"Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;"

and has a passing hit at her

"Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."]

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.

"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!" 'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear! Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make they hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled, By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms, In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria's prying eye. Blest Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress, Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,[110] And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; The crafty colonel[111] leaves the tartan'd lines, For other wars, where he a hero shines; The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head; Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display That veni, vidi, vici, is his way; The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; Though there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,— And pours his vengeance in the burning line, Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine; The idiot strum of vanity bemused, And even th' abuse of poesy abused! Who call'd her verse, a parish workhouse made For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd?)

A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell? Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, The vices also, must they club their curse? Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls? Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit? Who says, that fool alone is not thy due, And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true? Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, And dare the war with all of woman born: For who can write and speak as thou and I? My periods that deciphering defy, And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 110: Captain Gillespie.]

[Footnote 111: Col. Macdouall.]

* * * * *



CXXXIV.

POEM

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

[Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Chambers declares that he "has scarcely a doubt that it is not by the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his, for I have no doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers of the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the fourth, and the concluding verses bear the Burns' stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting: they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers has compared them, as little as the cry of the eagle resembles the chirp of the wren.]

Hail Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang, To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters; I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan— There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever!

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love; That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.

* * * * *



CXXXV.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A

THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.

[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.]

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain: See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank Thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away.

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

* * * * *



CXXXVI.

SONNET,

ON THE

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.

OF GLENRIDDEL,

APRIL, 1794.

[The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland, been his neighbor, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what the rustics of the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," is now scattered or neglected: I have heard a competent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland.]

No more, ye warblers of the wood—no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

* * * * *



CXXXVII.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MRS. R——'S BIRTHDAY.

[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart which his verses "On a lady famed for her caprice" inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Riddel.]

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,— What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow: My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; 'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

* * * * *



CXXXVIII.

LIBERTY.

A FRAGMENT.

[Fragment of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode commemorating the achievement of liberty for America under the directing genius of Washington and Franklin.]

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, Nor give the coward secret breath. Is this the power in freedom's war, That wont to bid the battle rage? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!

* * * * *



CXXXIX.

VERSES

TO A YOUNG LADY.

[This young lady was the daughter of the poet's friend, Graham of Fintray; and the gift alluded to was a copy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs: a work which owes many attractions to the lyric genius of Burns.]

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift;—tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, As modest want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

* * * * *



CXL.

THE VOWELS.

A TALE.

[Burns admired genius adorned by learning; but mere learning without genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him with writing obscure language in questionable grammar, he said, "Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker between vowels and consonants!"]

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows; upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to account.—

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight! His twisted head look'd backward on the way, And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!

Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face! That name! that well-worn name, and all his own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne! The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; And next the title following close behind, He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply: The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art; So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

* * * * *



CXLI.

VERSES

TO JOHN RANKINE.

[With the "rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adamhill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed, that those lines were suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged recruits:—

"I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat!"]

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, "By G—d, I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this d—d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, "L—d G—d!" quoth he, "I have it now, There's just the man I want, i' faith!" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

* * * * *



CXLII.

ON SENSIBILITY.

TO

MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP,

OF DUNLOP.

[These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments contained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to,

"Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell!"

and so transferring the whole to another heroine.]

Sensibility how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell: But distress with horrors arming, Thou host also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray: Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the woodlark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys: Hapless bird! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feeling can bestow; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

* * * * *



CXLIII.

LINES,

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD

OFFENDED.

[The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repentant strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary Wolstonecroft and her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously offended.]

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send; (Not moony madness more astray;) Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah, why should I such scenes outlive Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

* * * * *



CXLIV.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT

NIGHT.

[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.]

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted! "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, "I know your bent—these are no laughing times: Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears, Dissolve in pause—and sentimental tears; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"

I could no more—askance the creature eyeing, D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz—nay more, the world shall know it; And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet! Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief; I also think—so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive— To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face—the beldam witch! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, us the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck— Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at their follies—laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder—that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

* * * * *



CXLV.

ON

SEEING MISS FONTENELLE

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER.

[The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of her personations he alludes: she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.]

Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to nature, Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning nature, torturing art; Loves and graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'dst act a part.

R. B.

* * * * *



CXLVI.

TO CHLORIS.

[Chloris was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and sorrow were strongly mingled in her early history: that she did not look so lovely in other eyes as she did in those of Burns is well known: but he had much of the taste of an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the harmony of her motion, as much as he did her blooming face and sweet voice.]

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing muse.

Since thou in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the world adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lower; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.)

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow, On conscious honour's part; And, dearest gift of heaven below, Thine friendship's truest heart.

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, With every muse to rove: And doubly were the poet blest, These joys could he improve.

* * * * *



CXLVII.

POETICAL INSCRIPTION

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE.

[It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French Revolution to plant trees of Liberty, and raise altars to Independence. Heron of Kerroughtree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage in an election contest, and these noble lines served the purpose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on freedom.]

Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here.

* * * * *



CXLVIII.

THE HERON BALLADS.

[BALLAD FIRST.]

[This is the first of several party ballads which Burns wrote to serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which he was opposed, first, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and secondly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a personal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle with the strains in which the poet recorded the contest between Miller and Johnstone. They are printed here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will be displeased, and some will smile.]

I.

Whom will you send to London town, To Parliament and a' that? Or wha in a' the country round The best deserves to fa' that? For a' that, and a' that; Thro Galloway and a' that; Where is the laird or belted knight That best deserves to fa' that?

II.

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, And wha is't never saw that? Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets And has a doubt of a' that? For a' that, and a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that, The independent patriot, The honest man, an' a' that.

III.

Tho' wit and worth in either sex, St. Mary's Isle can shaw that; Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, And weel does Selkirk fa' that. For a' that, and a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that! The independent commoner Shall be the man for a' that.

