He felt the powerful, high behest, Thrill vital through and through; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due: Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowers, From mildews of abortion; And lo! the bard, a great reward, Has got a double portion!

Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns, The third of Libra's equal sway, That gave another B[urns], With future rhymes, an' other times, To emulate his sire; To sing auld Coil in nobler style, With more poetic fire.

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes; And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys: Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow'r of ancient nations; And B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing, Thro' endless generations!

* * * * *



XXXV.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

[Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton: he was a good preacher, a moderate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys. His dependent condition depressed his spirits: he grew dissipated; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, and died in a foreign land.]

Sept. 17th, 1785.

While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her.

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

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

There's Gaun,[45] miska't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him. An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 45: Gavin Hamilton, Esq.]

* * * * *



XXXVI.

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,

NOVEMBER, 1785.

[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out: and a man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, "What think you of our mouse now?"]

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear.

* * * * *



XXXVII.

SCOTCH DRINK.

"Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more."

SOLOMON'S PROVERB, xxxi. 6, 7.

["I here enclose you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to his friend Kennedy, "my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock: when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."]

Let other poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus, An' crabbit names and stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug.

O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink; Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o' food! Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame an' keeps us livin'; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin'; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,' Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs an' rants? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! Or reekin' on a new-year morning In cog or dicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath I' th' lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But monie daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel', It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch Wi' honest men;

O whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes—they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a——s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, Is ta'en awa.

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize! Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d—n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak' a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

* * * * *



XXXVIII.

THE AUTHOR'S

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER

TO THE

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES

IN THE

HOUSE OF COMMONS.

'Dearest of distillation! last and best!—— ———How art thou lost!————'

PARODY ON MILTON

["This Poem was written," says Burns, "before the act anent the Scottish distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks." Before the passing of this lenient act, so sharp was the law in the North, that some distillers relinquished their trade; the price of barley was affected, and Scotland, already exasperated at the refusal of a militia, for which she was a petitioner, began to handle her claymore, and was perhaps only hindered from drawing it by the act mentioned by the poet. In an early copy of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh Montgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton:—

"Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, If bardies e'er are represented, I ken if that yere sword were wanted Ye'd lend yere hand; But when there's aught to say anent it Yere at a stand."

The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think the compliment to his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the stanza.]

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, An' doucely manage our affairs In Parliament, To you a simple Bardie's prayers Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin' on her a—e Low i' the dust, An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On aqua-vitae; An' rouse them up to strong conviction, An' move their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier youth, The honest, open, naked truth: Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, His servants humble: The muckie devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em: If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em.

In gath'rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack; Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, An' hum an' haw; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrizzle, Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle: An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle, Seizin' a stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Or lampit shell.

Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight! But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well.

God bless your honours, can ye see't, The kind, auld, canty carlin greet, An' no get warmly on your feet, An' gar them hear it! An' tell them with a patriot heat, Ye winna bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' wi' rhetorie clause on clause To mak harangues: Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran'; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;[46] An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, The Laird o' Graham;[47] An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarren, Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie: An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle: Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her whiskey.

An' L—d, if once they pit her till't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' th' first she meets!

For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks! E'en cowe the cadie! An' send him to his dicing box, An' sportin' lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's[48] Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert.

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your mither's heart support ye, Then, though a minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face.

God bless your honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie's: Your humble Poet signs an' prays While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, Tak aff their whiskey.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throther To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his check a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.

Nae could faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas!

Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather Ye tine your dam; Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!— Tak aff your dram!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 46: Sir Adam Ferguson.]

[Footnote 47: The Duke of Montrose.]

[Footnote 48: A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink.]

* * * * *



XXXIX.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID,

OR THE

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

"My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them ay thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin."

SOLOMON.—Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, "has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.]

I.

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibor's fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supply'd wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter.

II.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

III.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding.

IV.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.

V.

See social life and glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, 'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown Debauchery and drinking; O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, D—mnation of expenses!

VI.

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper, i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

VII.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.

VIII.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord—its various tone, Each spring—its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

* * * * *



XL.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.[49]

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

POPE.

[Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy: when Tam heard o' this he waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. "This poem has always," says Hogg, "been a great country favourite: it abounds with happy expressions.

'In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid.'

What a picture of a flooded burn! any other poet would have given us a long description: Burns dashes it down at once in a style so graphic no one can mistake it.

'Perhaps upon his mouldering breast Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.'

Match that sentence who can."]

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great M'Kinlay[50] thrawn his heel? Or Robinson[51] again grown weel, To preach an' read? "Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel, Tam Samson's dead!

