock, [reached, bag] An' out a handfu' gied him; [gave] Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, [Then] Sometime when nae ane see'd him, [saw] An' try't that night.

He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin'; [staggering] The graip he for a harrow taks, [dung-fork] An' haurls at his curpin: [trails, back] An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 'Hemp-seed! I saw thee, An' her that is to be my lass Come after me an' draw thee As fast this night.'

He whistled up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery; Altho' his hair began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie: [scared, awe-struck] Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle; [groan] He by his shouther gae a keek, [shoulder gave, peep] An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle [summersault] Out-owre that night.

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, In dreadfu' desperation! An' young an' auld come rinnin' out, An' hear the sad narration: He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, [halting] Or crouchie Merran Humphie, [hunchbacked Marian] Till stop! she trotted thro' them a'; An' wha was it but grumphie [the sow] Asteer that night! [Astir]

Meg fain wad to the barn gane [have gone] To winn three wechts o' naething;[15] But for to meet the Deil her lane, [alone] She pat but little faith in: [put] She gies the herd a pickle nits, [herd-boy, few] And twa red-cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, [sets out] In hopes to see Tam Kipples That very night.

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, [cautious twist] An' owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca', [call] Syne bauldly in she enters; [Then] A ratton rattl'd up the wa', [rat] An' she cried 'Lord preserve her!' An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', [dunghill pool] An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour Fu' fast that night

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; [urged] They hecht him some fine braw ane; [promised][measured with It chanced the stack he faddom'd thrice[16] outstretched arms] Was timmer-propt for thrawin': [against leaning over] He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak [gnarled] For some black gruesome carlin; [beldam] An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, [uttered a curse] Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' [shreds, peeling] Aff's nieves that night. [Off his fists]

A wanton widow Leezie was, As cantie as a kittlin; [lively] But och! that night, amang the shaws, [woods] She gat a fearfu' settlin'! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, [gorse, stone heap] An' owre the hill gaed scrievin'; [careering] Where three laird's lands met at a burn,[17] To dip her left sark-sleeve in, [shirt-] Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, [Waterfall] As thro' the glen it wimpled; [wound] Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; [ledge] Whyles in a wiel it dimpled; [eddy] Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, [peeped] Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night.

Amang the brackens on the brae, [ferns, hillside] Between her an' the moon, The Deil, or else an outler quey, [unhoused heifer] Gat up an' gae a croon: [gave a low] Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; [almost leapt, sheath] Near lav'rock height she jumpit, [lark high] But miss'd a fit, an' in the pool [foot] Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies[18] three are ranged; And every time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed: Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin' Mar's year did desire, [1715 Rebellion] Because he gat the toom dish thrice, [empty] He heav'd them on the fire In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; [wot] And unco tales, an' funny jokes,— [strange] Their sports were cheap and cheery; Till butter'd sow'ns,[19] wi' fragrant lunt, [smoke] Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; [tongues wagging] Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, [Then, liquor] They parted aff careerin' Fu' blythe that night.

FOOT-NOTES TO HALLOWEEN

[The foot-notes to this poem are those supplied by Burns himself in the Kilmarnock edition.]

[4] Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands: particularly, those aerial people, the fairies, are said, on that night to hold a grand anniversary.

[5] Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.

[6] A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.

[7] The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great Deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.

[8] The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.

[9] They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will want the maidenhead.

[10] When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.

[11] Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quickly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.

[12] Whoever would with success try this spell must strictly observe these directions. Steal out all alone to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the pot, a clue of blue yarn: wind it in a new clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, wha hauds? i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.

[13] Take a candle and go alone to a looking glass: eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.

[14] Steal out; unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp seed; harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp seed, I saw [sow] thee, Hemp seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, "come after me and harrow thee."

[15] This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors; taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the Being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country-dialect, we call a wecht; and go thro' all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass thro' the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.

[16] Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your conjugal yoke-fellow.

[17] You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and sometime near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.

[18] Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another; and leave the third empty: blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony, a maid: if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.

[19] Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.