IV.

But why should we to nobles jouk, And it's against the law that; For why, a lord may be a gouk, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that! A lord may be a lousy loun, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that.

V.

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that; But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, A man we ken, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that! For we're not to be bought an' sold Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that.

VI.

Then let us drink the Stewartry, Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, Our representative to be, For weel he's worthy a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that, A House of Commons such as he, They would be blest that saw that.

* * * * *



CXLIX.

THE HERON BALLADS.

[BALLAD SECOND.]

[In this ballad the poet gathers together, after the manner of "Fy! let us a' to the bridal," all the leading electors of the Stewartry, who befriended Heron, or opposed him; and draws their portraits in the colours of light or darkness, according to the complexion of their politics. He is too severe in most instances, and in some he is venomous. On the Earl of Galloway's family, and on the Murrays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on Bushby of Tinwaldowns, he pours his hottest satire. But words which are unjust, or undeserved, fall off their victims like rain-drops from a wild-duck's wing. The Murrays of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of Prince Charles Stewart: from such infamy the family is wholly free: the traitor, Murray, was of a race now extinct; and while he was betraying the cause in which so much noble and gallant blood was shed, Murray of Broughton and Caillie was performing the duties of an honourable and loyal man: he was, like his great-grandson now, representing his native district in parliament.]

THE ELECTION.

I.

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin' there; For Murray's[112] light horse are to muster, And O, how the heroes will swear! An' there will be Murray commander, And Gordon[113] the battle to win; Like brothers they'll stand by each other, Sae knit in alliance an' kin.

II.

An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,[114] The tongue o' the trump to them a'; And he get na hell for his haddin' The deil gets na justice ava'; And there will Kempleton's birkie, A boy no sae black at the bane, But, as for his fine nabob fortune, We'll e'en let the subject alane.

III.

An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, But, Lord, what's become o' the head? An' there will be Cardoness,[115] Esquire, Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; A wight that will weather damnation, For the devil the prey will despise.

IV.

An' there will be Douglasses[116] doughty, New christ'ning towns far and near; Abjuring their democrat doings, By kissing the —— o' a peer; An' there will be Kenmure[117] sae gen'rous, Whose honour is proof to the storm, To save them from stark reprobation, He lent them his name to the firm.

V.

But we winna mention Redcastle,[118] The body, e'en let him escape! He'd venture the gallows for siller, An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. An' where is our king's lord lieutenant, Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return? The billie is gettin' his questions, To say in St. Stephen's the morn.

VI.

An' there will be lads o' the gospel, Muirhead,[119] wha's as gude as he's true; An' there will be Buittle's[120] apostle, Wha's more o' the black than the blue; An' there will be folk from St. Mary's,[121] A house o' great merit and note, The deil ane but honours them highly,— The deil ane will gie them his vote!

VII.

An' there will be wealthy young Richard,[122] Dame Fortune should hing by the neck; For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, His merit had won him respect: An' there will be rich brother nabobs, Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first, An' there will be Collieston's[123] whiskers, An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst.

VIII.

An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie,[124] Tak' tent how ye purchase a dram; An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam; An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree,[125] Whose honour was ever his law, If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, His worth might be sample for a'.

IX.

An' can we forget the auld major, Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, Him only 'tis justice to praise. An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, And also Barskimming's gude knight, An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, Wha luckily roars in the right.

X.

An' there, frae the Niddisdale borders, Will mingle the Maxwells in droves; Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Walie, That griens for the fishes an' loaves; An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,[126] Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there, An' also the wild Scot of Galloway, Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair.

XI.

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring? It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, In Sodom 'twould make him a king; An' hey for the sanctified M——y, Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; He founder'd his horse among harlots, But gied the auld naig to the Lord.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 112: Murray, of Broughton and Caillie.]

[Footnote 113: Gordon of Balmaghie.]

[Footnote 114: Bushby, of Tinwald-Downs.]

[Footnote 115: Maxwell, of Cardoness.]

[Footnote 116: The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle-Douglas.]

[Footnote 117: Gordon, afterwards Viscount Kenmore.]

[Footnote 118: Laurie, of Redcastle.]

[Footnote 119: Morehead, Minister of Urr.]

[Footnote 120: The Minister of Buittle.]

[Footnote 121: Earl of Selkirk's family.]

[Footnote 122: Oswald, of Auchuncruive.]

[Footnote 123: Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood.]

[Footnote 124: John Syme, of the Stamp-office.]

[Footnote 125: Heron, of Kerroughtree.]

[Footnote 126: Colonel Macdouall, of Logan.]

* * * * *



CL.

THE HERON BALLADS.

[BALLAD THIRD.]

[This third and last ballad was written on the contest between Heron and Stewart, which followed close on that with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was unseated by the decision of a Committee of the House of Commons: a decision which it is said he took so much to heart that it affected his health, and shortened his life.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG.

Tune.—"Buy broom besoms."

Wha will buy my troggin, Fine election ware; Broken trade o' Broughton, A' in high repair. Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o' Dee; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me.

There's a noble Earl's[127] Fame and high renown For an auld sang— It's thought the gudes were stown. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth o' Broughton[128] In a needle's ee; Here's a reputation Tint by Balmaghie. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's an honest conscience Might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o' Tinwald—[129] So was never worn. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's its stuff and lining, Cardoness'[130] head; Fine for a sodger A' the wale o' lead. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's a little wadset Buittle's[131] scrap o' truth, Pawn'd in a gin-shop Quenching holy drouth. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's armorial bearings Frae the manse o' Urr;[132] The crest, an auld crab-apple Rotten at the core. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Satan's picture, Like a bizzard gled, Pouncing poor Redcastle,[133] Sprawlin' as a taed. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth and wisdom Collieston[134] can boast; By a thievish midge They had been nearly lost. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Murray's fragments O' the ten commands; Gifted by black Jock[135] To get them aff his hands. Buy braw troggin, &c.

