 |
Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, Was keepit for his honour's pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride—nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin', Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,[59] Was made lang syne—Lord know how lang.
He was a gash an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Ay gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, Whyles mice and moudiewarts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation.
CAESAR.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; He rises when he likes himsel'; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; He draws a bonnie silken purse As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a' the lan'; An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension.
LUATH.
Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an' rape.
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented: An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CAESAR.
But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L—d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock.
I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash: He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches!
LUATH.
They're no sae wretched's ane wad think; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're ay in less or mair provided; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side; An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak' the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests; Wi' kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, o' ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' thro' the house,— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin', For Britain's guid his saul indentin'—
CAESAR.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it! For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' saying, aye or no's they bid him, At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl, To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'.
There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh—re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles Then bouses drumly German water, To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras. For Britain's guid!—for her destruction Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
LUATH.
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last!
O, would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' countra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin' o' their timmer, Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.
CAESAR.
L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro' winters cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsels to vex them; An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless; An' even their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping thro' public places, There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches; Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' sight, An' darker gloaming brought the night: The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 59: Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.]
* * * * *
LXVIII.
LINES
ON
MEETING WITH LORD DAER.
["The first time I saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, "was on the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his work was known to the public." Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary's Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.]
This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord.
I've been at druken writers' feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests, Wi' rev'rence be it spoken: I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty squireships of the quorum Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi' a Lord—stand out, my shin! A Lord—a Peer—an Earl's son!— Up higher yet, my bonnet! And sic a Lord!—lang Scotch ells twa, Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', As I look o'er my sonnet.
But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, And how he star'd and stammer'd, When goavan, as if led wi' branks, An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer'd.
I sidling shelter'd in a nook, An' at his lordship steal't a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee, An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon.
I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, The gentle pride, the lordly state, The arrogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman.
Then from his lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another; Nae honest worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother.
* * * * *
LXIX.
ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.
["I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend Chalmers, "which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, 'Fair B——,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The "Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.]
I.
Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
II.
Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labour plies; There Architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.
III.
Thy sons, Edina! social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!
IV.
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine!
V.
There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar, Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.
VI.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!
VII.
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply, my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!
VIII.
Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the hanks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
* * * * *
LXX.
EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.
[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.]
Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But tak' it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed.
When idly goavan whyles we saunter Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, Some black bog-hole, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O' this wild warl', Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon O' cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day Nae "lente largo" in the play, But "allegretto forte" gay Harmonious flow: A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey— Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery gang Wha dearly like a jig or sang, An' never think o' right an' wrang By square an' rule, But as the clegs o' feeling stang Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace— Their tuneless hearts! May fireside discords jar a base To a' their parts!
But come, your hand, my careless brither, I' th' ither warl', if there's anither, An' that there is I've little swither About the matter; We check for chow shall jog thegither, I'se ne'er bid better.
We've faults and failings—granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly For our grand fa'; But stilt, but still, I like them dearly— God bless them a'!
Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers, When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, The witching curs'd delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnan spite.
But by yon moon!—and that's high swearin'— An' every star within my hearin'! An' by her een wha was a dear ane! I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it, I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, Ance to the Indies I were wonted, Some cantraip hour, By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, Then, vive l'amour!
Faites mes baisemains respectueuse, To sentimental sister Susie, An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, Be't light, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park.
ROBERT BURNS.
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
* * * * *
LXXI.
THE BRIGS OF AYR,
A POEM,
INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR.
[Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causeway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr: he wrote it for the second edition of his poems, and in compliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. Ballantyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: others of his friends figure in the scene: Montgomery's courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.]
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush: The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field— Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose? No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward! Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace; When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.
* * * * *
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds, an' flow'rs delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, And down by Simpson's[60] wheel'd the left about: (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock,[61] had number'd two, And Wallace Tow'r[61] had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swol'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e: The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.—
When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the gos[62] drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles gothic in his face: He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;— It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he! Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en:—
AULD BRIG.
I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see; There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.
NEW BRIG.
Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense; Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet— Your ruin'd formless bulk o' stane en' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream,[63] Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.
AULD BRIG.
Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!— This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide; And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal[64] draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; While crashing ice born on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; And from Glenbuck,[65] down to the Ratton-key,[66] Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea— Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture's noble art is lost!