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane, An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean, In mourning weed; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren o' the mystic level May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the lochs the curlers flock, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core, To guard or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o' need; But now he lags on death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel ken'd for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead.

Rejoice, ye birring patricks a'; Ye cootie moor-cocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa'— Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed; But, Och! he gaed and ne'er return'd! Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters; In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Tam Samson's dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit, An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi' deadly feide; Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson's dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed; "L—d, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether Tam Samson's dead!

There low he lies, in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his mem'ry crave O' pouther an' lead, 'Till echo answer frae her cave Tam Samson's dead!

Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er he be! Is th' wish o' mony mae than me; He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead!

* * * * *

EPITAPH.

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, Ye canting zealots spare him! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

* * * * *

PER CONTRA.

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, Tell ev'ry social honest billie To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin'.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 49: When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields."]

[Footnote 50: A preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II]

[Footnote 51: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, stanza IX.]

* * * * *



XLI.

LAMENT,

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE

OF A

FRIEND'S AMOUR.

"Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe."

HOME.

[The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. "This was a most melancholy affair," says the poet in his letter to Moore, "which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was "written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham's darling sweetheart alighting him and marrying another:—she acted a wise part." With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.]

I.

O thou pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep! With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream.

II.

A joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly marked distant hill: I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill: My fondly-fluttering heart, be still: Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace!

III.

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; No shepherd's pipe—Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith; the mutual flame; The oft-attested Pow'rs above; The promis'd father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love!

IV.

Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone! And must I think it!—is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost?

V.

Oh! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part, The plighted husband of her youth! Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less?

VI.

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd, That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom!

VII.

The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe: I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main.

VIII.

And when my nightly couch I try, Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night.

IX.

O! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! The time, unheeded, sped away, While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, To mark the mutual kindling eye.

X.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! Scenes never, never to return! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn! From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow.

* * * * *



XLII.

DESPONDENCY.

AN ODE.

["I think," said Burns, "it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease." He elsewhere says, "My passions raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme." That eminent painter, Fuseli, on seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, "Swear my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it will ease you!" This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moments experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alike deceived him.]

I.

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' Too justly I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er But with the closing tomb!

II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward: Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night And joyless morn the same; You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain.

III.

How blest the solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream; While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky.

IV.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art: But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate, Whilst I here, must cry here At perfidy ingrate!

V.

Oh! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown! How ill exchang'd for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage! The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age!

* * * * *



XLIII.

THE

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

"Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure: Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor."

GRAY

[The house of William Burns was the scene of this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William himself was the saint, the father, and the husband, who gives life and sentiment to the whole. "Robert had frequently remarked to me," says Gilbert Burns, "that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 'Let us worship God!' used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing family worship." To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the "Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some little, however, of the inspiration to Fergusson's "Farmer's Ingle," a poem of great merit. The calm tone and holy composure of the Cotter's Saturday Night have been mistaken by Hogg for want of nerve and life. "It is a dull, heavy, lifeless poem," he says, "and the only beauty it possesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of family picture of the poet's family. The worst thing of all, it is not original, but is a decided imitation of Fergusson's beautiful pastoral, 'The Farmer's Ingle:' I have a perfect contempt for all plagiarisms and imitations." Motherwell tries to qualify the censure of his brother editor, by quoting Lockhart's opinion—at once lofty and just, of this fine picture of domestic happiness and devotion.]

I.

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his work unknown, far happier there, I ween!

II.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh: The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend.

III.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro' To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

IV.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun': Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

V.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd, fleet; Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The Mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

VI.

Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er, tho' out of sight, to jauk or play: "And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway! And mind your duty, duly, morn and night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!"

VII.

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily Mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the Mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.

VIII.

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he taks the Mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate, an laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

IX.

O happy love! Where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures!—bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare— "If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale."

X.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

XI.

But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

XII.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And 'Let us worship GOD!' he says, with solemn air.

XIII.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

XIV.

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

XV.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How HE, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How His first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

XVI.

Then kneeling down, to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays: Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,'[52] That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear: While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

XVII.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

XIX.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of GOD;"[53] And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordship's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!

XX.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

XXI.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart: Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 52: Pope.]

[Footnote 53: Pope.]

* * * * *



XLIV.

THE FIRST PSALM.

[This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet's work. It cannot be regarded as one of his happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique rigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.]

The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his GOD.

That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that GOD the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.

* * * * *



XLV.

THE FIRST SIX VERSES

OF THE

NINETIETH PSALM.

[The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reasoning as the poem of "Man was made to Mourn." These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and they might have been spared; for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary?]

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought; Again thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!"

Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep; As with a flood Thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd; But long ere night, cut down, it lies All wither'd and decay'd.