Saw ye e'er sic troggin? If to buy ye're slack, Hornie's turnin' chapman, He'll buy a' the pack. Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o' Dee; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 127: The Earl of Galloway.]

[Footnote 128: Murray, of Broughton and Caillie.]

[Footnote 129: Bushby, of Tinwald-downs.]

[Footnote 130: Maxwell, of Cardoness.]

[Footnote 131: The Minister of Buittle.]

[Footnote 132: Morehead, of Urr.]

[Footnote 133: Laurie, of Redcastle.]

[Footnote 134: Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood.]

[Footnote 135: John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs.]

* * * * *



CLI.

POEM,

ADDRESSED TO

MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

[The gentlemen to whom this very modest, and, under the circumstances, most affecting application for his salary was made, filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and generous nature: but few were aware that the poet was suffering both from ill-health and poverty.]

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; Alake, alake, the meikle deil Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, In my poor pouches!

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, That one pound one, I sairly want it, If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, It would be kind; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted I'd bear't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin To thee and thine; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hale design.

* * * * *

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, And by felt death was nearly nicket; Grim loon! he got me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, A tentier way: Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, For ance and aye!

* * * * *



CLII.

TO

MISS JESSY LEWARS,

DUMFRIES.

WITH JOHNSON'S 'MUSICAL MUSEUM.'

[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daughter: for this she has the silent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns; she has received more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined soon to die.]

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the Poet's prayer; That fate may in her fairest page, With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name: With native worth and spotless fame, And wakeful caution still aware Of ill—but chief, man's felon snare; All blameless joys on earth we find, And all the treasures of the mind— These be thy guardian and reward; So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.

June 26, 1796.

* * * * *



CLIII.

POEM ON LIFE,

ADDRESSED TO

COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided himself on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Americans. He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sciences: he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verses.]

My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal; Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus, pill, And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it, Would pain and care and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit, As they deserve! (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne, wha wad starve?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow-wicker, 'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches, like baudrons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on— He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, First shewing us the tempting ware, Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, To put us daft; Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld danm'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure!

Soon heels-o'er gowdie! in he gangs, And like a sheep head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murd'ring wrestle, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil, Amen! amen!

* * * * *



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS,

ETC., ETC.

I.

ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

[William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he was an example of piety, patience, and fortitude.]

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe; The dauntless heart that feared no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

* * * * *



II.

ON R.A., ESQ.

[Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom "The Cotter's Saturday Night" is addressed: a kind and generous man.]

Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

* * * * *



III.

ON A FRIEND.

[The name of this friend is neither mentioned nor alluded to in any of the poet's productions.]

An honest man here lies at rest As e'er God with his image blest! The friend of man, the friend of truth; The friend of age, and guide of youth; Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, Few heads with knowledge so inform'd: If there's another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.

* * * * *



IV.

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON.

[These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured for presuming to ride on Sunday, and say, "damn it," in the presence of the minister of Mauchline.]

The poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd: But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damn'd!

* * * * *



V.

ON WEE JOHNNY.

HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY.

[Wee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns's Poems: he doubted the success of the speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of their meaning.]

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, That death has murder'd Johnny! An' here his body lies fu' low— For saul he ne'er had ony.

* * * * *



VI.

ON JOHN DOVE,

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.

[John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline: his religion is made to consist of a comparative appreciation of the liquors he kept.]

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

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

* * * * *



VII.

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

[This laborious and useful wag was the "Dear Smith, thou sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest epistles: he died in the West Indies.]

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid whole weeks awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass,— Perhaps he was your father.

* * * * *



VIII.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

[Souter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his impertinent inquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of Burns.]

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;— To h—ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.

* * * * *



IX.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

[This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of James Humphrey: he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dissertation on free grace, effectual-calling, and predestination.]

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: O Death, it's my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' b—ch Into thy dark dominion!

* * * * *



X.

ON MISS JEAN SCOTT.

[The heroine of these complimentary lines lived in Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks.]

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times, Been Jeany Scott, as thou art, The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward!

* * * * *



XI.

ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.

[Though satisfied with the severe satire of these lines, the poet made a second attempt.]

As father Adam first was fool'd, A case that's still too common, Here lies a man a woman rul'd, The devil rul'd the woman.

* * * * *



XII.

ON THE SAME.

[The second attempt did not in Burns's fancy exhaust this fruitful subject: he tried his hand again.]

O Death, hadst thou but spared his life, Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchang'd the wife, And a' been weel content!

Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, The swap we yet will do't; Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, Thou'se get the soul to boot.

* * * * *



XIII.

ON THE SAME.

[In these lines he bade farewell to the sordid dame, who lived, it is said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.]

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion, When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pretence, Not to show her respect, but to save the expense.

* * * * *



XIV.

THE HIGHLAND WELCOME.

[Burns took farewell of the hospitalities of the Scottish Highlands in these happy lines.]

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come; In Heaven itself I'll ask no more Than just a Highland welcome.

* * * * *



XV.

ON WILLIAM SMELLIE.

[Smellie, author of the Philosophy of History; a singular person, of ready wit, and negligent in nothing save his dress.]

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:

His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd: Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

* * * * *



XVI.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON.

[These lines were written on receiving what the poet considered an uncivil refusal to look at the works of the celebrated Carron foundry.]

We came na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise:

For whan we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come Your billy Satan sair us!

* * * * *



XVII.

THE BOOK-WORMS.

[Burns wrote this reproof in a Shakspeare, which he found splendidly bound and gilt, but unread and worm-eaten, in a noble person's library.]

