RECITATIVO.

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

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie, A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, Tho' limping wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up and lap like daft, And shor'd them Dainty Davie O boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed, 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' gentle folks, an' a' that: But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS

For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife enough for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that; But there it streams, and richly reams, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c.

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. For a' that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love, an a' that: But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft. They've ta'en me in, and a' that; But clear your decks, and here's the sex! I like the jads for a' that

CHORUS

For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't for a' that

RECITATIVO

So sung the bard—and Nansie's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo'd from each mouth: They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request, To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 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! A fig, &c.

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. A fig, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love? A fig, &c.

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: A peculiar sort of whiskey.]

* * * * *



XV.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his knowledge in medicine—so vain, that he advertised his merits, and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is just as true's the Deil's in h—ll Or Dublin-city; That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty; I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: To count her horns with a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff with a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-taed leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava: And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks.

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?" It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe,—"My name is Death, But be na fley'd."—Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie; I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad nae mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news! This while ye hae been mony a gate At mony a house.

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan[6] An' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin And pouk my hips.

"See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f——t, Damn'd haet they'll kill.

"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But-deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt.

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary, Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock.

"Ev'n them he canna get attended, Although their face he ne'er had kend it, Just sh—— in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't.

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C.

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and pease, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can content ye.

"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'd per se; Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mony mae."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole[7] now," Quo' I, "If that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnie!"

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, "Ye need na yoke the plough, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want of breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill.

"An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair

"A countra laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel.

"A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel paid for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d—mn'd dirt:

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead's a herrin': Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin'!"

But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak' the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel', And sae did Death.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: Buchan's Domestic Medicine.]

[Footnote 7: The grave-digger.]

* * * * *



XVI.

THE TWA HERDS:

OR,

THE HOLY TULZIE.

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns, "with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause."]

O a' ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, O! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle And think it fine: The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle Sin' I ha'e min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,— O sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height, And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club, And New-Light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in.

Sic twa—O! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet, An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein'!

An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree.

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset; There's scarce a new herd that we get But comes frae mang that cursed set I winna name; I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought ay death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cow the lairds, And get the brutes the powers themsels To choose their herds;

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France: Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, M'Gill's close nervous excellence, M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, And guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

* * * * *



XVII.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

"And send the godly in a pet to pray."

POPE.

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and, what is known by the name of a "professing Christian." He experienced, however, a "sore fall;" he permitted himself to be "filled fou," and in a moment when "self got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.]

O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts and grace, A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plunged me in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whar damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin.

O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi' Meg— Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O! may't ne'er be a livin' plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow— But Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I came near her, Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted; If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' grit and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;— Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads, Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin', To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin' And hung his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me an mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!

* * * * *



XVIII.

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, that when he was clerk in Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns came in one morning and said, "I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it." He repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph; Hamilton came in at the moment, and having read them with delight, ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy Willie was other than godly; in one of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was needful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found dead in the morning.]

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Takes up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship I see, Has got him there before ye; But hand your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane; Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gaen.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

* * * * *



XIX.

THE INVENTORY;

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR

OF THE TAXES.

[We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humorous inventory of his effects, so moved the commissioners of the income tax, that they remitted all claim on him then and forever; we know not that this very humorous inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the surveyor of the taxes. It is dated "Mossgiel, February 22d, 1786," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the information which it gives us of the poet's habits, household, and agricultural implements.]

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 have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My lan' afore's[8] a gude auld has been, An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been. My lan ahin's[9] a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,[10] An' your auld burro' mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime— But ance, whan in my wooing pride, I like a blockhead boost to ride, The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (L—d pardon a' my sins an' that too!) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. My fur ahin's[11] a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, A d—n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie! Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale, As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.— Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; Ae 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.

For men I've three mischievous boys, Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd 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 servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!) I ha'e 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 devils 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 bonnie sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already, An' gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L—d! ye'se get them a'thegither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm takin'; Frae this time forth, I do declare I'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 buke. Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.]

[Footnote 9: The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.]

[Footnote 10: Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 11: The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.]

* * * * *



XX.

THE HOLY FAIR.

A robe of seeming truth and trust Did 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.

[The scene of this fine poem is the church-yard of Mauchline, and the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners visible in matters so solemn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. "This was indeed," says Lockhart, "an extraordinary performance: no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet." "It is no doubt," says Hogg, "a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever one, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I admire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed from Ferguson."]

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

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

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes: The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 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, Of a' the ten commands A screed some day.

"My name is Fun—your cronie 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: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin' At them this day."

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

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show, On ev'ry side they're gath'rin', Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin' Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry, There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of titlin' jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there's a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day.

