But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O, let me steal one liquid kiss! For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

* * * * *



CIV.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

[John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig castle.

"Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! O may no son the father's honour stain, Nor ever daughter give the mother pain."

How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]

O, could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send! Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy— An honest Bard's esteem.

* * * * *



CV.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES,

1 JAN. 1790.

[This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm!]

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste—the more's the pity: Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home: But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new year! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, "You're one year older this important day." If wiser too—he hinted some suggestion, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word—"think!"

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the first blow is ever half the battle: That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! To yon old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important NOW! To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours, And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

* * * * *



CVI.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.—Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin'? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame? For comedy abroad he need nae toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enough in Caledonian story, Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce; How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword, 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; A woman—tho' the phrase may seem uncivil— As able and as cruel as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age: And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would take the muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time, on' lay him on his back! For us and for our stage should ony spier, "Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here!" My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, We have the honour to belong to you! We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, But like good withers, shore before ye strike.— And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, For a' the patronage and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks: God help us! we're but poor—ye'se get but thanks.

* * * * *



CVII.

SKETCH.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again: I see the old, bald-pated follow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer; Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver? "Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion? "The passing moment's all we rest on!" Rest on—for what? what do we here? Or why regard the passing year? Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more? A few days more—a few years must— Repose us in the silent dust. Then is it wise to damp our bliss? Yes—all such reasonings are amiss! The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies: That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight: That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone; Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woeful night.—

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, On this poor being all depends, Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die.—

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

* * * * *



CVIII.

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO

CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.]

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And, faith, to me 'twas really new! How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin'; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks: Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt: If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'; How libbet Italy was singin'; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss: Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game: How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin'; Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in: How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a—s yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser.— A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair'd of. So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you!

Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790.

* * * * *



CIX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM;[76]

A SATIRE.

[FIRST VERSION.]

[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the Standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with reluctance.]

Orthodox, orthodox, Wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast Has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac,[77] Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John[78] is still deaf To the church's relief, And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.

D'rymple mild,[80] D'rymple mild, Thro' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must hav ye, For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Rumble John,[81] Rumble John, Mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the danm'd.

Simper James,[82] Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head That the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney,[83] Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evil await? Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Though yo can do little skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster,[85] Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits; Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose,[86] Jamy Goose, Ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, For the L—d's haly ark; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie, Fie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side Ye ne'er laid astride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he ——.

Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk, Ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; Ye are rich and look big, But lay by hat and wig, And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence To havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side,[90] Irvine side, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, Of manhood but sum' is your share, Ye've the figure 'tis true, Even your faes will allow, And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,[91] Muirland Jock, When the L—d makes a rock To crush Common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will,[92] Holy Will, There was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye're ta'en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie, E'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 76: This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M'Gill's Essay.]

[Footnote 77: Dr. M'Gill.]

[Footnote 78: John Ballantyne.]

[Footnote 79: Robert Aiken.]

[Footnote 80: Dr. Dalrymple.]

[Footnote 81: Mr. Russell.]

[Footnote 82: Mr. M'Kinlay.]

[Footnote 83: Mr. Moody, of Riccarton.]

[Footnote 84: Mr. Auld of Mauchline.]

[Footnote 85: Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree.]

[Footnote 86: Mr. Young, of Cumnock.]

[Footnote 87: Mr. Peebles, Ayr.]

[Footnote 88: Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.]

[Footnote 89: Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.]

[Footnote 90: Mr. George Smith, of Galston.]

[Footnote 91: Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.]

[Footnote 92: Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.]

* * * * *



CX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

A BALLAD.

[SECOND VERSION.]

[This version is from the papers of Miss Logan, of Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself: "Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire Which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I confess too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too." The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, "A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire."]

I.

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

II.

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, And strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense, Upon any pretence, Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error.

III.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was rash I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John is still deaf, To the church's relief, And orator Bob is its ruin, Town Of Ayr, And orator Bob is its ruin.

IV.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Old Satan must have ye For preaching that three's are an' twa, D'rymple mild, For preaching that three's are an' twa.

V.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin's sons, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead.

VI.

Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like aidle, And roar every note o' the damn'd, Rumble John, And roar every note o' the damn'd.

VII.

Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head, That the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few, Simper James, For puppies like you there's but few.

VIII.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what danger awaits? With a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For Hannibal's just at your gates, Singet Sawnie, For Hannibal's just at your gates.

IX.

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, Ye may slander the book, And the book nought the waur—let me tell you; Tho' ye're rich and look big, Yet lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value, Andrew Gowk, And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value.