In The Twa Dogs we have an entirely different method. Burns here gives expression to his social philosophy in a contrast between rich and poor, and adds a quaint humor to his criticism by placing it in the mouths of the laird's Newfoundland and the cotter's collie. The dogs themselves are delightfully and vividly characterized, and their comments have a detachment that frees the satire from acerbity without rendering it tame. The account of the life of the idle rich may be that of a somewhat remote observer; it has still value as a record of how the peasant views the proprietor. But that of the hard-working farmer lacks no touch of actuality, and is part of the reverse side of the shield shown in The Cotter's Saturday Night. Yet the tone is not querulous, but echoes rather the quiet conviction that if toil is hard it has its own sweetness, and that honest fatigue is better than boredom.

THE TWA DOGS

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's Isle, That bears the name o' auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearin' through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame, [busy] Forgather'd ance upon a time. [Met]

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, [ears] Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, [whelped] Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;

But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; [devil] But wad hae spent are hour caressin' E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan: [mongrel] At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, [smithy] Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, [matted cur, ragged] But he wad stand as glad to see him, An' stroan'd on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. [lanted]

The tither was a ploughman's collie, [other] A rhyming, ranting, raving billie; [fellow] Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang, Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, [wise, dog] As ever lap a sheugh or dyke; [leapt, ditch, wall] His honest sonsie, bawsent face [pleasant, white-marked] Aye gat him friends in ilka place, [every] His breast was white, his tousie back [shaggy] Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black: His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl, [joyous] Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. [buttocks]

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, [glad] And unco pack and thick thegither; [intimate] Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit; Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; [moles, dug] Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, And worried ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin' weary grown, [merriment] Upon a knowe they sat them down, [knoll] And there began a lang digression About the lords of the creation.

CAESAR

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava. [at all] Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; [rent in kind, dues] He rises when he likes himsel'; His flunkies answer at the bell: He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; [calls] He draws a bonny silken purse As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks, [stitches] The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. [guinea peeps] Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; And though the gentry first are stechin', [cramming] Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan [servants, belly] Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, [rubbish] That's little short o' downright wastrie. [waste] Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner! [wonder] Poor worthless elf! it eats a dinner Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the lan'; An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, [put, paunch] I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash'd eneugh; [troubled] A cottar howkin' in a sheugh, [digging, ditch] Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, [building, wall] Baring a quarry, and sic like; [clearing] Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, [brood, ragged children] And nought but his han'-darg to keep [hand-labor] Them right and tight in thack and rape. [thatch, rope] And when they meet wi' sair disasters, [sore] Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer [almost] And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; [must] But how it comes I never kent yet. [knew] They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels and clever hizzies [stout lads, girls] Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CAESAR

But then, to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit, Lord, man! our gentry care sae little For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk As I wad by a stinking brock. [badger] I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae. Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash; [endure, abuse] He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, He'll apprehend them; poind their gear: [seize, property] While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, [must] An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

LUATH

They're no' sae wretched's ane wad think, Though constantly on poortith's brink: [poverty's] They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gi'es them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They're aye in less or mair provided; An' though fatigued wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; [growing] The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fireside. And whyles twalpenny-worth o' nappy [quart of ale] Can mak the bodies unco happy; [wonderfully] They lay aside their private cares To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. [wonder] As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns They get the jovial rantin' kirns, [harvest-homes] When rural life o' every station. Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins They bar the door on frosty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream [ale, foam] And sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin' pipe and sneeshin'-mill [smoking, snuff-box] Are handed round wi' right gude-will; The canty auld folk crackin' crouse, [cheerful, talking brightly] The young anes ranting through the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. [too often] There's mony a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, [well-doing] Are riven out baith root and branch Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin', [perhaps, busy] For Britain's gude his soul indentin— [indenturing]

CAESAR

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain's gude!—guid faith! I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, [going] And saying ay or no's they bid him! At operas and plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading. Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais taks a waft, To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, To learn bon ton an' see the worl'. There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; [splits] Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt; [fight with bulls] Or down Italian vista startles, [courses] Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles; Then bouses drumly German water, [muddy] To make himsel' look fair and fatter, And clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain's gude!—for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction!