Through and through the inspir'd leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But oh! respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings.

* * * * *



XVIII.

LINES ON STIRLING.

[On visiting Stirling, Burns was stung at beholding nothing but desolation in the palaces of our princes and our halls of legislation, and vented his indignation in those unloyal lines: some one has said that they were written by his companion, Nicol, but this wants confirmation.]

Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd, And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; But now unroof'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; An idiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best despise them most.

* * * * *



XIX.

THE REPROOF.

[The imprudence of making the lines written at Stirling public was hinted to Burns by a friend; he said, "Oh, but I mean to reprove myself for it," which he did in these words.]

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?

* * * * *



XX.

THE REPLY.

[The minister of Gladsmuir wrote a censure on the Stirling lines, intimating, as a priest, that Burns's race was nigh run, and as a prophet, that oblivion awaited his muse. The poet replied to the expostulation.]

Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel All others' scorn—but damn that ass's heel.

* * * * *



XXI.

LINES

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED MISS BURNS.

[The Miss Burns of these lines was well known in those days to the bucks of the Scottish metropolis: there is still a letter by the poet, claiming from the magistrates of Edinburgh a liberal interpretation of the laws of social morality, in belief of his fair namesake.]

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, Lovely Burns has charms—confess: True it is, she had one failing— Had a woman ever less?

* * * * *



XXII.

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION.

[These portraits are strongly coloured with the partialities of the poet: Dundas had offended his pride, Erskine had pleased his vanity; and as he felt he spoke.]

LORD ADVOCATE.

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, He quoted and he hinted, 'Till in a declamation-mist His argument he tint it: He gaped for't, he grap'd for't, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short He eked out wi' law, man.

MR. ERSKINE.

Collected Harry stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man: His lordship sat wi' rueful e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man; Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, Or torrents owre a linn, man; The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

* * * * *



XXIII.

THE HENPECKED HUSBAND.

[A lady who expressed herself with incivility about her husband's potations with Burns, was rewarded by these sharp lines.]

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife! Who has no will but by her high permission; Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell! Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b——h.

* * * * *



XXIV.

WRITTEN AT INVERARY.

[Neglected at the inn of Inverary, on account of the presence of some northern chiefs, and overlooked by his Grace of Argyll, the poet let loose his wrath and his rhyme: tradition speaks of a pursuit which took place on the part of the Campbell, when he was told of his mistake, and of a resolution not to be soothed on the part of the bard.]

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he's come to wait upon The Lord their God, his Grace.

There's naething here but Highland pride And Highland cauld and hunger; If Providence has sent me here, T'was surely in his anger.

* * * * *



XXV.

ON ELPHINSTON'S TRANSLATIONS.

OF

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS.

[Burns thus relates the origin of this sally:—"Stopping at a merchant's shop in Edinburgh, a friend of mine one day put Elphinston's Translation of Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. I asked permission to write my opinion on a blank leaf of the book; which being granted, I wrote this epigram."]

O thou, whom poesy abhors, Whom prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan? proceed no further; 'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murther!

* * * * *



XXVI.

INSCRIPTION.

ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON.

[Some social friends, whose good feelings were better than their taste, have ornamented with supplemental iron work the headstone which Burns erected, with this inscription to the memory of his brother bard, Fergusson.]

Here lies ROBERT FERGUSSON, Poet. Born, September 5, 1751; Died, Oct. 15, 1774.

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, "No storied urn nor animated bust;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

* * * * *



XXVII.

ON A SCHOOLMASTER.

[The Willie Michie of this epigram was, it is said, schoolmaster of the parish of Cleish, in Fifeshire: he met Burns during his first visit to Edinburgh.]

Here lie Willie Michie's banes; O, Satan! when ye tak' him, Gi' him the schoolin' o' your weans, For clever de'ils he'll mak' them.

* * * * *



XXVIII.

A GRACE BEFORE DINNER.

[This was an extempore grace, pronounced by the poet at a dinner-table, in Dumfries: he was ever ready to contribute the small change of rhyme, for either the use or amusement of a company.]

O thou, who kindly dost provide For every creature's want! We bless thee, God of Nature wide, For all thy goodness lent: And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But, whether granted or denied, Lord bless us with content! Amen.

* * * * *



XXIX.

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

[Pronounced, tradition says, at the table of Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh-Park.]

O thou in whom we live and move, Who mad'st the sea and shore, Thy goodness constantly we prove, And grateful would adore. And if it please thee, Power above, Still grant us with such store, The friend we trust, the fair we love, And we desire no more.

* * * * *



XXX.

ON WAT.

[The name of the object of this fierce epigram might be found, but in gratifying curiosity, some pain would be inflicted.]

Sic a reptile was Wat, Sic a miscreant slave, That the very worms damn'd him When laid in his grave. "In his flesh there's a famine," A starv'd reptile cries; "An' his heart is rank poison," Another replies.

* * * * *



XXXI.

ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE.

[This was a festive sally: it is said that Grose, who was very fat, though he joined in the laugh, did not relish it.]

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd! confounded! cry'd Satan, "By ——, I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!"

* * * * *



XXXII.

IMPROMPTU,

TO MISS AINSLIE.

[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to which the poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell had listened, during his visit to the border.]

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue:— 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, Not angels such as you!

* * * * *



XXXIII.

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.

[One rough, cold day, Burns listened to a sermon, so little to his liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydesdale, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.]

As cauld a wind as ever blew, As caulder kirk, and in't but few; As cauld a minister's e'er spak, Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.

* * * * *



XXXIV.

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

[In answer to a gentleman, who called the solemn League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.]

The solemn League and Covenant Cost Scotland blood—cost Scotland tears; But it sealed freedom's sacred cause— If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

* * * * *



XXXV.