NEW BRIG.
Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L—d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird or beast; Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection! And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!
AULD BRIG.
O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners: Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'rate race! Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story! Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d—d new Brigs and Harbours!
NEW BRIG.
Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through; As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle: But under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth 'a citizen,' a term o' scandal; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them
* * * * *
What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright: Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.— O had M'Lauchlan,[67] thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard, Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.
The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc'd in years; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn; Then Winter's time-bleach'd looks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 60: A noted tavern at the auld Brig end.]
[Footnote 61: The two steeples.]
[Footnote 62: The gos-hawk or falcon.]
[Footnote 63: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.]
[Footnote 64: The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.]
[Footnote 65: The source of the river Ayr.]
[Footnote 66: A small landing-place above the large key.]
[Footnote 67: A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.]
* * * * *
LXXII.
ON
THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.,
OF ARNISTON,
LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION.
[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by the following surly note:—"The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 1834.]
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! A loss these evil days can ne'er repair! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod; Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of men: See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on poverty his cruel eyes; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, To you I sing my grief-inspired strains: Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.
* * * * *
LXXIII.
ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER
THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.
BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND
OF THE AUTHOR'S.
[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]
Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung: So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was wrung.
Were it in the poet's power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella's heart, To give that heart relief!
Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound He gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.
* * * * *
LXXIV.
TO MISS LOGAN,
WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.
JAN. 1, 1787.
[Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the "sentimental sister Susie," of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet's correspondence.]
Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail: I send you more than India boasts In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, perhaps, too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you!
* * * * *
LXXV.
THE AMERICAN WAR.
A FRAGMENT.
[Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were unstatesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration of "Chatham's Boy," called down on him the dusty indignation of the republican Ritson.]
I.
When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man: Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An' did nae less in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man.
II.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man; Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man; But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en'mies a', man.
III.
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, Was kept at Boston ha', man; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man; Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to draw, man: But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.
IV.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man, Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man.
V.
Then Montague, an' Guilford, too, Began to fear a fa', man; And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, The German Chief to thraw, man; For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
VI.
Then Rockingham took up the game, Till death did on him ca', man; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man; Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks, An' bore him to the wa', man.
VII.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair faux pas, man; The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man; An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, "Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"
VIII.
Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, A secret word or twa, man; While slee Dundas arous'd the class, Be-north the Roman wa', man: An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired Bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd "Willie, rise! Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"
IX.
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co., Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man; An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood To make it guid in law, man.
* * * * *
LXXVI.
THE DEAN OF FACULTY.
A NEW BALLAD.
[The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Erskine, and Robert Dundas: and their contention was, as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Faculty of Advocates: Erskine was successful. It is supposed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remembered "the incurable wound which his pride had got" in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Reliques of Burns.]
I.
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry; And dire the discord Langside saw, For beauteous, hapless Mary: But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, Or were more in fury seen, Sir, Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job— Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.—
II.
This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, Among the first was number'd; But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, Commandment tenth remember'd.— Yet simple Bob the victory got, And won his heart's desire; Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, Though the devil p—s in the fire.—
III.
Squire Hal besides had in this case Pretensions rather brassy, For talents to deserve a place Are qualifications saucy; So, their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit's rudeness, Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness.—
IV.
As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight Of a son of Circumcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob's purblind, mental vision: Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet Till for eloquence you hail him, And swear he has the angel met That met the Ass of Balaam.
* * * * *
LXXVII.
TO A LADY,
WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES.
[To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the drinking-glasses alluded to in the verses: they are, it seems, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high festival, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a draught from them of "The blood of Shiraz' scorched vine."]
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses.
And fill them high with generous juice, As generous as your mind; And pledge me in the generous toast— "The whole of human kind!"
"To those who love us!"—second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us!— A third—"to thee and me, love!"
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
TO CLARINDA.
[This is the lady of the drinking-glasses; the Mrs. Mac of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the poet's death, appeared in print without her permission: she obtained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the case of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.]
Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy.
We part—but, by these precious drops That fill thy lovely eyes! No other light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise.
She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?
* * * * *
LXXIX.
VERSES
WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY.
[Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the portrait and Poems of the ill-fated Fergusson, we have not been told. The verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787.]
Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! O thou my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! Why is the bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?
* * * * *
LXXX.
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT,
MONDAY, 16 April, 1787.