X.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, Gie the doctor a volley, Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side, Ye ne'er laid a stride Ye only stood by when he ——, Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he ——.

XI.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, What mean ye? what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence, man, To havins and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie, Wi' people that ken ye nae better.

XII.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, O' hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the doctor's your mark, For the L—d's holy ark, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't, Jamie Goose, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.

XIII.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster, It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass were the king o' the brutes, Davie Bluster, If the ass were the king o' the brutes.

XIV.

Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins; If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit, To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance.

XV.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, O' manhood but sma' is your share; Ye've the figure, it's true, Even our faes maun allow, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI.

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93] Tho' ye downa do skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

XVII.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, Yet were she even tipsy, She could ca' us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

* * * * *

POSTSCRIPT.

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, When your pen can be spar'd, A copy o' this I bequeath, On the same sicker score I mentioned before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 93: Gavin Hamilton.]

* * * * *



CXI.

PEG NICHOLSON.

[These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him on account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on airn; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And rode thro' thick an' thin; But now she's floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest; But now she's flouting down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And the priest he rode her sair; And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was; As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

* * * * *



CXII.

ON

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS

IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered?"

SHAKSPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless heav'nly light!

[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, "I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been universally liked. "In our travelling party," says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, "was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson." Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass, p. 17.]

O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd!

Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, Wi' toddlin' din, Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; Ye whistling plover; An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!— He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels: Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 'Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains: But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, The gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead!

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear: Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide, o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return.

O, Henderson! the man—the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crost that unknown river Life's dreary bound? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around?

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

THE EPITAPH.

Stop, passenger!—my story's brief, And truth I shall relate, man; I tell nae common tale o' grief— For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, A look of pity hither cast— For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart— For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man, Here lies wha weel had won thy praise— For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man, Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'— For Matthew was a kind man!

If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ain— For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, This was thy billie, dam and sire— For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, May dool and sorrow be his lot! For Matthew was a rare man.

* * * * *



CXIII.

THE FIVE CARLINS.

A SCOTS BALLAD.

Tune—Chevy Chase.

[This is a local and political Poem composed on the contest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of Westerhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy personates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of Solway-side, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone: the poet's heart was with the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections: after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whig interest prevailed.]

There were five carlins in the south, They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame.

Not only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands there; And aiblins gowd and honour baith Might be that laddie's share.

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, A dame wi' pride eneugh; And Marjory o' the mony lochs, A carlin auld and teugh.

And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-side; And whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide.

And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, O' gipsey kith an' kin;— Five wighter carlins were na found The south countrie within.

To send a lad to London town, They met upon a day; And mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae.

O mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae; But nae ane could their fancy please, O ne'er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted knight, Bred of a border band; And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weel, And meikle he wad say; And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him gude-day.

The neist cam in a sodger youth, And spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to London town, If sae their pleasure was.

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, Nor meikle speech pretend; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne'er desert his friend.

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir carlins fell; For some had gentlefolks to please, And some wad please themsel'.

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, And she spak up wi' pride, And she wad send the sodger youth, Whatever might betide.

For the auld gudeman o' London court She didna care a pin; But she wad send the sodger youth To greet his eldest son.

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs And wrinkled was her brow; Her ancient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scotch heart was true.

"The London court set light by me— I set as light by them; And I wilt send the sodger lad To shaw that court the same."

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, And swore a deadly aith, Says, "I will send the border-knight Spite o' you carlins baith.

"For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, And fools o' change are fain; But I hae try'd this border-knight, I'll try him yet again."

Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, "Ye weel ken, kimmersa', The auld gudeman o' London court, His back's been at the wa'.

"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup, Is now a fremit wight; But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean,— We'll send the border-knight."

Says black Joan o' Crighton-peel, A carlin stoor and grim,— "The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman, For me may sink or swim.

"For fools will prate o' right and wrang, While knaves laugh in their sleeve; But wha blaws best the horn shall win, I'll spier nae courtier's leave."

So how this mighty plea may end There's naebody can tell: God grant the king, and ilka man, May look weel to himsel'!

* * * * *



CXIV.

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH.

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry's opinions, when he supported the right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness, in 1788.]

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.

Up and waur them a', Jamie, Up and waur them a'; The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't, Ye turncoat Whigs awa'.

The day he stude his country's friend, Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie: Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

But wha is he, his country's boast? Like him there is na twa, Jamie, There's no a callant tents the kye, But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,[94] Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; And Maxwell true o' sterling blue: And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 94: Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector.]