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS,

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT.

[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Davies so little, and a lady who was with her, so large: before the ladies, who had just passed the window, were out of sight, the following answer was recorded on a pane of glass.]

Ask why God made the gem so small, And why so huge the granite? Because God meant mankind should set The higher value on it.

* * * * *



XXXVI.

SPOKEN,

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.

[Burns took no pleasure in the name of gauger: the situation was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesitated to say so.]

Searching auld wives' barrels, Och—hon! the day! That clarty barm should stain my laurels; But—what'll ye say! These movin' things ca'd wives and weans Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!

* * * * *



XXXVII.

LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE.

[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box in the Dumfries Theatre, in the winter of 1794: he was much moved by Mrs. Kemble's noble and pathetic acting.]

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet notes of grief The rock with tears had flow'd.

* * * * *



XXXVIII.

TO MR. SYME.

[John Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and a gentleman of education and intelligence, was, while Burns resided in Dumfries, his chief companion: he was bred to the law.]

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cook'ry the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation.

* * * * *



XXXIX.

TO MR. SYME.

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.

[The tavern where these lines were written was kept by a wandering mortal of the name of Smith; who, having visited in some capacity or other the Holy Land, put on his sign, "John Smith, from Jerusalem." He was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.]

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 'Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

* * * * *



XL.

A GRACE.

[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where to the best cookery was added the richest wine, as well as the rarest wit: Hyslop was a distiller.]

Lord, we thank and thee adore, For temp'ral gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no more, Let William Hyslop give the spirit.

* * * * *



XLI.

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

[Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. Syme, exasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, threw the goblet under the grate: it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.]

There's death in the cup—sae beware! Nay, more—there is danger in touching; But wha can avoid the fell snare? The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

* * * * *



XLII.

THE INVITATION.

[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civilities. These lines were written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochrutton, enclosed an invitation to dinner.]

The King's most humble servant I, Can scarcely spare a minute; But I am yours at dinner-time, Or else the devil's in it.

* * * * *



XLIII.

THE CREED OF POVERTY.

[When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that he was to act, and not to think; he took out his pencil and wrote "The Creed of Poverty."]

In politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind—be deaf and blind; Let great folks hear and see.

* * * * *



XLIV.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK.

[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with those who were warring in its cause, these lines, and hundreds more, sufficiently testify.]

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were.

* * * * *



XLV.

THE PARSON'S LOOKS.

[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside's looks: the poet mused for a moment, and replied in lines which have less of truth than point.]

That there is falsehood in his looks I must and will deny; They say their master is a knave— And sure they do not lie.

* * * * *



XLVI.

THE TOAD-EATER.

[This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of Dukes with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped.]

What of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen? Lord! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.

* * * * *



XLVII.

ON ROBERT RIDDEL.

[I copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friars-Carse Hermitage, on which they had been traced with the diamond of Burns.]

To Riddel, much-lamented man, This ivied cot was dear; Reader, dost value matchless worth? This ivied cot revere.

* * * * *



XLVIII.

THE TOAST.

[Burns being called on for a song, by his brother volunteers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast.]

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast— Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!— That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, that we found; For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you—the King! Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing; And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of the great Revolution; And longer with politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial.

* * * * *



XLIX.

ON A PERSON NICKNAMED

THE MARQUIS.

[In a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence, this person, who kept a respectable public-house in Dumfries, desired Burns, to write his epitaph.]

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd; If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd.

* * * * *



L.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW.

[Burns traced these words with a diamond, on the window of the King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries, as a reply, or reproof, to one who had been witty on excisemen.]

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing; What are you, landlords' rent-rolls? teasing ledgers: What premiers—what? even monarchs' mighty gaugers: Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men? What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen?

* * * * *



LI.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES.

[The Globe Tavern was Burne's favourite "Howff," as he called it. It had other attractions than good liquor; there lived "Anna, with the golden locks."]

The greybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, Give me with gay Folly to live; I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give.

* * * * *



LII.

THE SELKIRK GRACE.

[On a visit to St. Mary's Isle, Burns was requested by the noble owner to say grace to dinner; he obeyed in these lines, now known in Galloway by the name of "The Selkirk Grace."]

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thanket.

* * * * *



LIII.

TO DR. MAXWELL,

ON JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY.

[Maxwell was a skilful physician; and Jessie Staig, the Provost's oldest daughter, was a young lady of great beauty: she died early.]

Maxwell, if merit here you crave That merit I deny, You save fair Jessie from the grave— An angel could not die.

* * * * *



LIV.

EPITAPH.

[These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a goblet belonging to Gabriel Richardson, brewer, in Dumfries: it is carefully preserved in the family.]

Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, And empty all his barrels: He's blest—if, as he brew'd, he drink— In upright virtuous morals.

* * * * *



LV.

EPITAPH

ON WILLIAM NICOL.

[Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.]

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain, For few sic feasts ye've gotten; And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, For deil a bit o't's rotten.

* * * * *



LVI.

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG,

NAMED ECHO.

[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap dog.]

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.

* * * * *



LVII.

ON A NOTED COXCOMB.

[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested the honour of producing the person on whom these lines were written:—coxcombs are the growth of all districts.]

Light lay the earth on Willy's breast, His chicken-heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under.

* * * * *



LVIII.

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF

LORD GALLOWAY.

[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrown amid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble house.]

What dost thou in that mansion fair?— Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind!

* * * * *



LIX.

ON THE SAME.

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts all were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, Not one of them a knave.

* * * * *



LX.

ON THE SAME.

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire! So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, So ended in a mire.

* * * * *



LXI.

TO THE SAME,

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS

RESENTMENT.

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, In quiet let me live: I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to give.

* * * * *



LXII.