* * * * *



XLVI.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN

APRIL, 1786.

[This was not the original title of this sweet poem: I have a copy in the handwriting of Burns entitled "The Gowan." This more natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonable cause; and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burness and his poem "The Gowan," in the first edition of his works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted with tillage—who think that in time and place reside the chief charms of verse; and who feel not the beauty of "The Daisy," till they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who remember only what the genius loves to forget.]

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, 'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, 'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink, 'Till wrenched of every stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, 'Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

* * * * *



XLVII.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

MAY, 1786.

[Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liverpool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The poet has been charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than truth to his "Andrew dear;" but surely to conceal one's own thoughts and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hypocritical: it is, in fact, a version of the celebrated precept of prudence, "Thoughts close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was much respected—his name embalmed, like that of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is not likely soon to perish.]

I.

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Though it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento; But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

II.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attain'd; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife, Their fate we should na censure, For still th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Ay free, aff han' your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel' Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

VI.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

VII.

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that ay be your border: Its slightest touches, instant pause— Debar a' side pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!

X.

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, A conscience but a canker— A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n Is sure a noble anchor!

XI.

Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser: And may you better reck the rede Than ever did th' adviser!

* * * * *



XLVIII.

TO A LOUSE,

ON SEEING ONE IN A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH

[A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it course and vulgar—those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.]

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie! Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say by ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right 'Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dross your droddum!

I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie! How daur ye do't?

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin'! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin'!

O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us An' foolish notion; What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion!

* * * * *



XLIX.

EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE,

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

[The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree "Brutes!—damned brutes." "I dreamed that I was dead," said the rustic satirist to his superior, "and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's friends gang, I chappit, and 'Wha are ye, and where d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. 'Awa wi' you,' cried Satan, ye canna come here: hell's fou o' his lordship's damned brutes already.'"]

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin'! There's monie godly folks are thinkin', Your dreams[54] an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin' Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, dru'ken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,[55] ye'll sen't wi cannie care, And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun', A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't; But, deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had taen a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L—d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, For my gowd guinea; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 54: A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.]

[Footnote 55: A song he had promised the author.]

* * * * *



L.

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

[Burns in this Poem, as well as in others, speaks openly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the confessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself to task. It was written when "Hungry ruin had him in the wind," and emigration to the West Indies was the only refuge which he could think of, or his friends suggest, from the persecutions of fortune.]

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin' core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea!

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea, But he was gleg as onie wumble, That's owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee; He was her laureate monie a year, That's owre the sea!

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea.

To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding: He dealt it free; The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel; Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, And fou o' glee; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea!

* * * * *



LI.

THE FAREWELL.

"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what does he regard his single woes? But when, alas! he multiplies himself, To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, The those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, To helpless children! then, O then! he feels The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. Such, such am I! undone."

THOMSON.

[In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the lines to the Scottish bard, are not permitted to mingle, Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any claim. He seems to have looked on the sea as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.]

I.

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains Where rich ananas blow! Farewell, a mother's blessing dear! A brother's sigh! a sister's tear! My Jean's heart-rending throe! Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft Of my parental care, A faithful brother I have left, My part in him thou'lt share! Adieu too, to you too, My Smith, my bosom frien'; When kindly you mind me, O then befriend my Jean!

II.

What bursting anguish tears my heart! From thee, my Jeany, must I part! Thou weeping answ'rest—"No!" Alas! misfortune stares my face, And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go! Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, A grateful, warm adieu; I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you! All-hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear shore! It rustles, and whistles I'll never see thee more!

* * * * *



LII.

WRITTEN

ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF MY POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.

[This is another of the poet's lamentations, at the prospect of "torrid climes" and the roars of the Atlantic. To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise; and the land of dread, Jamaica! I found these lines copied by the poet into a volume which he presented to Dr. Geddes: they were addressed, it is thought, to the "Dear E." of his earliest correspondence.]

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear; Sweet early object of my youthful vows! Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,— Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,— Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

* * * * *



LIII.

A DEDICATION

TO

GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

[The gentleman to whom these manly lines are addressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous nature: he was one of the first of the gentry of the west to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive days; for having, without the fear of God's servant before him, profanely said damn it, in his presence, and far having gallopped on Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother of the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as well as of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edition, but not as an express dedication.]

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace; Perhaps related to the race; Then when I'm tir'd—and sae are ye, Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie, Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do—maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only—he's no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me,) On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, He's just—nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain, he winna tak it; What ance he says, he winna break it; Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 'Till aft his guidness is abus'd; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, E'en that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature: Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no thro' terror of damnation; It's just a carnal inclination.