[The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had other claims on Burns: he had been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 1802.]
When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted—honest fame; When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow, But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war— Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear! Where every science—every nobler art— That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam; Here History paints, with elegance and force, The tide of Empires' fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, And Harley[68] rouses all the god in man. When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, Can only charm as in the second place,) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge—you're candid to forgive. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet: Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.
O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire: May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 68: The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie.]
* * * * *
LXXXI.
SKETCH.
[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call "The Poet's Progress." He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. "The Fragment forms," said he, "the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching." It is probable that the professor's response was not favourable for we hear no more of the Poem.]
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets Better than e'er the fairest she he meets: A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour: So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. Much specious lore, but little understood; Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: His solid sense—by inches you must tell. But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
* * * * *
LXXXII.
TO MRS. SCOTT,
OF WAUCHOPE.
[The lady to whom this epistle is addressed was a painter and a poetess: her pencil sketches are said to have been beautiful; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. Taste and poetry belonged to her family; she was the niece of Mrs. Cockburn, authoress of a beautiful variation of The Flowers of the Forest.]
I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An' first could thresh the barn; Or hand a yokin at the pleugh; An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing, The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa.
E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spar'd the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' wrang, Wild floated in my brain; 'Till on that har'st I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous'd the forming strain: I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een That gart my heart-strings tingle: I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing and dashing I feared aye to speak.
Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days, An' we to share in common: The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu' o' your mither: She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her. Ye're wae men, ye're nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; 'Twad please me to the nine. I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, Douce hingin' owre my curple Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial purple. Fareweel then, lang heel then, An' plenty be your fa'; May losses and crosses Ne'er at your hallan ca'.
* * * * *
LXXXIII.
EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.
[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his bookseller. Creech was a person of education and taste; he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and parsimonious, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.]
Selkirk, 13 May, 1787.
Auld chukie Reekie's[69] sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest, Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo'es best, Willie's awa!
O Willie was a witty wight, And had o' things an unco slight; Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, An' trig an' braw: But now they'll busk her like a fright, Willie's awa!
The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd; They durst nae mair than he allow'd, That was a law; We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, Willie's awa!
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, Frae colleges and boarding-schools, May sprout like simmer puddock stools In glen or shaw; He wha could brush them down to mools, Willie's awa!
The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer[70] May mourn their loss wi' doofu' clamour; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a'; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, Willie's awa!
Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and poets pour,[71] And toothy critics by the score In bloody raw! The adjutant o' a' the core, Willie's awa!
Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace As Rome n'er saw; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa!
Poor Burns—e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw; Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', Willie's awa!
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, And Calvin's fock are fit to fell him; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Willie's awa!
Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw; But every joy and pleasure's fled, Willie's awa!
May I be slander's common speech; A text for infamy to preach; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw; When I forget thee! Willie Creech, Tho' far awa!
May never wicked fortune touzle him! May never wicked man bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld's Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 69: Edinburgh.]
[Footnote 70: The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary.]
[Footnote 71: Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast.]
* * * * *
LXXXIV.
THE
HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER
TO THE
NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.
[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: "he threw himself," said the Professor, "on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed." His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]
I.
My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.
II.
The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.
III.
Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As Poet Burns came by, That to a bard I should be seen Wi' half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was he shor'd me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.
IV.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel', Worth gaun a mile to see.
V.
Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.
VI.
The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir: The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow.
VII.
This, too, a covert shall insure To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat From prone-descending show'rs.
VIII.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care. The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace.
IX.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain gray; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
X.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows' wat'ry bed! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embow'ring thorn.
XI.
So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band, Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—"Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses?"
* * * * *
LXXXV.
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL
IN LOCH-TURIT.
[When Burns wrote these touching lines, he was staying with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours. Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.]
Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?— Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free: Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave: Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels: But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, Glories in his heart humane— And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave.
* * * * *
LXXXVI.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE
INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.
[The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Breadalbane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: has some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.]
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious I pursue, 'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.— The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam—
* * * * *
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—
* * * * *
Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter—rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.
* * * * *
LXXXVII.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS,
NEAR LOCH-NESS
[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it, the Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another fall further up the stream, very wild and savage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and agitated mist.]
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds, As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep-recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid cauldron boils—
* * * * *
LXXXVIII.