* * * * *



CXV.

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN

SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

["I am too little a man," said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which accompanied this poem, "to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience." This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.]

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlings; And, bent on winning borough towns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding: But left behind him heroes bright, Heroes in Caesarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; Heroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics, To win immortal honour.

M'Murdo[95] and his lovely spouse, (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces: She won each gaping burgess' heart, While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch[96] led a light-arm'd corps, Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder: Glenriddel,[97] skill'd in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory's dark designs, And bar'd the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig[98] who set at nought The wildest savage Tory: And Welsh,[99] who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation! While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 'Mid Lawson's[100] port intrench'd his hold, And threaten'd worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, With these what Tory warriors clos'd. Surpasses my descriving: Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie! Grim Horror grinn'd—pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, And hell mix'd in the brulzie.

As highland craigs by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle: As flames among a hundred woods; As headlong foam a hundred floods; Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before the approaching fellers: The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring: The muffled murtherer[101] of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls, All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. Bold Scrimgeour[102] follows gallant Graham,[103] Auld Covenanters shiver. (Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose! Now death and hell engulph thy foes, Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns, The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But fate the word has spoken: For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas! can do but what they can! The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns, My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs' undoing! That I might greet, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James! Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor! Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave! And Stewart,[104] bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; And Thurlow growl a curse of woe; And Melville melt in wailing! How Fox and Sheridan rejoice! And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar He only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely; So, when the storm the forests rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 95: John M'Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig.]

[Footnote 96: Fergusson of Craigdarroch.]

[Footnote 97: Riddel of Friars-Carse.]

[Footnote 98: Provost Staig of Dumfries.]

[Footnote 99: Sheriff Welsh.]

[Footnote 100: A wine merchant in Dumfries.]

[Footnote 101: The executioner of Charles I. was masked.]

[Footnote 102: Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.]

[Footnote 103: Graham, Marquis of Montrose.]

[Footnote 104: Stewart of Hillside.]

* * * * *



CXVI.

ON

CAPTAIN GROSE'S

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE

ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

[This "fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armor of his own and other countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social "board of Glenriddel," for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humourous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal.]

Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it: A chiel's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright, That's he, mark weel— And wow! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L—d save's! colleaguin' At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, And you deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight b——s!

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the—Antiquarian trade, I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Afore the flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass; A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg: The knife that nicket Abel's craig He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gully.—

But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he, Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him; And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!— Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca' thee; I'd take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

* * * * *



CXVII.

WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER,

ENCLOSING

A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE.

[Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary memoranda, respecting certain ruins in Kyle, and enclosed them in a sheet of a paper to Cardonnel, a northern antiquary. As his mind teemed with poetry he could not, as he afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass of sending a rhyming inquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the condoling inquiry over the North—

"Is he slain by Highlan' bodies? And eaten like a wether-haggis?"]

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? Igo and ago, If he's amang his friends or foes? Iram, coram, dago.

Is he south or is he north? Igo and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth? Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highlan' bodies? Igo and ago, And eaten like a wether-haggis? Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane? Igo and ago, Or haudin' Sarah by the wame? Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the L—d be near him! Igo and ago, As for the deil, he daur na steer him! Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit the enclosed letter, Igo and ago, Which will oblige your humble debtor, Iram, coram, dago.

So may he hae auld stanes in store, Igo and ago, The very stanes that Adam bore, Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession, Igo and ago, The coins o' Satan's coronation! Iram, coram, dago.

* * * * *



CXVIII.

TAM O' SHANTER.

A TALE.

"Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke."

GAWIN DOUGLAS

[This is a West-country legend, embellished by genius. No other Poem in our language displays such variety of power, in the same number of lines. It was written as an inducement to Grose to admit Alloway-Kirk into his work on the Antiquities of Scotland; and written with such ecstasy, that the poet shed tears in the moments of composition. The walk in which it was conceived, on the braes of Ellisland, is held in remembrance in the vale, and pointed out to poetic inquirers: while the scene where the poem is laid—the crumbling ruins—the place where the chapman perished in the snow—the tree on which the poor mother of Mungo ended her sorrows—the cairn where the murdered child was found by the hunters—and the old bridge over which Maggie bore her astonished master when all hell was in pursuit, are first-rate objects of inspection and inquiry in the "Land of Burns." "In the inimitable tale of Tam o' Shanter," says Scott "Burns has left us sufficient evidence of his ability to combine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions."]