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

O happy is that man an' blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him; 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, Unkenn'd that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie speeds the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' ratlin' an' wi' thumpin'! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin an' he's jumpin'! His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day.

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, On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine, Of moral pow'rs and reason? His English style, an' gestures 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, Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,[12] Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But faith! the birkie wants a manse, So, cannily he hums them; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that day.

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators: Here's crying out for bakes and gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 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 gies us mair Than either school or college: It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pangs us fou' o' knowledge, Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or any stronger potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion 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. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're making observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' formin' assignations To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts: Black Russell is na' sparin': His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints and marrow; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our vera sauls does harrow[13] Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat, Wad melt the hardest whunstane! The half asleep start up wi' fear, An' think they hear it roarin', When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neibor snorin' Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist: How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches: An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, An' dawds that day.

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

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

Now Clinkumbell, wi' ratlin tow, Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame, the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day.

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

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.]

[Footnote 13: Shakespeare's Hamlet.]

* * * * *



XXI.

THE ORDINATION.

"For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n— To please the mob they hide the little giv'n."

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786. That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge 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 libations For joy this day.

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;[14] But Oliphant aft made her yell, An' Russell sair misca'd her; This day Mackinlay taks the flail, And he's the boy will blaud her! He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day.

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, An' 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 her Wi' pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham[15] leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a niger; Or Phineas[16] drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,[17] the scauldin' jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He 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, And toss thy horns fu' canty; Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day.

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

Lang Patronage, wi' 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'; And like a godly elect bairn He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day.

Now, Robinson, 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 repair, And turn a carpet-weaver Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie 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 ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein' through 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 Beattie Her plaint this day.

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, And banished our dominions, Henceforth this day.

O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, That Heresy can torture: They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here's for a conclusion, To every New Light[18] 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 fusion Like oil, some day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk.]

[Footnote 15: Genesis, ix. 22.]

[Footnote 16: Numbers, xxv. 8.]

[Footnote 17: Exodus, iv. 25.]

[Footnote 18: "New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religions opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.]

* * * * *



XXII.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN.

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2—"And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."

[The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf—for the name it seems stuck—came to London, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1796.]

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true, Though 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 Stirk.

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 stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank among the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head— "Here lies a famous Bullock!"

* * * * *



XXIII.

TO JAMES SMITH.

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet'ner of life and solder of society! I owe thee much!—"

BLAIR.

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shop-keeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather follower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with "Yill-caup commentators." He was present in Poosie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggars first dawned on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of the poet's heart were not generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788; but this was not to last; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his manners lively and unaffected.]

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon Just gaun to see you; And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan; And in her freaks, on every feature She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit it up sublime Wi' hasty summon: Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin'?

Some rhyme a neighbour'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.

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 shot O' countra wit.

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, To try my fate in guid black prent; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries "Hoolie! 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 o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless heed How 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.

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 and 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 hut With high disdain.

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, 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'en 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 e'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Ay rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour! And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster 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.

"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 fail To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows As weel's I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, In your unletter'd nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad: I see you 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.

* * * * *



XXIV.

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST.[19]

[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be "the only pieces by Burns which can be classed under the head of pure fiction:" but Tam O' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equal right to be classed with works of fiction. The edition of this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from the edition which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.]

The sun had clos'd the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play, An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree The lee-lang day had tired me; And when the day had closed 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 restless rattons squeak About the riggin'.

All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mused on wastet time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done nae thing, But stringin' 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 an' clarkit My cash-account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount.

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, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath—

When, click! the string the snick did draw: And, 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 wisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon be broken.

A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone 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: And such a leg! my bonnie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A 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 tost: 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 race, To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace.

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[20] heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel In sturdy blows; While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Their southron foes.

His Country's Saviour,[21] mark him well! Bold Richardton's[22] heroic swell; The chief on Sark[23] who glorious fell, In high command; And He whom ruthless fates expel His native land.

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade[24] Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race portray'd In colours strong; Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along.

Thro' many a wild romantic grove,[25] Near many a hermit-fancy'd 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,[26] 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.

Brydone's brave ward[27] 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 whisp'ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air She did me greet.

"All 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 land, Has 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 bare Corruption's heart. Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art.

"'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; Or 'mid the venal senate's roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand.

"And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild, poetic rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye.

"Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His 'Minstrel' lays; Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic's bays.

"To lower orders are assign'd The humbler ranks of human-kind, The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, The artisan; All 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 plain, With 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 toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains.

"Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard: And careful note each op'ning 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 gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely carroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays Of other times.

"I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye.

"Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love.

"When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk.

"When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' 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 astray Was light from Heaven.

"I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Become thy friends.

"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone's art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow, Warm on the heart.

"Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws His 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.

"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 plan Will all protect.