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

No—stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, But point the rake that taks the door; Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter—stick to sound believing.

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

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeal in quaking terror! When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him: While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression. I maist forgat my dedication; But when divinity comes cross me My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'.

Then patronize them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever— I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a word I need na say: For prayin' I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o't; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you, Sir—

"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the ev'ning o' his days; 'Till his wee curlie John's-ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow."

I will not wind a lang conclusion, With complimentary effusion: But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which pow'rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor! But by a poor man's hope in Heav'n! While recollection's pow'r is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my Master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then Sir, your hand—my friend and brother.

* * * * *



LIV.

ELEGY

ON

THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.

[Cromek found these verses among the loose papers of Burns, and printed them in the Reliques. They contain a portion of the character of the poet, record his habitual carelessness in worldly affairs, and his desire to be distinguished.]

Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, Except the moment that they crush't him; For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, Tho' e'er sae short, Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em, And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, And counted was baith wight and stark. Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man; But tell him he was learned and clark, Ye roos'd him than!

* * * * *



LV.

LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT,

OF GLENCONNER.

[The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent was a social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: but as Ellisland was his choice, his skill may be questioned.]

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, How's a' the folk about Glenconner? How do you this blae eastlin wind, That's like to blaw a body blind? For me, my faculties are frozen, My dearest member nearly dozen'd, I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, An' Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled, An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled, Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, An' in the depth of science mir'd, To common sense they now appeal, What wives and wabsters see and feel. But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly Peruse them, an' return them quickly, For now I'm grown sae cursed douce I pray and ponder butt the house, My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston; Till by an' by, if I haud on, I'll grunt a real gospel groan: Already I begin to try it, To cast my e'en up like a pyet, When by the gun she tumbles o'er, Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore: Sae shortly you shall see me bright, A burning and a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men: When bending down wi' auld gray hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him, His worthy fam'ly far and near, God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he's a parent, lass or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-and-forty years thegither! An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, I'm tauld he offers very fairly. An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy; An' her kind stars hae airted till her A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen' it, To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet; Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious; To grant a heart is fairly civil, But to grant the maidenhead's the devil An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel', May guardian angels tak a spell, An' steer you seven miles south o' hell: But first, before you see heaven's glory, May ye get monie a merry story, Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, For my sake this I beg it o' you. Assist poor Simson a' ye can, Ye'll fin' him just an honest man; Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, Your's, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

* * * * *



LVI.

ON THE

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD.

[From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this "Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love," was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. The mother soon followed the father to the grave: she died in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.]

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a pray'r, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form; And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother-plant, And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the summer-morn: Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land!

* * * * *



LVII.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED

TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis.]

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming in thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! Never Boreas' hoary path, Never Eurus' poisonous breath, Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem: 'Till some evening, sober, calm, Dropping dews and breathing balm, While all around the woodland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

* * * * *



LVIII.

WILLIE CHALMERS.

[Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world: he copied it from a small manuscript volume of Poems given by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation in these words: "W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows." Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.]

I.

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I'm got astride, And up Parnassus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush The doitie beastie stammers; Then up he gets and off he sets For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

II.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name May cost a pair o' blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet His honest heart enamours, And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

III.

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, And Honour safely back her, And Modesty assume your air, And ne'er a ane mistak' her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy Palmers; Nae wonder then they've fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers.

IV.

I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie, Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But Oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart's the royal blue, And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

V.

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, May warstle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And hoast up some palaver. My bonnie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

VI.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom, Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, For de'il a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours,— And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.

* * * * *



LIX.

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ON NIGHT,

THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING

VERSES

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.

[Of the origin of those verses Gilbert Burns gives the following account. "The first time Robert heard the spinet played was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and the mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world; his mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept."]

I.

O thou dread Power, who reign'st above! I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love I make my prayer sincere.

II.

The hoary sire—the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleased to spare; To bless his filial little flock And show what good men are.

III.

She who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O, bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears!

IV.

Their hope—their stay—their darling youth, In manhood's dawning blush— Bless him, thou GOD of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish!

V.

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, With earnest tears I pray, Thous know'st the snares on ev'ry hand— Guide Thou their steps alway.

VI.

When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in Heaven!

* * * * *



LX.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.,

MAUCHLINE.

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.)

[Verse seems to have been the natural language of Burns. The Master Tootie whose skill he records, lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows: he was an artful and contriving person, great in bargaining and intimate with all the professional tricks by which old cows are made to look young, and six-pint hawkies pass for those of twelve.]

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786.

I.

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty, To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M'Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An' wad ha'e done't aff han': But lest he learn the callan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him, Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin' lies about them; As lieve then, I'd have then, Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere.