POETICAL ADDRESS
TO MR. W. TYTLER,
WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.
[When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Tytlers through three generations: an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poet's handwriting.]
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.
Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne, My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th' Electoral stem? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.
But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter.
I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.
* * * * *
LXXXIX.
WRITTEN IN
FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,
ON THE BANKS OF NITH.
JUNE. 1788.
[FIRST COPY.]
[The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, has enabled me to present the reader with the rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first-fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nithside.]
Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Day, how rapid in its flight— Day, how few must see the night; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lower. Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor gleam; Fame, a restless idle dream: Pleasures, insects on the wing Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring; Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own; Those that would the bloom devour, Crush the locusts—save the flower. For the future be prepar'd, Guard wherever thou canst guard; But, thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past, give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care: Keep the name of man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart Him whose wondrous work thou art; Keep His goodness still in view, Thy trust—and thy example, too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! Quod the Beadsman on Nithside.
* * * * *
XC.
WRITTEN IN
FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,
ON NITHSIDE.
DECEMBER, 1788.
[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies in his own handwriting: I have seen three. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Ellisland; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the diamond pencil of the Bard. On Riddel's death, the Hermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay: I remember in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.]
Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. Fear not clouds will always lour. As Youth and Love with sprightly dance Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair: Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.
As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits would'st thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold, While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among.
As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate, with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate, Is not—Art thou high or low? Did thy fortune ebb or flow? Wast thou cottager or king? Peer or peasant?—no such thing! Did many talents gild thy span? Or frugal nature grudge thee one? Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to vice is giv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, There solid self-enjoyment lies; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.
Thus, resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Night, where dawn shall never break, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before.
Stranger, go! Hea'vn be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nithside.
* * * * *
XCI.
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL,
OF GLENRIDDEL.
EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.
[Captain Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was Burns's neighbour, at Ellisland: he was a kind, hospitable man, and a good antiquary. The "News and Review" which he sent to the poet contained, I have heard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with his usual strong sense, set the proper value upon all contemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless "chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his peers, and where were such to be found?]
Ellisland, Monday Evening.
Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming; The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir, But of meet or unmeet in a fabric complete, I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.
My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, Sir, should know it!
* * * * *
XCII.
A MOTHER'S LAMENT
FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.
["The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of the verses now before me, "was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. Stewart, of Afton."]
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd my darling's heart; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid: So fell the pride of all my hopes, My age's future shade.
The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young; So I, for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now, fond I bare my breast, O, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest!
* * * * *
XCIII.
FIRST EPISTLE
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.
OF FINTRAY.
[In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says "accompanying a request." What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman: for this the poet had qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in due time: his division was extensive, and included ten parishes.]
When Nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man.
Then first she calls the useful many forth; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth: Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net; The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, Law, physic, politics, and deep divines: Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls.
The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it—a Poet. Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, Admir'd and prais'd—and there the homage ends: A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find; And, to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great, A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives—tho' humbly takes enough; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!" Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) Who make poor will do wait upon I should— We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, Heaven's attribute distinguished—to bestow! Whose arms of love would grasp the human race: Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; But there are such who court the tuneful nine— Heavens! should the branded character be mine! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! Seek not the proofs in private life to find; Pity the best of words should be but wind! So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, They persecute you all your future days! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny fist assume the plough again; The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift! I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
* * * * *
XCIV.
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.
[I found these lines written with a pencil in one of Burns's memorandum-books: he said he had just composed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed in nothing from the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.]
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;[72] Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd well,[73] Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.[74]
Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.—
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!" With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh!
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name! No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"— She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 72: The King's Park, at Holyrood-house.]
[Footnote 73: St. Anthony's Well.]
[Footnote 74: St. Anthony's Chapel.]
* * * * *
XCV.
EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER.
[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the poet's Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems: he has been dead many years: the Epistle was recovered, luckily, from his papers, and printed for the first time in 1834.]
In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, Nor limpet in poetic shackles: A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it—for in vain I leuk.— The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal: Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.[75] Jenny, my Pegasean pride! Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And ay a westlin leuk she throws, While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose! Was it for this, wi' canny care, Thou bure the bard through many a shire? At howes or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled?— O had I power like inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his godship's face; For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.— Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, And nought but peat reek i' my head, How can I write what ye can read?— Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, Ye'll find me in a better tune; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
ROBERT BURNS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 75: His mare.]