ON A COUNTRY LAIRD.

[Mr. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, exposed himself to the rhyming wrath of Burns, by his activity in the contested elections of Heron.]

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, With grateful lifted eyes, Who said that not the soul alone But body too, must rise: For had he said, "the soul alone From death I will deliver;" Alas! alas! O Cardoness, Then thou hadst slept for ever.

* * * * *



LXIII.

ON JOHN BUSHBY.

[Burns, in his harshest lampoons, always admitted the talents of Bushby: the peasantry, who hate all clever attorneys, loved to handle his character with unsparing severity.]

Here lies John Bushby, honest man! Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can.

* * * * *



LXIV.

THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.

[At a dinner-party, where politics ran high, lines signed by men who called themselves the true loyal natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns: he took a pencil, and at once wrote this reply.]

Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song, In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

* * * * *



LXV.

ON A SUICIDE.

[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hutchinson, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grave of a person who had committed suicide: on the paper these lines were pencilled.]

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble— Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble.

* * * * *



LXVI.

EXTEMPORE

PINNED ON A LADY'S COUCH.

["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "from a copy in Burns's handwriting," a slight alteration in the last line is made from an oral version.]

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, Your speed will outrival the dart: But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road If your stuff has the rot, like her heart.

* * * * *



LXVII.

LINES

TO JOHN RANKINE.

[These lines were said to have been written by the poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward them when he died.]

He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

* * * * *



LXVIII.

JESSY LEWARS.

[Written on the blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhibiting in Dumfries. "Now," said the poet, who was then very ill, "it is fit to be presented to a lady."]

Talk not to me of savages From Afric's burning sun, No savage e'er could rend my heart As, Jessy, thou hast done. But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, A mutual faith to plight, Not even to view the heavenly choir Would be so blest a sight.

* * * * *



LXIX.

THE TOAST.

[One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, he observed Jessy Lewars moving about the house with a light step lest she should disturb him. He took a crystal goblet containing wine-and-water for moistening his lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and presented it to her.]

Fill me with the rosy-wine, Call a toast—a toast divine; Give the Poet's darling flame, Lovely Jessy be the name; Then thou mayest freely boast, Thou hast given a peerless toast.

* * * * *



LXX.

ON MISS JESSY LEWARS.

[The constancy of her attendance on the poet's sick-bed and anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. "You must not die yet," said the poet: "give me that goblet, and I shall prepare you for the worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, and said, "That will be a companion to 'The Toast.'"]

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth Can turn Death's dart aside? It is not purity and worth, Else Jessy had not died.

R. B.

* * * * *



LXXI.

ON THE

RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.

[A little repose brought health to the young lady. "I knew you would not die," observed the poet, with a smile: "there is a poetic reason for your recovery;" he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.]

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, The natives of the sky; Yet still one seraph's left on earth, For Jessy did not die.

R. B.

* * * * *



LXXII.

TAM, THE CHAPMAN.

[Tam, the chapman, is said by the late William Cobbett, who knew him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the west of Scotland. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet in 1834: it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the one was Thomas and the name of the other John.]

As Tam the Chapman on a day, Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous, And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, And there blaws up a hearty crack; His social, friendly, honest heart, Sae tickled Death they could na part: Sac after viewing knives and garters, Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.

* * * * *



LXXIII.

[These lines seem to owe their origin to the precept of Mickle.

"The present moment is our ain, The next we never saw."]

Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad you wish for mair, man? Wha kens before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man? Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not ay when sought, man.

* * * * *



LXXIV.

[The sentiment which these lines express, was one familiar to Burns, in the early, as well as concluding days of his life.]

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.—

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, But if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

* * * * *



LXXV.

TO JOHN KENNEDY.

[The John Kennedy to whom these verses and the succeeding lines were addressed, lived, in 1796, at Dumfries-house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet, that he submitted his "Cotter's Saturday Night" and the "Mountain Daisy" to his judgment: he seems to have been of a social disposition.]

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross, L—d, man, there's lasses there wad force A hermit's fancy. And down the gate in faith they're worse And mair unchancy.

But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews, Till some bit callan bring me news That ye are there, And if we dinna hae a bouze I'se ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow, Then like a swine to puke and wallow, But gie me just a true good fellow, Wi' right ingine, And spunkie ance to make us mellow, And then we'll shine.

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, An' sklent on poverty their joke Wi' bitter sneer, Wi' you nae friendship I will troke, Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel, Ye hate as ill's the very deil The flinty heart that canna feel— Come, Sir, here's tae you! Hae, there's my haun, I wiss you weel, And gude be wi' you.

ROBERT BURNESS.

Mossgiel, 3 March, 1786.

* * * * *



LXXVI.

TO JOHN KENNEDY.

Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you, And 'mang her favourites admit you! If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him! And ony deil that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him!

R. B.

Kilmarnock, August, 1786

* * * * *



LXXVII.

[Cromek found these characteristic lines among the poet's papers.]

There's naethin like the honest nappy! Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, Or women, sonsie, saft an' sappy, 'Tween morn an' morn As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn?

I've seen me daezt upon a time; I scarce could wink or see a styme; Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, Ought less is little, Then back I rattle on the rhyme, As gleg's a whittle.

* * * * *



LXXVIII.

ON THE BLANK LEAF

OF A

WORK BY HANNAH MORE.

PRESENTED BY MRS C——.

Thou flattering work of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Though sweetly female every part, Yet such a head, and more the heart, Does both the sexes honour. She showed her taste refined and just, When she selected thee, Yet deviating, own I must, For so approving me! But kind still, I'll mind still The giver in the gift; I'll bless her, and wiss her A Friend above the Lift.

Mossgiel, April, 1786.

* * * * *



LXXIX.

TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN

OF THE

MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLTON.