II.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, An' bout a house that's rude an' rough The boy might learn to swear; But then, wi' you, he'll be sae taught, An' get sic fair example straught, I havena ony fear. Ye'll catechize him every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' Hell; An' gar him follow to the kirk— —Ay when ye gang yoursel'. If ye then, maun be then Frae hame this comin' Friday; Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, The orders wi' your lady.

III.

My word of honour I hae gien, In Paisley John's, that night at e'n, To meet the Warld's worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An' name the airles[56] an' the fee, In legal mode an' form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him; An' if a Devil be at a', In faith he's sure to get him. To phrase you, an' praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray'r still, you share still, Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 56: The airles—earnest money.]

* * * * *



LXI.

TO MR. M'ADAM,

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN.

[It seems that Burns, delighted with the praise which the Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses,—probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Woodburn, his steward,—poured out this little unpremeditated natural acknowledgment.]

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud; See wha tak's notice o' the bard I lap and cry'd fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million: I'll cock my nose aboon them a'— I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel', To grant your high protection: A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, Is ay a blest infection.

Tho' by his[57] banes who in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy! On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand ay.—

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' many flow'ry simmers! And bless your bonnie lasses baith, I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!

And GOD bless young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry! And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 57: Diogenes.]

* * * * *



LXII.

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is generally believed to have been William Simpson, the schoolmaster of Ochiltree: the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extinguished half the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the amazed dominie

"Strangely fidge and fyke."

It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.]

What ails ye now, ye lousie b——h, To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch, Your bodkin's bauld, I didna suffer ha'f sae much Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, An' jag-the-flae.

King David o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief, As fill'd his after life wi' grief, An' bluidy rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, My wicked rhymes, an' druken rants, I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts An unco' slip yet, An' snugly sit among the saunts At Davie's hip get.

But fegs, the Session says I maun Gae fa' upo' anither plan, Than garrin lasses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither's ban Afore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sport, How I did wi' the Session sort, Auld Clinkum at the inner port Cried three times—"Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Ye're blamed for jobbin'."

Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, An' snoov'd away before the Session; I made an open fair confession— I scorn'd to lee; An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me.

* * * * *



LXIII.

TO J. RANKINE.

[With the Laird of Adamhill's personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.]

I am a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa' Ae way or ither. The breaking of ae point, though sma', Breaks a' thegither

I hae been in for't once or twice, And winna say o'er far for thrice, Yet never met with that surprise That broke my rest, But now a rumour's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest.

* * * * *



LXIV.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.

[The bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the composition.]

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, Fell source o' a' my woe an' grief; For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy cursed restriction I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile Amid his hapless victim's spoil: And for thy potence vainly wished, To crush the villain in the dust. For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore, Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

* * * * *



LXV.

A DREAM.

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."

On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following "Address."

[The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.]

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses, On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes! My bardship here, at your levee, On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang, By many a lord an' lady; "God save the King!" 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said ay; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day.

For me, before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, My skill may weel be doubted: But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed: Your royal nest beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted, And now the third part of the string, An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day.

Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation. But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister; Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester; For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges,) That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges; But, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck Beneath your high protection; An' may ye rax corruption's neck, And gie her for dissection! But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gi'es ye? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver; So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-claver: There, him at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver; And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, He was an unco shaver For monie a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug, Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley,[58] stem an' stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An', large upon her quarter, Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty: But sneer na British Boys awa', For kings are unco scant ay; An' German gentles are but sma', They're better just than want ay On onie day.

God bless you a'! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet; But ere the course o' life be thro', It may be bitter sautet: An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 58: Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour]

* * * * *



LXVI.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

[This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition: Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it: "Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the 'poor inhabitant' it is supposed to be inscribed that

'Thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name!'

Who but himself—himself anticipating the but too probable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a confession at once devout, poetical, and human—a history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer, than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized and that the record was authentic?"]

Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause—and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend—whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know, prudent, cautious self-control, Is wisdom's root.

* * * * *



LXVII.

THE TWA DOGS.

A TALE.

[Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed me, that the Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, when the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, said, "The Address to the Deil" and "The Holy Fair" were grand things, but it would be as well to have a calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on his way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of "Wee Johnnie." On the 17th February Burns says to John Richmond, of Mauchline, "I have completed my Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have not shown it to the world." It is difficult to fix the dates with anything like accuracy, to compositions which are not struck off at one heat of the fancy. "Luath was one of the poet's dogs, which some person had wantonly killed," says Gilbert Burns; "but Caesar was merely the creature of the imagination." The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of collies, says that Luath is true to the life, and that many a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark for very joy, when the cottage children were merry.]