LUATH

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate [way] They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten and harass'd [troubled] For gear to gang that gate at last? [money, go, way] O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' country sports, It wad for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, [those] Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows: [Devil a bit] Except for breakin' o' their timmer, [wasting, timber] Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, [mistress] Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me, Master Caesar? Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure; Nae cauld nor hunger o'er can steer them. [touch] The very thought o't needna fear them.

CAESAR

Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am, [sometimes] The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em, It's true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. [hard] An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: [gripes, groans] But human bodies are sic fools. For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves to vex them, An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, [fret] In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A country lassie at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel; [dozens] But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst, [positive] They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy; [devil a bit] Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless. And e'en their sports, their balls, and races, Their galloping through public places; There's sic parade, sic pomp and art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, [quarrel] Then sowther a' in deep debauches: [solder] Ae night they're mad wi' drink and whoring, [One] Neist day their life is past enduring. [Next] The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither. [downright] Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, [live-long, crabbed looks] Pore owre the devil's picture beuks; [playing-cards] Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man and woman; But this is gentry's life in common.

By this the sun was out o' sight, And darker gloamin' brought the night; [twilight] The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, [cockchafer] The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan; [cattle, lowing, lane] When up they gat and shook their lugs, [ears] Rejoiced they werena men but dogs; And each took aff his several way, Resolved to meet some ither day.

The satirical tendency becomes more evident in The Holy Fair. The personifications whom the poet meets on the way to the religious orgy are Superstition, Hypocrisy, and Fun, and symbolize exactly the elements in his treatment—two-thirds satire and one-third humorous sympathy. The handling of the preachers is in the manner we have already observed in the other ecclesiastical satires, but there is less animus and more vividness. Nothing could be more admirable in its way than the realism of the picture of the congregation, whether at the sermons or at their refreshments; and, as in Halloween, the union of the particular and the universal appears in the essential applicability of the psychology to an American camp-meeting as well as to a Scottish sacrament—

There's some are fou o' love divine, There's some are fou o' brandy.

—not to finish the stanza!

THE HOLY FAIR

A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation: A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in religion. HYPOCRISY A LA MODE.

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. [fresh] The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin'; The hares were hirplin' down the furrs, [limping, furrows] The lav'rocks they were chantin' [larks] Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, [stared] To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, [girls] Cam skelpin' up the way. [scudding] Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining; [gray] The third, that gaed a wee a-back, [went a little] Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day.

The twa appeared like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes: [sloes] The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp, [hop-step-and-jump] As light as ony lambie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, [curtsey] As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, But yet I canna name ye.' Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' taks me by the hands, 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck [most] Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. [rent]

'My name is Fun—your crony dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin'; [mirth] Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, We will get famous laughin' At them this day.'

Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, [shirt] An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!' Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, [porridge] An' soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' mony a wearie bodie In droves that day.

Here farmers gash in ridin' graith [complacent, attire] Gaed hoddin' by their cotters; [jogging] There swankies young in braw braid-claith [strapping youngsters] Are springin' owre the gutters. [over] The lasses, skelpin' barefit, thrang, [padding, in crowds] In silks an' scarlets glitter, Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, [slice] An' farls bak'd wi' butter, [cakes] Fu' crump that day. [crisp]

When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glow'r Black Bonnet throws, [the elder] An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show: On ev'ry side they're gath'rin'; Some carryin' deals, some chairs an' stools, [planks] An' some are busy bleth'rin' [gabbling] Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, [keep off] An' screen our country gentry; There racer Jess an' twa-three whores Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw o' tittlin' jades, [whispering] Wi' heavin' breasts an' bare neck, An' there a batch o' wabster lads, [weaver] Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; [clothes] Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, [soiled] Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, [sample] Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps, at watch, Thrang winkin' on the lasses [Busy] To chairs that day.