* * * * *
XCVI.
LINES
INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER
A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE.
[Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glencairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ellisland: beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed: a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is now in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years; he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with whom this ancient race was closed.]
Whose is that noble dauntless brow? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire? Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works inspire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian seraph eyes with awe The noble ward he loves— Among th' illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye— It dwells upon Glencairn.
* * * * *
XCVII.
ELEGY
ON THE YEAR 1788
A SKETCH.
[This Poem was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. The poet loved to indulge in such sarcastic sallies: it is full of character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty times.]
For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die—for that they're born, But oh! prodigious to reflec'! A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint a-head, An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead; The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks; The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil: The tither's something dour o' treadin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden— Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet, For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, For some o' you ha'e tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en, What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again.
Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel' a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man! As muckle better as ye can.
January 1, 1789.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.
["I had intended," says Burns to Creech, 30th May, 1789, "to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent toothache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense." The poetic Address to the Toothache seems to belong to this period.]
My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o' a' diseases, Ay mocks our groan!
Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.
O' a' the num'rous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bears't the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!
O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!— Gie' a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache.
* * * * *
XCIX.
ODE
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
MRS. OSWALD,
OF AUCHENCRUIVE.
[The origin of this harsh effusion shows under what feelings Burns sometimes wrote. He was, he says, on his way to Ayrshire, one stormy day in January, and had made himself comfortable, in spite of the snow-drift, over a smoking bowl, at an inn at the Sanquhar, when in wheeled the whole funeral pageantry of Mrs. Oswald. He was obliged to mount his horse and ride for quarters to New Cumnock, where, over a good fire, he penned, in his very ungallant indignation, the Ode to the lady's memory. He lived to think better of the name.]
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?
STROPHE.
View the wither'd beldam's face— Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose. See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took—but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
ANTISTROPHE.
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
EPODE.
And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.
* * * * *
C.
FRAGMENT INSCRIBED
TO THE RIGHT HON. C.J. FOX.
[It was late in life before Burns began to think very highly of Fox: he had hitherto spoken of him rather as a rattler of dice, and a frequenter of soft company, than as a statesman. As his hopes from the Tories vanished, he began to think of the Whigs: the first did nothing, and the latter held out hopes; and as hope, he said was the cordial of the human heart, he continued to hope on.]
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction— I sing: if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I—let the critics go whistle!
But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right;— A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, For using thy name offers fifty excuses.
Good L—d, what is man? for as simple he looks, Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks; With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours; Mankind are his show-box—a friend, would you know him? Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him; For spite of his fine theoretic positions, Mankind is a science defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe; Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind, As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd man, No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, Nor even two different shades of the same, Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.
But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse: Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor poet, Your courage much more than your prudence you show it; In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle; Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back-stairs, and by G—he would steal 'em. Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em; It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him.
* * * * *
CI.
ON SEEING
A WOUNDED HARE
LIMP BY ME,
WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT.
[This Poem is founded on fact. A young man of the name of Thomson told me—quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem—that while Burns lived at Ellisland—he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twilight was feeding on his father's wheat-bread. The poet, on observing the hare come bleeding past him, "was in great wrath," said Thomson, "and cursed me, and said little hindered him from throwing me into the Nith; and he was able enough to do it, though I was both young and strong." The boor of Nithside did not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, used the Poem: when Burns read his remarks he said, "Gregory is a good man, but he crucifies me!"]
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field! The bitter little that of life remains: No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
* * * * *
CII.
TO DR. BLACKLOCK,
IN ANSWER TO A LETTER.
[This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man: he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, promote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life.—Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, were his three favourites.]
Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the heron south! And never drink be near his drouth! He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter: I lippen'd to the chief in trouth, And bade nae better.
But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on, And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on E'en tried the body.
But what dy'e think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a gauger—Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye'll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.
Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.
Lord help me thro' this warld o' care! I'm weary sick o't late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers: But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers?
Come, firm Resolve, take then the van, Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e'er tread clay! And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I'm yours for ay,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
CIII.
DELIA.
AN ODE.
[These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's song, by a Person of Quality. "These lines are beyond you," he added: "the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London." Burns mused a moment, then recited "Delia, an Ode."]
Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose, But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flow'r-enamoured busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;— |
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