Within your dear mansion may wayward contention Or withering envy ne'er enter: May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre.

Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787.

* * * * *



LXXX.

IMPROMPTU.

[The tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now among the treasures of Abbotsford.]

You're welcome, Willie Stewart, You're welcome, Willie Stewart; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come bumpers high, express your joy, The bowl we maun renew it; The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben, To welcome Willie Stewart.

My foes be strang, and friends be slack, Ilk action may he rue it, May woman on him turn her back, That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.

* * * * *



LXXXI.

PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR.

[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, the maid-servant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call "the deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the poet's bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, executed a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through the village, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood: an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly called "Riding the Stang." This was resented by Geordie and Nanse, the girl's master and mistress; law was restored to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these home-comings he met Burns who laughed when he heard the story, and said, "You have need of some one to pray for you." "No one can do that better than yourself," was the reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, as it is said, "clean off loof." From Adam Armour I obtained the verses, and when he wrote them out, he told the story in which the prayer originated.]

Lord, pity me, for I am little, An elf of mischief and of mettle, That can like ony wabster's shuttle, Jink there or here, Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-whittle, I'm unco queer.

Lord pity now our waefu' case, For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace, Because we stang'd her through the place, 'Mang hundreds laughin', For which we daurna show our face Within the clachan.

And now we're dern'd in glens and hallows, And hunted as was William Wallace, By constables, those blackguard fellows, And bailies baith, O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows! That cursed death.

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel', O shake him ewre the mouth o' hell, And let him hing and roar and yell, Wi' hideous din, And if he offers to rebel Just heave him in.

When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink, And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink' Gaur Satan gie her a—e a clink Behint his yett, And fill her up wi' brimstone drink, Red reeking het!

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny, Some devil seize them in a hurry, And waft them in th' infernal wherry, Straught through the lake, And gie their hides a noble curry, Wi' oil of aik.

As for the lass, lascivious body, She's had mischief enough already, Weel stang'd by market, mill, and smiddie, She's suffer'd sair; But may she wintle in a widdie, If she wh—re mair.

* * * * *



SONGS AND BALLADS.



I.

HANDSOME NELL.

Tune.—"I am a man unmarried."

["This composition," says Burns in his "Common-place Book," "was the first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her."]

I.

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still; And whilst that honour warms my breast, I'll love my handsome Nell.

II.

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw; But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw.

III.

A bonnie lass, I will confess, Is pleasant to the e'e, But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me.

IV.

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is best of a', Her reputation is complete, And fair without a flaw.

V.

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel: And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.

VI.

A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart.

VII.

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control

* * * * *



II.

LUCKLESS FORTUNE.

[Those lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of the air.]

O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O! O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O! My stem was fair, my bud was green, My blossom sweet did blow, O; The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, And made my branches grow, O. But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O; But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

* * * * *



III.

I DREAM'D I LAY.

[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen years old: his early days were typical of his latter.]

I.

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam; List'ning to the wild birds singing, By a falling crystal stream: Straight the sky grew black and daring; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; Trees with aged arms were warring. O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

II.

Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasure I enjoy'd: But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still.

* * * * *



IV.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Tune—"Invercald's Reel."

[The Tibbie who "spak na, but gaed by like stoure," was, it is said, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.]

CHORUS.

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Ye wad na been sae shy; For lack o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by.

I.

Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; Ye geck at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I.

II.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try.

III.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high.

IV.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry.

V.

But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.

VI.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.

VII.

There lives a lass in yonder park, I would nae gie her in her sark, For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; Ye need na look sae high.

* * * * *



V.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

Tune—"The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."

["The following song," says the poet, "is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over."]

I.

My father was a farmer Upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me, In decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, Though I had ne'er a farthing, O; For without an honest manly heart, No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

Then out into the world My course I did determine, O; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O: My talents they were not the worst, Nor yet my education, O; Resolv'd was I, at least to try, To mend my situation, O.

III.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, To frustrate each endeavour, O: Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, Sometimes by friends forsaken, O, And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

IV.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, With fortune's vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, And came to this conclusion, O: The past was bad, and the future hid; Its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour, was in my pow'r And so I would enjoy it, O.

V.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, Nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat and broil, And labour to sustain me, O: To plough and sow, to reap and mow, My father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, Was a match for fortune fairly, O.

VI.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay, In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate'er Might breed me pain or sorrow, O: I live to-day as well's I may, Regardless of to-morrow, O.

VII.

But cheerful still, I am as well, As a monarch in a palace, O, Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, With all her wonted malice, O: I make indeed my daily bread, But ne'er can make it farther, O; But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

VIII.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O, Some unforeseen misfortune Comes gen'rally upon me, O: Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, Or my goodnatur'd folly, O; But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

IX.

All you who follow wealth and power, With unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, You leave your view the farther, O: Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, Or nations to adorn you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

* * * * *



VI.

JOHN BARLEYCORN:

A BALLAD.

[Composed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has given an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales.]

I.

There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

II.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears That no one should him wrong.

V.

The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His beading joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

VII.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm. And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

IX.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

X.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

XI.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller us'd him worst of all— He crush'd him 'tween the stones.

XII.

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

XIII.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

XIV.

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.

XV.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

* * * * *



VII.

THE RIGS O' BARLEY.

Tune—"Corn rigs are bonnie."

[Two young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne Blair, have each, by the district traditions, been claimed as the heroine of this early song.]

I.

It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie: The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 'Till 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, To see me through the barley.

II.

The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley: I ken't her heart was a' my ain; I lov'd her most sincerely; I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley.

III.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace! Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place. Amang the rigs o' barley! But by the moon and stars so bright. That shone that hour so clearly? She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley!