O happy is that man an' blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him! [Sits snugly] Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, [And his palm] Unkenn'd that day. [Unacknowledged]

Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie speels the holy door, [climbs to] Wi' tidings o' damnation, Should Hornie, as in ancient days, [Satan] 'Mang sons o' God present him, The very sight o' Moodie's face To's ain het hame had sent him [his own hot] Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin'! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin' an' he's jumpin'! His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, His eldritch squeal an' gestures, [weird] O how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plaisters, On sic a day! [such]

But, hark! the tent has chang'd its voice; There's peace an' rest nae langer; For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his cauld harangues, [A New Light] On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs To gie the jars an' barrels [give] A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine Of moral pow'rs an' reason? His English style an' gesture fine Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan Heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, [river-mouth] Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, [prim] While Common Sense[20] has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves, [next] An' Orthodoxy raibles, [rattles by rote] Tho' in his heart he weel believes An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse, [fellow] So cannilie he hums them; [prudently, humbugs] Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him [nearly half] At times that day.

Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, [outer and inner rooms] Wi' yill-caup Commentators; [ale-cup] Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, [rolls] An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, [busy] Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din, that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gi'es us mair [blessings on] Than either school or college; It kindles wit, it waukens lair, [learning] It pangs us fou o' knowledge. [crams full] Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, [small beer] Or ony stronger potion, It never fails, on drinkin' deep, To kittle up our notion [tickle] By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table, weel content, An' steer about the toddy. [stir] On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, [look] They're makin observations; While some are cosy i' the neuk, [corner] An' formin' assignations To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, [sounds] Till a' the hills are rairin', [roaring] An' echoes back return the shouts; Black Russel is na sparin'; His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints an' marrow; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our very 'sauls does harrow' Wi' fright that day!

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, [full, flaming brimstone] Whase ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! The half-asleep start up wi' fear An' think they hear it roarin' When presently it does appear 'Twas but some neebor snorin' Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How mony stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill, [ale] When they were a' dismist; How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, [wooden drinking vessels] Amang the furms and benches; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, [full portions] An' dawds that day. [lumps]

In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, [jolly, sensible] An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; [Then, cheese] The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Till some are by his bonnet lays, An' gi'es them't like a tether, [rope] Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, [Alas!] Or lasses that hae naething! Sma' need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing! [make dusty] O wives, be mindful, ance yoursel How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel Let lasses be affronted On sic a day! [such]

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, [Bell-ringer, rope] Begins to jow an' croon; [swing, toll] Some swagger hame the best they dow, [can] Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, [gaps, kids] Till lasses strip their shoon; Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, [shoes] They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. [chat]

How mony hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses! Their hearts o' static, gin night, are gane [before] As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine, There's some are fou o' brandy; An' mony jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie [fornication] Some ither day.

[20] The rationalism of the New Lights.

It must be admitted that, as we pass from poem to poem, Scottish manners are becoming freer, Scottish drink is more potent, Scottish religion is no longer pure and undefiled. Yet the poet hardly seems to be at a disadvantage. He certainly is no less interesting; he impresses our imaginations and rouses our sympathetic understanding as keenly as ever; there is no abatement of our esthetic relish.

We have seen the Ayrshire peasant alone with his family, at social gatherings, and at church. We have to see him with his cronies and at the tavern. Scotch manners and Scotch religion we know now; it is the turn of Scotch drink. The spirit of that conviviality which was one of Burns's ruling passions, and which in his class helped to color the grayness of daily hardship, was rendered by him in verse again and again: never more triumphantly than in the greatest of his bacchanalian songs, Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut. Indeed it would be hard to find anywhere in our literature a more revealing utterance of those effects of alcohol that are not discussed in scientific literature—the joyous exhilaration, the conviction of (comparative) sobriety, the temporary intensification of the feeling of good fellowship. The challenge to the moon is unsurpassable in its unconscious humor. Yet Arnold thought the world of Scotch drink unbeautiful.

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, [malt] And Rob and Allan cam to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, [live-long] Ye wad na found in Christendie. [would not have, Christendom]

We are na fou', we're nae that fou, [drunk] But just a drappie in our e'e; [droplet] The cock may craw, the day may daw, [crow, dawn] And aye we'll taste the barley-bree. [brew]

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be! [more]

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; [shining, sky, high] She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, [entice] But, by my sooth! she'll wait a wee.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, [go] A cuckold, coward loun is he! [rascal] Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three!

With greater daring and on a broader canvas Burns has dealt with the same subject in The Jolly Beggars. For the literary treatment of the theme he had hints from Ramsay, in whose Merry Beggars and Happy Beggars groups of half a dozen male and female characters proclaim their views and join in a chorus in praise of drink. More direct suggestion for the setting of his "cantata" came from a night visit made by the poet and two of his friends to the low alehouse kept by Nancy Gibson ("Poosie Nansie") in Mauchline. The poem was written in 1785, but Burns never published it and seems almost to have forgotten its existence.

It is impossible to exaggerate the unpromising nature of the theme. The place is a den of corruption, the characters are the dregs of society. A group of tramps and criminals have gathered at the end of their day's wanderings to drink the very rags from their backs and wallow in shameless incontinence. An old soldier and a quondam "daughter of the regiment," a mountebank and his tinker sweetheart, a female pickpocket whose Highland bandit lover has been hanged, a fiddler at fairs who aspires to comfort her but is outdone by a tinker, a lame ballad-singer and his three wives, one of whom consoles the fiddler in the face of her husband—such is the choice company. The action is mere by-play, drunken love making; the main point is the songs. They are mostly frank autobiography, all pervaded with the gaiety that comes from the conviction that being at the bottom, they need not be anxious about falling. Wine, women, and song are their enthusiasms, and only the song is above the lowest possible level.

Such is the sordid material out of which Burns wrought his greatest imaginative triumph. To take the reader into such a haunt and have him pass the evening in such company, not with disgust and nausea but with relish and joy, is an achievement that stands beside the creation of the scenes in the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap. It is accomplished by virtue of the intensity of the poet's imaginative sympathy with human nature even in its most degraded forms, and by his power of finding utterance for the moods of the characters he conceives. The dramatic power which we have noted in a certain group of the songs here reaches its height, and in making the reader respond to it he avails himself of all his literary faculties. Pungent phrasing, a sense of the squalid picturesque, a humorous appreciation of human weakness, and a superb command of rollicking rhythms—these elements of his equipment are particularly notable. But the whole thing is fused and unified by a wonderful vitality that makes the reading of it an actual experience. And, though several of the songs are in English, there is no moralizing, no alien note of any kind to jar the perfection of its harmony. Scottish literature had seen nothing like it since Dunbar made the Seven Deadly Sins dance in hell.

THE JOLLY BEGGARS

A CANTATA

Recitativo

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, [withered, earth] Or, wavering like the baukie bird, [bat] Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, [glancing stroke] And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; [hoar-frost] Ae night at e'en a merry core [one, gang] O' randie, gangrel bodies [rowdy, vagrant] In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, [carousal] To drink their orra duddies. [spare rags] Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted an' they sang; Wi' jumping an' thumping The very girdle rang. [cake-pan]

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, [next] Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, An' knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm; [mistress] Wi' usquebae an blankets warm [whisky] She blinket on her sodger; [leered] An' aye he gies the tozie drab [flushed with drink] The tither skelpin' kiss, [smacking] While she held up her greedy gab, [mouth] Just like an aumous dish; [alms] Ilk smack still did crack still Just like a cadger's whip; [hawker's] Then, swaggering an' staggering, He roar'd this ditty up—

Air

TUNE: Soldier's Joy

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come: This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum, Lal de daudle, &c.

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; And I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb: Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stamps at the sound of a drum.

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tattered rag hanging over my bum, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, [trull] As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home? When the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum.

Recitativo

He ended; and the kebars sheuk [rafters shook] Aboon the chorus roar; [Above] While frighted rattons backward leuk, [rats, look] An' seek the benmost bore. [inmost hole] A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, [nook] He skirled out Encore! [shrieked] But up arose the martial chuck, [darling] And laid the loud uproar.

Air

TUNE: Sodger Laddie

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. [soldier]

But the godly old chaplain left him in a lurch; The sword I forsook for the sake of the church; He risked the soul, and I ventur'd the body,— then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie.