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak' the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou' for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious; Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious; The Souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:[105] The storm without might rair and rustle— Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The de'il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.—

By this time he was cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels: A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— Coffins stood round, like open presses; That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light— By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:[106] Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name would be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans A' plump and strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen, Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was a winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie—

Ah! little kenn'd the reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strung,) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd; And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: 'Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane[107] of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear— Remember Tam O' Shanter's mare.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 105: VARIATION.

The cricket raised its cheering cry, The kitten chas'd its tail in joy.]

[Footnote 106: VARIATION.

Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, Wi' lies seem'd like a beggar's clout; And priests' hearts rotten black as muck, Lay stinking vile, in every neuk.]

[Footnote 107: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger there may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.]

* * * * *



CXIX.

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

TO THE

PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

[This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, "To the Right honorable the Earl of Brendalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M. ——, of A——s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—LIBERTY." The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.]

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes—as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and A——s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight; I doubt na! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water; Then up among the lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please; Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin'; May set their Highland bluid a ranklin'; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed— Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire! Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance, To cowe the rebel generation, An' save the honour o' the nation? They an' be d——d! what right hae they To meat or sleep, or light o' day? Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear! Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna' say but they do gaylies; They lay aside a' tender mercies, An' tirl the hallions to the birses; Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; But smash them! crash them a' to spails! An' rot the dyvors i' the jails! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober! The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd! An' if the wives an' dirty brats E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese, Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, The langest thong, the fiercest growler, An' gar the tattered gypsies pack Wi' a' their bastards on their back! Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you, An' in my house at hame to greet you; Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, The benmost neuk beside the ingle, At my right han' assigned your seat 'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,— Or if you on your station tarrow, Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; An' till ye come—Your humble rervant,

BEELZEBUB.

June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.

* * * * *



CXX.

TO

JOHN TAYLOR.

[Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had "never been well paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse."]

With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying,

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol's business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster; My Pegasus is poorly shod— I'll pay you like my master.

ROBERT BURNS.

Ramages, 3 o'clock, (no date.)

* * * * *



CXXI.

LAMENT

OF

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

[The poet communicated this "Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives.]

I.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea: Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.

II.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis wild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

III.

Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang!

IV.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands And never-ending care.

V.

But as for thee, thou false woman! My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae! The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.

VI.

My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend Remember him for me!

VII.

O! soon, to me, may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave!

* * * * *



CXXII.

THE WHISTLE.

["As the authentic prose history," says Burns, "of the 'Whistle' is curious, I shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scotch Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After man overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.'

"Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.—On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field."

The jovial contest took place in the dining-room of Friars-Carse, in the presence of the Bard, who drank bottle and bottle about with them, and seemed quite disposed to take up the conqueror when the day dawned.]

I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda,[108] still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— "This whistle's your challenge—to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell; The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,[109] And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe—or his friend, Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field, And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; Bur for wine and for welcome not more known to fame Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautions and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend? Though fate said—a hero shall perish in light; So up rose bright Phoebus—and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink;— "Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink; But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 108: See Ossian's Carie-thura.]

[Footnote 109: See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides]

* * * * *



CXXIII.

ELEGY

ON

MISS BURNET,

OF MONBODDO.

[This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly Burnet, as Burns loved to call her, was daughter to the odd and the elegant, the clever and the whimsical Lord Monboddo. "In domestic circumstances," says Robert Chambers, "Monboddo was particularly unfortunate. His wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His son, a promising boy, in whose education he took great delight, was likewise snatched from his affections by a premature death; and his second daughter, in personal loveliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off by consumption, when only twenty-five years old." Her name was Elizabeth.]

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In richest ore the brightest jewel set! In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, Ye cease to charm—Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd; Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, And not a muse in honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres; But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; So leck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.

* * * * *



CXXIV.

LAMENT

FOR

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

[Burns lamented the death of this kind and accomplished nobleman with melancholy sincerity: he moreover named one of his sons for him: he went into mourning when he heard of his death, and he sung of his merits in a strain not destined soon to lose the place it has taken among the verses which record the names of the noble and the generous. He died January 30, 1791, in the forty-second year of his age. James Cunningham was succeeded in his title by his brother, and with him expired, in 1796, the last of a race, whose name is intimately connected with the History of Scotland, from the days of Malcolm Canmore.]

I.

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craggy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

II.

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang.

III.

"Ye scattered birds that faintly sing, The reliques of the vernal quire! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me.

IV.