IV.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear; I hae been merry drinkin'; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; I hae been happy thinkin': But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonnie: I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

* * * * *



VIII.

MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.

Tune—"Galla-Water."

["My Montgomery's Peggy," says Burns, "was my deity for six or eight months: she had been bred in a style of life rather elegant: it cost me some heart-aches to get rid of the affair." The young lady listened to the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an interview, and then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engaged to another.]

I.

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be, Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy.

II.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, And winter nights were dark and rainy; I'd seek some dell, and in my arms I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.

III.

Were I a baron proud and high, And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy.

* * * * *



IX.

THE MAUCHLINE LADY.

Tune—"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

[The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart was Jean Armour: she loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog run across some linen webs which she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, and he apologized so handsomely that she took another look at him. To this interview the world owes some of our most impassioned strains.]

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, My mind it was nae steady; Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, A mistress still I had ay: But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, Not dreadin' any body, My heart was caught before I thought, And by a Mauchline lady.

* * * * *



X.

THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.

Tune—"The deuks dang o'er my daddy!"

["The Highland Lassie" was Mary Campbell, whose too early death the poet sung in strains that will endure while the language lasts. "She was," says Burns, "a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love."]

I.

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse's care: Their titles a' are empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, I set me down wi' right good-will, To sing my Highland lassie, O.

II.

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine, The world then the love should know I bear my Highland lassie, O.

III.

But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea; But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my Highland lassie, O.

IV.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O.

V.

For her I'll dare the billows' roar, For her I'll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O.

VI.

She has my heart, she has my hand, by sacred truth and honour's band! 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rushy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O.

* * * * *



XI.

PEGGY.

[The heroine of this song is said to have been "Montgomery's Peggy."]

Tune—"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

I.

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather; The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer.

II.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells; The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; The soaring hern the fountains; Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.

III.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine; Some solitary wander: Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion.

IV.

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come, let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And every happy creature.

V.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!

* * * * *



XII.

THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T.

Tune—"East nook o' Fife."

[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother of "Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess," a person whom the poet regarded, as he says, both for her form and her grace.]

I.

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? O wha will tent me when I cry? Wha will kiss me where I lie?— The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

II.

O wha will own he did the fau't? O wha will buy the groanin' maut? O wha will tell me how to ca't? The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

III.

When I mount the creepie chair, Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair, The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

IV.

Wha will crack to me my lane? Wha will make me fidgin' fain? Wha will kiss me o'er again?— The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

* * * * *



XIII.

MY HEART WAS ANCE.

Tune—"To the weavers gin ye go."

["The chorus of this song," says Burns, in his note to the Museum, "is old, the rest is mine." The "bonnie, westlin weaver lad" is said to have been one of the rivals of the poet in the affection of a west landlady.]

I.

My heart was ance as blythe and free As simmer days were lang, But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne'er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.

II.

My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o't Has gart me sigh and sab.

III.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad, Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi' a net, In every knot and thrum.

IV.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And ay I ca'd it roun'; But every shot and every knock, My heart it gae a stoun.

V.

The moon was sinking in the west Wi' visage pale and wan, As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy'd me thro' the glen.

VI.

But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa' me gin I tell; But, oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel's mysel. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne'er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.

* * * * *



XIV.

NANNIE.

Tune—"My Nannie, O."

[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothill, inspired this fine song: she died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and said, "Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me."]

I.

Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has closed, And I'll awa to Nannie, O.

II.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.

III.

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young; Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O.

IV.

Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O: The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

V.

A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O.

VI.

My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.

VII.

Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nannie, O.

VIII.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O: Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie, O.

* * * * *



XV.

A FRAGMENT.

Tune—"John Anderson my jo."

[This verse, written early, and probably intended for the starting verse of a song, was found among the papers of the poet.]

One night as I did wander, When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder, Upon an auld tree root: Auld Ayr ran by before me, And bicker'd to the seas; A cushat crooded o'er me, That echoed thro' the braes.

* * * * *



XVI.

BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.

Tune—"Braes o' Balquihidder."

[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out songs without limit. Peggy Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Montgomery's Peggy, but this seems doubtful.]

CHORUS.

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, An' I'll kiss thee o'er again; An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison!

I.

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, I ever mair defy them, O; Young kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am, O!

II.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, O, I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

III.

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear, I'm thine for ever, O!— And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never, O! I'll kiss thee yet, yet, An' I'll kiss thee o'er again; An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison!

* * * * *



XVII.

THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CARE.

Tune—"Green grow the rashes."

["Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; but woman is the last and most perfect work of nature," says an old writer, in a rare old book: a passage which expresses the sentiment of Burns; yet it is all but certain, that the Ploughman Bard was unacquainted with "Cupid's Whirlygig," where these words are to be found.]

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.

I.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

II.

The warly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O; An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

III.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

IV.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

V.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.

* * * * *



XVIII.

MY JEAN!

Tune—"The Northern Lass."

[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour.]

Though cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine. Though mountains rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean

* * * * *



XIX.

ROBIN.

Tune—"Daintie Davie."

[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm something which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips.]

I.

There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o' whatna style I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin!

II.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun, Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' Blew hansel in on Robin.

III.

The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof. This waly boy will be nae coof, I think we'll ca' him Robin

IV.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', But ay a heart aboon them a'; He'll be a credit to us a', We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

V.

But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin', So leeze me on thee, Robin.

VI.

Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar, The bonnie lasses lie aspar, But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, So blessin's on thee, Robin! Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin!

* * * * *



XX.

HER FLOWING LOCKS.

Tune—(unknown.)

[One day—it is tradition that speaks—Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast her bonnie mou'! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner.

* * * * *



XXI.

O LEAVE NOVELS.

Tune—" Mauchline belles."

[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:—

"Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw; There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."]

I.

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.