But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair, Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair; His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie.

And now I have liv'd—I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!

Recitativo

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk [corner] Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; [tinker wench] They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, [took] Between themselves they were sae busy, At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, He stoitered up an' made a face; [staggered] Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzy, Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. [Then]

Air

TUNE: Auld Sir Symon

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, [drunk] Sir Knave is a fool in a session; [court] He's there but a 'prentice I trow, But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk, [book] And I held awa to the school; [went off] I fear I my talent misteuk, But what will ye hae of a fool? [have]

For drink I would venture my neck; A hizzie's the half o' my craft; [wench] But what could ye other expect, Of ane that's avowedly daft? [crazy]

I ance was tied up like a stirk, [bullock] For civilly swearing and quaffing; I ance was abused i' the kirk, [rebuked] For touzling a lass i' my daffin. [rumpling, fun]

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer; There's even, I'm tauld, i' the Court, A tumbler ca'd the Premier.

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad Maks faces to tickle the mob? He rails at our mountebank squad— It's rivalship just i' the job!

And now my conclusion I'll tell, For faith! I'm confoundedly dry; The chiel that's a fool for himsel', [fellow] Gude Lord! he's far dafter than I.

Recitativo

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, [next, rough beldam] Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling. [steal, cash] For mony a pursie she had hookit, An' had in mony a well been dookit; [ducked] Her love had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' Woodie! [woe betide, gallows] Wi' sighs and sobs, she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman:—

Air

TUNE: O An' Ye Were Dead, Guidman

A Highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn; [Lowland] But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman.

CHORUS

Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman! Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman! There's no a lad in a' the lan' Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, [kilt] And gude claymore down by his side, [two-handed sword] The ladies' hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman.

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, And lived like lords and ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman.

They banish'd him beyond the sea; But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman.

But och! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast; My curse upon them every one! They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.

And now a widow I must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return; No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman.

Recitativo

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, Wha used to trysts an' fairs to driddle, [markets, toddle] Her strappin' limb an' gawsie middle [buxom] (He reach'd nae higher) Had holed his heartie like a riddle, And blawn't on fire. [blown it]

Wi' hand on hainch, and upward e'e, [hip] He crooned his gamut, one, two, three, Then, in an Ario's key, The wee Apollo Set aff, wi' allegretto glee, His gig solo.

Air

TUNE: Whistle Owre the Lave O't

Let me tyke up to dight that tear, [reach, wipe] And go wi' me an' be my dear, And then your every care an' fear May whistle owre the lave o't. [rest]

CHORUS

I am a fiddler to my trade, An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to wife or maid, Was Whistle Owre the Lave o't.

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, [harvest-homes, we shall] And oh! sae nicely's we will fare; We'll house about, till Daddie Care Sing Whistle Owre the Lave o't.

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, [pick] An' sun oursels about the dyke, [wall] An' at our leisure, when ye like, We'll—whistle owre the lave o't.

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, An' while I kittle hair on thairms, [tickle, catgut] Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, [such] May whistle owre the lave o't.

Recitativo

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, [tinker] As well as poor gut-scraper; He taks the fiddler by the beard, An' draws a roosty rapier— [rusty] He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, To spit him like a pliver, [plover] Unless he would from that time forth Relinquish her for ever.

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended, [hams] An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, An' sae the quarrel ended. But tho' his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, [snigger] When thus the caird address'd her:—

Air

TUNE: Clout the Cauldron

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station; I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation; I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron; But vain they search'd when off I march'd To go an' clout the cauldron. [patch]

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise an' caperin'; An' tak a share wi' those that bear The budget and the apron; [tool-bag] And, by that stoup, my faith an' houp! [hope] And by that dear Kilbaigie, [a kind of whisky] If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, [dearth] May I ne'er weet my craigie. [wet, throat]

Recitativo

The caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, [so sorely] An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man o' spunk, [spirit] Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night.

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft [urchin] That play'd a dame a shavie; [trick] The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. [hencoop] Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft, Tho' limpin' wi' the spavie, [spavin] He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft, [hobbled, leapt] And shor'd them Dainty Davie [yielded them as lovers] O' boot that night. [gratis]

He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed; [enlisted] Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever miss'd it. He had nae wish, but—to be glad, Nor want but—when he thirsted; He hated nought but—to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night.

Air

TUNE: For A' That, An' A' That

I am a bard of no regard Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that; But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, [staring crowd] Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS

For a' that, an' a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that; [much] I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife eneugh for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank, [pond] Castalia's burn, an' a' that; But there it streams, an' richly reams! [foams] My Helicon I ca' that.

Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, an' a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. [thwart]

In raptures sweet this hour we meet Wi' mutual love, an' a' that; But for how lang the flee may stang, [fly, sting] Let inclination law that. [regulate]

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, [crazy] They've ta'en me in, an' a' that; But clear your decks, an' Here's the sex! I like the jads for a' that. [jades]

For a' that, and a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that, My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't, for a' that. [to it]

Recitativo

So sung the bard—and Nansie's wa's [walls] Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo'd from each mouth; They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds. [emptied, pokes, rags] They scarcely left to co'er their fads, [cover, tails] To quench their lowin' drouth. [flaming] Then owre again the jovial thrang [over, crowd] The poet did request To lowse his pack, an' wale a sang, [untie, choose] A ballad o' the best; He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus.

Air

TUNE: Jolly Mortals, Fill Your Glasses

See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring; Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing:

CHORUS

A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest.

What is title? what is treasure? What is reputation's care? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where!

With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. [mistresses]

Does the train-attended carriage Thro' the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love?

Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose.

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! Here's to all the wandering train! Here's our ragged brats and callets! [wenches] One and all cry out Amen!

The materials for rebuilding Burns's world are not confined to his explicitly descriptive poems. Much can be gathered from the songs and satires, and there are important contributions in his too scanty essays in narrative. Of these last by far the most valuable is Tam o' Shanter. The poem originated accidentally in the request of a certain Captain Grose for local legends to enrich a descriptive work which he was compiling. In Burns's correspondence will be found a prose account of the tradition on which the poem is founded, and he is supposed to have derived hints for the relations of Tam and his spouse from a couple he knew at Kirkoswald.

It was a happy inspiration that led him to turn the story into verse, for it revealed a capacity which otherwise we could hardly have guessed him to possess. The vigor and rapidity of the action, the vivid sketching of the background, the pregnant characterization, the drollery of the humor give this piece a high place among stories in verse, and lead us to conjecture that, had he followed this vein instead of devoting his later years to the service of Johnson and Thomson, he might have won a place beside the author of the Canterbury Tales. He lacked, to be sure, Chaucer's breadth of experience and richness of culture: being far less a man of the world he would never have attained the air of breeding that distinguishes the English poet: but with most of the essential qualities that charm us in Chaucer's stories he was well equipped. He had the observant eye, the power of selection, command of the telling phrase and happy epithet, the sense of the comic and the pathetic. Beyond Chaucer he had passion and the power of rendering it, so that he might have reached greater tragic depth, as he surpassed him in lyric intensity.

As it is, however, Chaucer stands alone as a story-teller, for Tam o' Shanter is with Burns an isolated achievement. There are three distinct elements in the work—narrative, descriptive, and reflective. The first can hardly be overpraised. We are made to feel the reluctance of the hero to abandon the genial inn fireside, with its warmth and uncritical companionship, for the bitter ride with a sulky sullen dame at the end of it; the rage of the thunderstorm, as with lowered head and fast-held bonnet the horseman plunges through it; the growing sense of terror as, past scene after scene of ancient horror, he approaches the ill-famed ruin. Then suddenly the mood changes. Emboldened by his potations, Tam faces the astounding infernal revelry with unabashed curiosity, which rises and rises till, in a pitch of enthusiastic admiration for Cutty-Sark, he loses all discretion and brings the "hellish legion" after him pell-mell. We reach the serio-comic catastrophe breathless but exhilarated.