"I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hold of earth is gane: Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room.

V.

"I've seen sae mony changefu' years, On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

VI.

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay; The flow'r amang our barons bold, His country's pride! his country's stay— In weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled.

VII.

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay— Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard Though brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.

VIII.

"In poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involve me round; Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.

IX.

"O! why has worth so short a date? While villains ripen fray with time; Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! Why did I live to see that day? A day to me so full of woe!— O had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low.

X.

"The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!"

* * * * *



CXXV.

LINES

SENT TO

SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART.,

OF WHITEFOORD.

WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

[Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literature, and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes of Burns.]

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, lov'd; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd, We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

* * * * *



CXXVI.

ADDRESS

TO

THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAYS.

["Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September: for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue." Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down his sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and traverse one of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of the bad bust of on excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's absence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst not venture upon—but he sent this Poem.

The poet's manuscript affords the following interesting variations:—

"While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, A carpet for her youthful feet:

"While Summer, with a matron's grace, Walks stately in the cooling shade, And oft delighted loves to trace The progress of the spiky blade:

"While Autumn, benefactor kind, With age's hoary honours clad, Surveys, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed."]

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes AEolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade:

While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

* * * * *



CXXVII.

TO

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,

OF FINTRAY.

[By this Poem Burns prepared the way for his humble request to be removed to a district more moderate in its bounds than one which extended over ten country parishes, and exposed him both to fatigue and expense. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due time attended to, for Fintray was a gentleman at once kind and considerate.]

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg: Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;) Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain: The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground: Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell; Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug; Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts;— But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child—the Bard! A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still; No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur;— In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from every side. Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics!—appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame. Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes! He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, The hapless poet flounders on through life; Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast: By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.

O dullness! portion of the truly blest! Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care." So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears:) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r!— Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

* * * * *



CXXVIII.

TO

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,

OF FINTRAY.

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

[Graham of Fintray not only obtained for the poet the appointment in Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but he also removed him, as he wished, to a better district; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fear of want.]

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! And all ye many sparkling stars of night; If aught that giver from my mind efface; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, Only to number out a villain's years!

* * * * *



CXXIX.

A VISION.

[This Vision of Liberty descended on Burns among the magnificent ruins of the College of Lincluden, which stand on the junction of the Cluden and the Nith, a short mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision; perhaps, he dared not in those yeasty times venture on the song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The scene is chiefly copied from nature: the swellings of the Nith, the howling of the fox on the hill, and the cry of the owl, unite at times with the natural beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins were a favourite haunt of the poet.]

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower And tells the midnight moon her care;

The winds were laid, the air was still, The Stars they shot along the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,[109A] Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, And, by the moon-beam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.[109B]

Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy—'Libertie!'

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear; But, oh! it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear.

He sang wi' joy the former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times; But what he said it was nae play,— I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

[Footnote 109A: VARIATIONS.

To join yon river on the Strath.]

[Footnote 109B: VARIATIONS.

Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A storm and stalwart ghaist appear'd.]

* * * * *



CXXX.

TO

JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY,

ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

[John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom these verses are addressed, though descended from the Earls of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claimed merit only from a judgment sound and clear—a knowledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a refusal. He loved to meet Burns: not that he either cared for or comprehended poetry; but he was pleased with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seventy-one years old when these verses were written, and survived the poet twenty years.]

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf This natal morn; I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou metes three score eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure—

But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, And then the Deil he daur na steer ye; Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye; For me, shame fa' me, If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While BURNS they ca' me!

Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792.

* * * * *



CXXXI.

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE

ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT,

Nov. 26, 1792.

[Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses whom Williamson, the manager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumour added, perhaps maliciously, levities of action. The Rights of Man had been advocated by Paine, the Rights of Woman by Mary Wolstonecroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regeneration of the world. The line

"But truce with kings and truce with constitutions,"

got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audience. The words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on them.]

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of state must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First on the sexes' intermix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right—but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it—'tis decorum.— There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough, rude man had haughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred— Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration Most humbly own—'tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life—immortal love.— Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares— When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions, Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! the majesty of woman!

* * * * *



CXXXII.

MONODY,

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.

[The heroine Of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park: a lady young and gay, much of a wit, and something of a poetess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some "epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes designated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the poet, written with great beauty and feeling.]

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.

We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

* * * * *

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem

* * * * *



CXXXIII.

EPISTLE

FROM

ESOPUS TO MARIA.

[Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition: it is printed from the Poet's own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to contempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her