"And wear thou this,"—she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head: The polish'd leaves and berries red Did rustling play; And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his "Cath-Loda," vol. ii. of Macpherson's translation.]

[Footnote 20: The Wallaces.]

[Footnote 21: Sir William Wallace.]

[Footnote 22: Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.]

[Footnote 23: Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.]

[Footnote 24: Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown.]

[Footnote 25: Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of Session.)]

[Footnote 26: Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Steward.]

[Footnote 27: Colonel Fullarton.]

* * * * *



XXV.

HALLOWEEN.[28]

"Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art."

GOLDSMITH.

[This Poem contains a lively and striking picture of some of the superstitious observances of old Scotland: on Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portion of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fireside, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including supernumerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engagements of harvest. "I never can help regarding this," says James Hogg, "as rather a trivial poem!"]

Upon that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans[29] dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams; There, up the Cove,[30] to stray an' rove Amang the rocks an' streams To sport that night.

Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, Where Bruce[31] ance rul'd the martial ranks, An' shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' haud their Halloween Fu' blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they're fine; Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin'; The lads sae trig, wi' wooer babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whiles fast at night.

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail, Their stocks[32] maun a' be sought ance; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, For muckle anes an' straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, An' wander'd through the bow-kail, An' pou't, for want o' better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow't that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; The vera wee-things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've placed them To lie that night.

The lasses staw frae mang them a' To pou their stalks o' corn;[33] But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn: He grippet Nelly hard an' fast; Loud skirl'd a' the lasses; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kiuttlin' in the fause-house[34] Wi' him that night.

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits[35] Are round an' round divided; An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates Are there that night decided: Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, And jump out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night.

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

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie; An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compar'd to Willie; Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, An' her ain fit it brunt it; While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min', She pits hersel an' Rob in; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 'Till white in ase they're sobbin'; Nell's heart, was dancin' at the view, She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't: Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou', Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, And slips out by hersel': She through the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then, An' darklins graipit for the bauks, And in the blue-clue[36] throws then, Right fear't that night.

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin'; 'Till something held within the pat, Guid L—d! but she was quaukin'! But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin' To spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her graunie says, "Will ye go wi' me, graunie? I'll eat the apple[37] at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnnie:" She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin', She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night.

"Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! I daur you try sic sportin', As seek the foul Thief onie place, For him to spae your fortune: Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An' liv'd an' died deleeret On sic a night.

"Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure I was na past fifteen: The simmer had been cauld an' wat, An' stuff was unco green; An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat, An' just on Halloween It fell that night.

"Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, A clever, sturdy fellow: He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That liv'd in Achmacalla: He gat hemp-seed,[38] I mind it weel, And he made unco light o't; But monie a day was by himsel', He was sae sairly frighted That vera night."

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

He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin; The graip he for a harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin; 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 that night."

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery; Altho' his hair began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie; 'Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle; He by his shouther gae a keek, An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre that night.

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

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, To win three wechts o' naething;[39] But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in: She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tam Kipples That vera night.

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, An' owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca', Syne bauldly in she enters: A ratton rattled up the wa', An' she cried, L—d preserve her! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night.

They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice; They hecht him some fine braw ane; It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,[40] Was timmer-propt for thrawin'; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin; An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Aff's nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlin; But, och! that night, amang the shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin'! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,[41] To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night.

Amang the brackens on the brae, Between her an' the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up an' gae a croon: Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool! Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an' in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three[42] are ranged, And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed: Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin Mar's-year did desire, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, He heav'd them on the fire In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery; Till butter'd so'ns[43] wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin' Fu' blythe that night.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: 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.]

[Footnote 29: Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.]

[Footnote 30: 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.]

[Footnote 31: The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.]

[Footnote 32: 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.]

[Footnote 33: 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 come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.]

[Footnote 34: When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., 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.]

[Footnote 35: Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.]

[Footnote 36: 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 clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; demand "wha hauds?" i.e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.]

[Footnote 37: 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.]

[Footnote 38: 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 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."]

[Footnote 39: 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 through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass through 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.]

[Footnote 40: Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.]

[Footnote 41: 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, some time 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.]

[Footnote 42: 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.]

[Footnote 43: Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.]

* * * * *



XXVI.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

[The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop: "I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of 'The Life and Age of Man.'" From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with "Man was made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.]

When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy'd a man whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" Began the rev'rend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride: I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return, And ev'ry time had added proofs That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives nature's law, That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want—oh! ill-match'd pair!— Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest: Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh! what crowds in every land, All wretched and forlorn! Thro' weary life this lesson learn— That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave— By Nature's law design'd— Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend— The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour, my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn! But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn."

* * * * *



XXVII.

TO RUIN.

["I have been," says Burns, in his common-place book, "taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 'The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.]

I.

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! 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; Though thick'ning and black'ning, Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch's prayer! No 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 throbbings 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!

* * * * *



XXVIII.

TO

JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK.

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS

[This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the West.]

O Goudie! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girnin', looks back, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, Waes me! she's in a sad condition: Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician, To see her water: Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, But now she's got an unco ripple; Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, Nigh unto death; See, how she fetches at the thrapple, An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gaen in a gallopin' consumption, Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, Will ever mend her. Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor[44] are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief, But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel, An' twa red peats wad send relief, An' end the quarrel.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.]

* * * * *



XXIX.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1st, 1785.

(FIRST EPISTLE.)

["The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, "was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well as women."]

While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin', And there was muckle fun an' jokin', Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin' At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous manly bosoms feel, Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele, Or Beattie's wark?" They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd He had injine, That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel', Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, "How can you e'er propose, You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?" But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may-be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire! That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true— I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends an' folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses—Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair; I should be proud to meet you there! We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better, Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, "Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant.

* * * * *



XXX.

To

J. LAPRAIK.

(SECOND EPISTLE.)

[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic worshipper of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, beginning

"When I upon thy bosom lean."

He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled power of soul.]

April 21st, 1785.

While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take To own I'm debtor, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Their ten hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month' an' mair, That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad: "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts, An' thank him kindly?"

Sae I gat paper in a blink An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove I'll prose it!"

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland-harp Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; She's but a b—tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the L—d, tho' I should beg Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; But yet despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks!

"O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!"

Were this the charter of our state, "On pain' o' hell be rich an' great," Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, "The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he!"

O mandate, glorious and divine! The followers o' the ragged Nine, Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievfu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year!

* * * * *



XXXI.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

(THIRD EPISTLE.)

[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, "tapetless," "ramfeezled," and "forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]

Sept. 13th, 1785.

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny, Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs Like drivin' wrack; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin' me for harsh ill nature On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our noble sel's; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskey stills, They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it An' if ye mak' objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd, An' a' the vittel in the yard, An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty, As ye were nine year less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, An' now the sin keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quat my chanter; Sae I subscribe myself in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter.

* * * * *



XXXII.

TO

WILLIAM SIMPSON,

OCHILTREE.

[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet's comrades;—of verses which rose not above the barren level of mediocrity: "one of his poems," says Chambers, "was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul." In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are intended to be laughable as well as monitory.]

May, 1785.

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they're like to be my dead (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed, It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd stile; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings.

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine Up wi' the best.

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy'd.

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray: Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day.

O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, my "rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axes Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns.

POSTSCRIPT

My memory's no worth a preen: I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean, By this New Light, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans, At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one.

This past for certain—undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm'd That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks, An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands, An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, That, faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, 'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks.

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some their New Light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin'; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin': Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' Wi' girnin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the loons; Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns Are mind't in things they ca' balloons, To tak a flight, An' stay ae month amang the moons And see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them: An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, An' when the New Light billies see them, I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie.

* * * * *



XXXIII.

ADDRESS

TO AN

ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

[This hasty and not very decorous effusion, was originally entitled "The Poet's Welcome; or, Rab the Rhymer's Address to his Bastard Child." A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by Burns himself, in his biographical letter to Moore. "Bonnie Betty," the mother of the "sonsie-smirking, dear-bought Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Largieside: to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. She lived to be a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, where she died in 1817. It is said she resembled Burns quite as much as any of the rest of his children.]

Thou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me, If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, Shall ever daunton me, or awe me, My sweet wee lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tit-ta or daddy.

Wee image of my bonny Betty, I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee, As dear and near my heart I set thee Wi' as gude will As a' the priests had seen me get thee That's out o' hell.

What tho' they ca' me fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry clatter: The mair they talk I'm kent the better, E'en let them clash; An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a' tint, Sin' thou came to the warl asklent, Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't The better ha'f o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, An' tak the counsel I sall gie thee, A lovin' father I'll be to thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, An' think't weel war'd.

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, Without his failins; 'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it Than stocket mailens.

* * * * *



XXXIV.

NATURE'S LAW.

A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H. ESQ.

"Great nature spoke, observant man obey'd." Pope.

[This Poem was written by Burns at Mossgiel, and "humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq." It is supposed to allude to his intercourse with Jean Armour, with the circumstances of which he seems to have made many of his comrades acquainted. These verses were well known to many of the admirers of the poet, but they remained in manuscript till given to the world by Sir Harris Nicolas, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of the British Poets.]

Let other heroes boast their scars, The marks of sturt and strife; And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life; Shame fa' the fun; wi' sword and gun To 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 desire I've pour'd it in each bosom; Here, in 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 share, Large, of the flaming current; And all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent.