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Preface
Robert Burns was born near Ayr, Scotland, 25th of January, 1759. He was the son of William Burnes, or Burness, at the time of the poet’s birth a nurseryman on the banks of the Doon in Ayrshire. His father, though always extremely poor, attempted to give his children a fair education, and Robert, who was the eldest, went to school for three years in a neighboring village, and later, for shorter periods, to three other schools in the vicinity. But it was to his father and to his own reading that he owed the more important part of his education; and by the time that he had reached manhood he had a good knowledge of English, a reading knowledge of French, and a fairly wide acquaintance with the masterpieces of English literature from the time of Shakespeare to his own day. In 1766 William Burness rented on borrowed money the farm of Mount Oliphant, and in taking his share in the effort to make this undertaking succeed, the future poet seems to have seriously overstrained his physique. In 1771 the family move to Lochlea, and Burns went to the neighboring town of Irvine to learn flax-dressing. The only result of this experiment, however, was the formation of an acquaintance with a dissipated sailor, whom he afterward blamed as the prompter of his first licentious adventures. His father died in 1784, and with his brother Gilbert the poet rented the farm of Mossgiel; but this venture was as unsuccessful as the others. He had meantime formed an irregular intimacy with Jean Armour, for which he was censured by the Kirk-session. As a result of his farming misfortunes, and the attempts of his father-in-law to overthrow his irregular marriage with Jean, he resolved to emigrate; and in order to raise money for the passage he published (Kilmarnock, 1786) a volume of the poems which he had been composing from time to time for some years. This volume was unexpectedly successful, so that, instead of sailing for the West Indies, he went up to Edinburgh, and during that winter he was the chief literary celebrity of the season. An enlarged edition of his poems was published there in 1787, and the money derived from this enabled him to aid his brother in Mossgiel, and to take and stock for himself the farm of Ellisland in Dumfriesshire. His fame as poet had reconciled the Armours to the connection, and having now regularly married Jean, he brought her to Ellisland, and once more tried farming for three years. Continued ill-success, however, led him, in 1791, to abandon Ellisland, and he moved to Dumfries, where he had obtained a position in the Excise. But he was now thoroughly discouraged; his work was mere drudgery; his tendency to take his relaxation in debauchery increased the weakness of a constitution early undermined; and he died at Dumfries in his thirty-eighth year.
[See Burns’ Birthplace: The living room in the Burns birthplace cottage.]
It is not necessary here to attempt to disentangle or explain away the numerous amours in which he was engaged through the greater part of his life. It is evident that Burns was a man of extremely passionate nature and fond of conviviality; and the misfortunes of his lot combined with his natural tendencies to drive him to frequent excesses of self-indulgence. He was often remorseful, and he strove painfully, if intermittently, after better things. But the story of his life must be admitted to be in its externals a painful and somewhat sordid chronicle. That it contained, however, many moments of joy and exaltation is proved by the poems here printed.
Burns’ poetry falls into two main groups: English and Scottish. His English poems are, for the most part, inferior specimens of conventional eighteenth-century verse. But in Scottish poetry he achieved triumphs of a quite extraordinary kind. Since the time of the Reformation and the union of the crowns of England and Scotland, the Scots dialect had largely fallen into disuse as a medium for dignified writing. Shortly before Burns’ time, however, Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson had been the leading figures in a revival of the vernacular, and Burns received from them a national tradition which he succeeded in carrying to its highest pitch, becoming thereby, to an almost unique degree, the poet of his people.
He first showed complete mastery of verse in the field of satire. In “The Twa Herds,” “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” “Address to the Unco Guid,” “The Holy Fair,” and others, he manifested sympathy with the protest of the so-called “New Light” party, which had sprung up in opposition to the extreme Calvinism and intolerance of the dominant “Auld Lichts.” The fact that Burns had personally suffered from the discipline of the Kirk probably added fire to his attacks, but the satires show more than personal animus. The force of the invective, the keenness of the wit, and the fervor of the imagination which they displayed, rendered them an important force in the theological liberation of Scotland.
The Kilmarnock volume contained, besides satire, a number of poems like “The Twa Dogs” and “The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” which are vividly descriptive of the Scots peasant life with which he was most familiar; and a group like “Puir Mailie” and “To a Mouse,” which, in the tenderness of their treatment of animals, revealed one of the most attractive sides of Burns’ personality. Many of his poems were never printed during his lifetime, the most remarkable of these being “The Jolly Beggars,” a piece in which, by the intensity of his imaginative sympathy and the brilliance of his technique, he renders a picture of the lowest dregs of society in such a way as to raise it into the realm of great poetry.
But the real national importance of Burns is due chiefly to his songs. The Puritan austerity of the centuries following the Reformation had discouraged secular music, like other forms of art, in Scotland; and as a result Scottish song had become hopelessly degraded in point both of decency and literary quality. From youth Burns had been interested in collecting the fragments he had heard sung or found printed, and he came to regard the rescuing of this almost lost national inheritance in the light of a vocation. About his song-making, two points are especially noteworthy: first, that the greater number of his lyrics sprang from actual emotional experiences; second, that almost all were composed to old melodies. While in Edinburgh he undertook to supply material for Johnson’s “Musical Museum,” and as few of the traditional songs could appear in a respectable collection, Burns found it necessary to make them over. Sometimes he kept a stanza or two; sometimes only a line or chorus; sometimes merely the name of the air; the rest was his own. His method, as he has told us himself, was to become familiar with the traditional melody, to catch a suggestion from some fragment of the old song, to fix upon an idea or situation for the new poem; then, humming or whistling the tune as he went about his work, he wrought out the new verses, going into the house to write them down when the inspiration began to flag. In this process is to be found the explanation of much of the peculiar quality of the songs of Burns. Scarcely any known author has succeeded so brilliantly in combining his work with folk material, or in carrying on with such continuity of spirit the tradition of popular song. For George Thomson’s collection of Scottish airs he performed a function similar to that which he had had in the “Museum”; and his poetical activity during the last eight or nine years of his life was chiefly devoted to these two publications. In spite of the fact that he was constantly in severe financial straits, he refused to accept any recompense for this work, preferring to regard it as a patriotic service. And it was, indeed, a patriotic service of no small magnitude. By birth and temperament he was singularly fitted for the task, and this fitness is proved by the unique extent to which his productions were accepted by his countrymen, and have passed into the life and feeling of his race.
1771 — 1779
Tune—“I am a man unmarried.”
[Footnote 1: The first of my performances.—R. B.]
Once I lov’d a
bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue
warms my breast,
I’ll love my handsome
Nell.
As bonie lasses I hae
seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu’
mein,
The like I never saw.
A bonie lass, I will
confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e;
But, without some better
qualities,
She’s no a lass
for me.
But Nelly’s looks
are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of
a’,
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae
clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there’s
something in her gait
Gars ony dress look
weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle
air
May slightly touch the
heart;
But it’s innocence
and modesty
That polishes the dart.
’Tis this in Nelly
pleases me,
’Tis this enchants
my soul;
For absolutely in my
breast
She reigns without control.
Song—O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day
Tune—“Invercauld’s Reel, or Strathspey.”
Choir.—O
Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For laik o’ gear
ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care
na by.
Yestreen I met you on
the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed
by like stour;
Ye geck at me because
I’m poor,
But fient a hair care
I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
When coming hame on
Sunday last,
Upon the road as I cam
past,
Ye snufft and ga’e
your head a cast—
But trowth I care’t
na by.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak’
my advice:
Your daddie’s
gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad speir
your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
There lives a lass beside
yon park,
I’d rather hae
her in her sark,
Than you wi’ a’
your thousand mark;
That gars you look sae
high.
O Tibbie, I hae seen
the day, &c.
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;
Tress with aged arms
were warring,
O’er the swelling
drumlie wave.
Such was my life’s
deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I
enjoyed:
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.
Song—In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer
Tune—“Go from my window, Love, do.”
The sun he is sunk in
the west,
All creatures retired
to rest,
While here I sit, all
sore beset,
With sorrow, grief,
and woe:
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
The prosperous man is
asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds
sweep;
But Misery and I must
watch
The surly tempest blow:
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
There lies the dear
partner of my breast;
Her cares for a moment
at rest:
Must I see thee, my
youthful pride,
Thus brought so very
low!
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
There lie my sweet babies
in her arms;
No anxious fear their
little hearts alarms;
But for their sake my
heart does ache,
With many a bitter throe:
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
I once was by Fortune
carest:
I once could relieve
the distrest:
Now life’s poor
support, hardly earn’d
My fate will scarce
bestow:
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
No comfort, no comfort
I have!
How welcome to me were
the grave!
But then my wife and
children dear—
O, wither would they
go!
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
O whither, O whither
shall I turn!
All friendless, forsaken,
forlorn!
For, in this world,
Rest or Peace
I never more shall know!
And it’s O, fickle
Fortune, O!
All devil as I am—a
damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn,
unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts
at human wretchedness;
And with sincere but
unavailing sighs
I view the helpless
children of distress:
With tears indignant
I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest
man’s destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart
was all his crime.—
Ev’n you, ye hapless
crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming
good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned
vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual,
has turn’d o’er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends
and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth
like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless
wretch among you!
O injured God!
Thy goodness has endow’d me
With talents passing
most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion
have abused—
As far surpassing other
common villains
As Thou in natural parts
has given me more.
Tarbolton Lasses, The
If ye gae up to yon
hill-tap,
Ye’ll there see
bonie Peggy;
She kens her father
is a laird,
And she forsooth’s
a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a
lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in
a night,
Has little art in courtin’.
Gae down by Faile, and
taste the ale,
And tak a look o’
Mysie;
She’s dour and
din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may
please ye.
If she be shy, her sister
try,
Ye’ll maybe fancy
Jenny;
If ye’ll dispense
wi’ want o’ sense—
She kens hersel she’s
bonie.
As ye gae up by yon
hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She’ll gie ye
a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address
ye.
There’s few sae
bonie, nane sae guid,
In a’ King George’
dominion;
If ye should doubt the
truth o’ this—
It’s Bessy’s
ain opinion!
Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear
Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.
Ah, woe is me, my mother
dear!
A man of strife ye’ve
born me:
For sair contention
I maun bear;
They hate, revile, and
scorn me.
I ne’er could
lend on bill or band,
That five per cent.
might blest me;
And borrowing, on the
tither hand,
The deil a ane wad trust
me.
Yet I, a coin-denied
wight,
By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how I am, day
and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded!
Tune—“Galla Water.”
Altho’ my bed
were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in
my plaidie;
Yet happy, happy would
I be,
Had I my dear Montgomerie’s
Peggy.
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
Montgomerie’s Peggy.
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
Montgomerie’s Peggy.
Ploughman’s Life, The
As I was a-wand’ring
ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman
sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin’,
thir words he did say,—
There’s nae life
like the ploughman’s in the month o’ sweet
May.
The lav’rock in
the morning she’ll rise frae her nest,
And mount i’ the
air wi’ the dew on her breast,
And wi’ the merry
ploughman she’ll whistle and sing,
And at night she’ll
return to her nest back again.
1780
In Tarbolton, ye ken,
there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses
and a’, man;
But ken ye the Ronalds
that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree
frae them a’, man.
Their father’s
laird, and weel he can spare’t,
Braid money to tocher
them a’, man;
To proper young men,
he’ll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder
or twa, man.
There’s ane they
ca’ Jean, I’ll warrant ye’ve seen
As bonie a lass or as
braw, man;
But for sense and guid
taste she’ll vie wi’ the best,
And a conduct that beautifies
a’, man.
The charms o’
the min’, the langer they shine,
The mair admiration
they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries,
and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither
awa, man,
If ye be for Miss Jean,
tak this frae a frien’,
A hint o’ a rival
or twa, man;
The Laird o’ Blackbyre
wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her
awa, man.
The Laird o’ Braehead
has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond
or twa, man;
The Laird o’ the
Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her
at a’, man.
Then Anna comes in,
the pride o’ her kin,
The boast of our bachelors
a’, man:
Sae sonsy and sweet,
sae fully complete,
She steals our affections
awa, man.
If I should detail the
pick and the wale
O’ lasses that
live here awa, man,
The fau’t wad
be mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best
o’ them a’, man.
I lo’e her mysel,
but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me
in awe, man;
For making o’
rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething
at a’, man.
Yet I wadna choose to
let her refuse,
Nor hae’t in her
power to say na, man:
For though I be poor,
unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach’s as
proud as them a’, man.
Though I canna ride
in weel-booted pride,
And flee o’er
the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head
wi’ the best o’ the breed,
Though fluttering ever
so braw, man.
My coat and my vest,
they are Scotch o’ the best,
O’pairs o’
guid breeks I hae twa, man;
And stockings and pumps
to put on my stumps,
And ne’er a wrang
steek in them a’, man.
My sarks they are few,
but five o’ them new,
Twal’ hundred,
as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat,
a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets
sae braw, man.
I never had frien’s
weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred
or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher’d
aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell
for it a’, man.
I never was cannie for
hoarding o’ money,
Or claughtin’t
together at a’, man;
I’ve little to
spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling
I awe, man.
Song—Here’s To Thy Health
Tune—“Laggan Burn.”
Here’s to thy
health, my bonie lass,
Gude nicht and joy be
wi’ thee;
I’ll come nae
mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I
lo’e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty
pink,
But I can live without
thee:
I vow and swear I dinna
care,
How lang ye look about
ye.
Thou’rt aye sae
free informing me,
Thou hast nae mind to
marry;
I’ll be as free
informing thee,
Nae time hae I to tarry:
I ken thy frien’s
try ilka means
Frae wedlock to delay
thee;
Depending on some higher
chance,
But fortune may betray
thee.
I ken they scorn my
low estate,
But that does never
grieve me;
For I’m as free
as any he;
Sma’ siller will
relieve me.
I’ll count my
health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I’ll
enjoy it;
I’ll fear nae
scant, I’ll bode nae want,
As lang’s I get
employment.
But far off fowls hae
feathers fair,
And, aye until ye try
them,
Tho’ they seem
fair, still have a care;
They may prove waur
than I am.
But at twal’ at
night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I’ll
come and see thee;
For the man that loves
his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him
weary.
[Footnote 1: The
lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant
wench, daughter
of a “Farmer Lang".]
A Song of Similes
Tune—“If he be a Butcher neat and trim.”
On Cessnock banks a
lassie dwells;
Could I describe her
shape and mein;
Our lasses a’
she far excels,
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
She’s sweeter
than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus
first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle
o’er the lawn;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
She’s stately
like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip
braes between,
And drinks the stream
with vigour fresh;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
She’s spotless
like the flow’ring thorn,
With flow’rs so
white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy
morn;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her looks are like the
vernal May,
When ev’ning Phoebus
shines serene,
While birds rejoice
on every spray;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her hair is like the
curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides
at e’en,
When flow’r-reviving
rains are past;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her forehead’s
like the show’ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams
intervene
And gild the distant
mountain’s brow;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her cheeks are like
yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the
flowery scene,
Just opening on its
thorny stem;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her bosom’s like
the nightly snow,
When pale the morning
rises keen,
While hid the murm’ring
streamlets flow;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her lips are like yon
cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from
Boreas screen;
They tempt the taste
and charm the sight;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her teeth are like a
flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen
clean,
That slowly mount the
rising steep;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her breath is like the
fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the
blossom’d bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind
the seas;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
Her voice is like the
ev’ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock
banks unseen,
While his mate sits
nestling in the bush;
An’ she has twa
sparkling roguish een.
But it’s not her
air, her form, her face,
Tho’ matching
beauty’s fabled queen;
’Tis the mind
that shines in ev’ry grace,
An’ chiefly in
her roguish een.
Song—Bonie Peggy Alison
Tune—“The Braes o’ Balquhidder.”
Chor.—And
I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
And I’ll kiss
thee o’er again:
And I’ll kiss
thee yet, yet,
My bonie Peggy Alison.
Ilk care and fear, when
thou art near
I evermair defy them,
O!
Young kings upon their
hansel throne
Are no sae blest as
I am, O!
And I’ll kiss
thee yet, yet, &c.
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!
And I’ll kiss
thee yet, yet, &c.
And by thy een sae bonie
blue,
I swear I’m thine
for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal
my vow,
And break it shall I
never, O!
And I’ll kiss
thee yet, yet, &c.
Tune—“Bide ye yet.”
O Mary, at thy window
be,
It is the wish’d,
the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances
let me see,
That make the miser’s
treasure poor:
How blythely was I bide
the stour,
A weary slave frae sun
to sun,
Could I the rich reward
secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the
trembling string
The dance gaed thro’
the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took
its wing,
I sat, but neither heard
nor saw:
Tho’ this was
fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of
a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and
said among them a’,
“Ye are na Mary
Morison.”
Oh, Mary, canst thou
wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad
gladly die?
Or canst thou break
that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving
thee?
If love for love thou
wilt na gie,
At least be pity to
me shown;
A thought ungentle canna
be
The thought o’
Mary Morison.
1781
The wintry west extends
his blast,
And hail and rain does
blaw;
Or the stormy north
sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and
snaw:
While, tumbling brown,
the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank
to brae;
And bird and beast in
covert rest,
And pass the heartless
day.
“The sweeping
blast, the sky o’ercast,”
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to
me more dear
Than all the pride of
May:
The tempest’s
howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to
join;
The leafless trees my
fancy please,
Their fate resembles
mine!
Thou Power Supreme,
whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they
must be best,
Because they are Thy
will!
Then all I want—O
do Thou grant
This one request of
mine!—
Since to enjoy Thou
dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish
O Thou Great Being!
what Thou art,
Surpasses me to know;
Yet sure I am, that
known to Thee
Are all Thy works below.
Thy creature here before
Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;
Yet sure those ills
that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.
Sure, Thou, Almighty,
canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!
O, free my weary eyes
from tears,
Or close them fast in
death!
But, if I must afflicted
be,
To suit some wise design,
Then man my soul with
firm resolves,
To bear and not repine!
The man, in life wherever
plac’d,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the
wicked’s way,
Nor learns their guilty
lore!
Nor from the seat of
scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes
abroad,
But with humility and
awe
Still walks before his
God.
That man shall flourish
like the trees,
Which by the streamlets
grow;
The fruitful top is
spread on high,
And firm the root below.
But he whose blossom
buds in guilt
Shall to the ground
be cast,
And, like the rootless
stubble, tost
Before the sweeping
blast.
For why? that God the
good adore,
Hath giv’n them
peace and rest,
But hath decreed that
wicked men
Shall ne’er be
truly blest.
First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The
O Thou, the first, the
greatest friend
Of all the human race!
Whose strong right hand
has ever been
Their stay and dwelling
place!
Before the mountains
heav’d their heads
Beneath Thy forming
hand,
Before this ponderous
globe itself
Arose at Thy command;
That Pow’r which
rais’d and still upholds
This universal frame,
From countless, unbeginning
time
Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods
of years
Which seem to us so
vast,
Appear no more before
Thy sight
Than yesterday that’s
past.
Thou giv’st the
word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;
Again Thou say’st,
“Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!”
Thou layest them, with
all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;
As with a flood Thou
tak’st them off
With overwhelming sweep.
They flourish like the
morning flow’r,
In beauty’s pride
array’d;
But long ere night cut
down it lies
All wither’d and
decay’d.
O Thou unknown, Almighty
Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence,
ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
If I have wander’d
in those paths
Of life I ought to shun,
As something, loudly,
in my breast,
Remonstrates I have
done;
Thou know’st that
Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and
strong;
And list’ning
to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness
has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,
Do Thou, All-Good—for
such Thou art—
In shades of darkness
hide.
Where with intention
I have err’d,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good;
and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.
Stanzas, On The Same Occasion
Why am I loth to leave
this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full
of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with
draughts of ill between—
Some gleams of sunshine
’mid renewing storms,
Is it departing pangs
my soul alarms?
Or death’s unlovely,
dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt,
my terrors are in arms:
I tremble to approach
an angry God,
And justly smart beneath
His sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, “Forgive
my foul offence,”
Fain promise never more
to disobey;
But, should my Author
health again dispense,
Again I might desert
fair virtue’s way;
Again in folly’s
part might go astray;
Again exalt the brute
and sink the man;
Then how should I for
heavenly mercy pray
Who act so counter heavenly
mercy’s plan?
Who sin so oft have
mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?
O Thou, great Governor
of all below!
If I may dare a lifted
eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the
tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult
of the raging sea:
With that controlling
pow’r assist ev’n me,
Those headlong furious
passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel
my pow’rs to be,
To rule their torrent
in th’ allowed line;
O, aid me with Thy help,
Omnipotence Divine!
1782
Though fickle Fortune
has deceived me,
She pormis’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.
Raging Fortune—Fragment Of Song
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!
Impromptu—“I’ll Go And Be A Sodger”
O why the deuce should
I repine,
And be an ill foreboder?
I’m twenty-three,
and five feet nine,
I’ll go and be
a sodger!
I gat some gear wi’
mickle care,
I held it weel thegither;
But now it’s gane,
and something mair—
I’ll go and be
a sodger!
Song—“No Churchman Am I”
Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.”
No churchman am I for
to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier
to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business
contriving a snare,
For a big-belly’d
bottle’s the whole of my care.
The peer I don’t
envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant,
though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows,
like those that are here,
And a bottle like this,
are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire
on his brother—his horse;
There centum per centum,
the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown
how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly’d
bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; for sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded
a venture to make;
A letter inform’d
me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord
just waddl’d upstairs,
With a glorious bottle
that ended my cares.
“Life’s
cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid
down
By the Bard, what d’ye
call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with
th’ old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly’d
bottle’s a heav’n of a care.
Then fill up a bumper
and make it o’erflow,
And honours masonic
prepare for to throw;
May ev’ry true
Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-belly’d
bottle when harass’d with care.
My Father Was A Farmer
Tune—“The weaver and his shuttle, O.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
No help, nor hope, nor
view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and
sweat, and moil, 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.
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.
But cheerful still,
I am as well as a monarch in his 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.
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.
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 adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted
clown I will prefer before you, O.
There was three kings
into the east,
Three kings both great
and high,
And they hae sworn a
solemn oath
John Barleycorn should
die.
They took a plough and
plough’d him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a
solemn oath
John Barleycorn was
dead.
But the cheerful Spring
came kindly on,
And show’rs began
to fall;
John Barleycorn got
up again,
And sore surpris’d
them all.
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.
The sober Autumn enter’d
mild,
When he grew wan and
pale;
His bending joints and
drooping head
Show’d he began
to fail.
His colour sicken’d
more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies
began
To show their deadly
rage.
They’ve taen a
weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon
a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon
his back,
And cudgell’d
him full sore;
They hung him up before
the storm,
And turned him o’er
and o’er.
They filled up a darksome
pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John
Barleycorn,
There let him sink or
swim.
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.
They wasted, o’er
a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d
him worst of all,
For he crush’d
him between two stones.
And they hae taen his
very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and
round;
And still the more and
more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was
a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste
his blood,
’Twill make your
courage rise.
’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.
Then let us toast John
Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in
hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in
old Scotland!
1783
An Unco Mournfu’ Tale
As Mailie, an’
her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling
on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost
a hitch,
An’ owre she warsl’d
in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying,
she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin
by.
Wi’ glowrin een,
and lifted han’s
Poor Hughoc like a statue
stan’s;
He saw her days were
near-hand ended,
But, wae’s my
heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething
spak,
At langth poor Mailie
silence brak.
“O thou, whase
lamentable face
Appears to mourn my
woefu’ case!
My dying words attentive
hear,
An’ bear them
to my Master dear.
“Tell him, if
e’er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy
a sheep—
O, bid him never tie
them mair,
Wi’ wicked strings
o’ hemp or hair!
But ca’ them out
to park or hill,
An’ let them wander
at their will:
So may his flock increase,
an’ grow
To scores o’ lambs,
an’ packs o’ woo’!
“Tell him, he
was a Master kin’,
An’ aye was guid
to me an’ mine;
An’ now my dying
charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I
trust them wi’ him.
“O, bid him save
their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an’
tods, an’ butcher’s knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk
their fill,
Till they be fit to
fend themsel’;
An’ tent them
duly, e’en an’ morn,
Wi’ taets o’
hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
“An’ may
they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu’
pets—
To slink thro’
slaps, an’ reave an’ steal
At stacks o’ pease,
or stocks o’ kail!
So may they, like their
great forbears,
For mony a year come
thro the shears:
So wives will gie them
bits o’ bread,
An’ bairns greet
for them when they’re dead.
“My poor toop-lamb,
my son an’ heir,
O, bid him breed him
up wi’ care!
An’ if he live
to be a beast,
To pit some havins in
his breast!
“An’ warn
him—what I winna name—
To stay content wi’
yowes at hame;
An’ no to rin
an’ wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless,
graceless brutes.
“An’ neist,
my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae
a tether string!
O, may thou ne’er
forgather up,
Wi’ ony blastit,
moorland toop;
But aye keep mind to
moop an’ mell,
Wi’ sheep o’
credit like thysel’!
“And now, my bairns,
wi’ my last breath,
I lea’e my blessin
wi’ you baith:
An’ when you think
upo’ your mither,
Mind to be kind to ane
anither.
“Now, honest Hughoc,
dinna fail,
To tell my master a’
my tale;
An’ bid him burn
this cursed tether,
An’ for thy pains
thou’se get my blather.”
This said, poor Mailie
turn’d her head,
And clos’d her
een amang the dead!
Lament in rhyme, lament
in prose,
Wi’ saut tears
trickling down your nose;
Our bardie’s fate
is at a close,
Past a’ remead!
The last, sad cape-stane
o’ his woes;
Poor Mailie’s
dead!
It’s no the loss
o’ warl’s gear,
That could sae bitter
draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie,
wear
The mourning weed:
He’s lost a friend
an’ neebor dear
In Mailie dead.
Thro’ a’
the town she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she
could descry him;
Wi’ kindly bleat,
when she did spy him,
She ran wi’ speed:
A friend mair faithfu’
ne’er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.
I wat she was a sheep
o’ sense,
An’ could behave
hersel’ wi’ mense:
I’ll say’t,
she never brak a fence,
Thro’ thievish
greed.
Our bardie, lanely,
keeps the spence
Sin’ Mailie’s
dead.
Or, if he wanders up
the howe,
Her living image in
her yowe
Comes bleating till
him, owre the knowe,
For bits o’ bread;
An’ down the briny
pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o’
moorland tips,
Wi’ tauted ket,
an’ hairy hips;
For her forbears were
brought in ships,
Frae ’yont the
Tweed.
A bonier fleesh ne’er
cross’d the clips
Than Mailie’s
dead.
Wae worth the man wha
first did shape
That vile, wanchancie
thing—a raip!
It maks guid fellows
girn an’ gape,
Wi’ chokin dread;
An’ Robin’s
bonnet wave wi’ crape
For Mailie dead.
O, a’ ye bards
on bonie Doon!
An’ wha on Ayr
your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious
croon
O’ Robin’s
reed!
His heart will never
get aboon—
His Mailie’s dead!
Song—The Rigs O’ Barley
Tune—“Corn Rigs are bonie.”
It was upon a Lammas
night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
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 thro’
the barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs,
An’ corn rigs
are bonie:
I’ll ne’er
forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi’
Annie.
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.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs, &c.
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 aye shall bless
that happy night
Amang the rigs o’
barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs, &c.
I hae been blythe wi’
comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu’
gath’rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a’ the pleasures
e’er I saw,
Tho’ three times
doubl’d fairly,
That happy night was
worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’
barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs, &c.
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
Now westlin winds and
slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s
pleasant weather;
The moorcock 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.
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.
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!
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 ev’ry happy
creature.
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!
Song
Tune—“My Nanie, O.”
Behind yon hills where
Lugar flows,
‘Mang moors an’
mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day
has clos’d,
And I’ll awa to
Nanie, O.
The westlin wind blaws
loud an’ shill;
The night’s baith
mirk and rainy, O;
But I’ll get my
plaid an’ out I’ll steal,
An’ owre the hill
to Nanie, O.
My Nanie’s charming,
sweet, an’ young;
Nae artfu’ wiles
to win ye, O:
May ill befa’
the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my
Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her
heart is true;
As spotless as she’s
bonie, O:
The op’ning gowan,
wat wi’ dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie,
O.
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 aye
to Nanie, O.
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 Nanie, O.
Our auld guidman delights
to view
His sheep an’
kye thrive bonie, O;
But I’m as blythe
that hands his pleugh,
An’ has nae care
but Nanie, O.
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 Nanie, O.
A Fragment
Chor.—Green
grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes,
O;
The sweetest hours that
e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the
lasses, O.
There’s nought
but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour
that passes, O:
What signifies the life
o’ man,
An’ ’twere
na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
The war’ly 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.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a cannie
hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie,
O;
An’ war’ly
cares, an’ war’ly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie,
O!
Green grow, &c.
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.
Green grow, &c.
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, &c.
Song—Wha Is That At My Bower-Door
Tune—“Lass, an I come near thee.”
“Wha is that at
my bower-door?”
“O wha is it but
Findlay!”
“Then gae your
gate, ye’se nae be here:”
“Indeed maun I,”
quo’ Findlay;
“What mak’
ye, sae like a thief?”
“O come and see,”
quo’ Findlay;
“Before the morn
ye’ll work mischief:”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
“Gif I rise and
let you in”—
“Let me in,”
quo’ Findlay;
“Ye’ll keep
me waukin wi’ your din;”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay;
“In my bower if
ye should stay”—
“Let me stay,”
quo’ Findlay;
“I fear ye’ll
bide till break o’ day;”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
“Here this night
if ye remain”—
“I’ll remain,”
quo’ Findlay;
“I dread ye’ll
learn the gate again;”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
“What may pass
within this bower”—
“Let it pass,”
quo’ Findlay;
“Ye maun conceal
till your last hour:”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
1784
Of all the numerous
ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul,
or wring the mind with anguish
Beyond comparison the
worst are those
By our own folly, or
our guilt brought on:
In ev’ry other
circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, “It
was no deed of mine:”
But, when to all the
evil of misfortune
This sting is added,
“Blame thy foolish self!”
Or worser far, the pangs
of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing
consciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, when
we’ve involved others,
The young, the innocent,
who fondly lov’d us;
Nay more, that very
love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all
thy store of torments
There’s not a
keener lash!
Lives there a man so
firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter
horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its
agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose
of amendment,
Can firmly force his
jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable
man!
O glorious magnanimity
of soul!
Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton
Here Souter Hood in
death does sleep;
To hell if he’s
gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear
to keep;
He’ll haud it
weel thegither.
Here lies Boghead amang
the dead
In hopes to get salvation;
But if such as he in
Heav’n may be,
Then welcome, hail!
damnation.
Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father’s Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill
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 informed:
If there’s another
world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he
made the best of this.
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 fear’d no human pride;
The friend of man—to
vice alone a foe;
For “ev’n
his failings lean’d to virtue’s side."^1
[Footnote 1: Goldsmith.—R.B.]
Ballad On The American War
Tune—“Killiecrankie.”
When Guilford good our
pilot stood
An’ did our hellim
thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began
a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the
maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw,
man;
An’ did nae less,
in full congress,
Than quite refuse our
law, man.
Then thro’ the
lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw,
man;
Down Lowrie’s
Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca’,
man:
But yet, whatreck, he,
at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did
fa’, man,
Wi’ sword in hand,
before his band,
Amang his en’mies
a’, man.
Poor Tammy Gage within
a cage
Was kept at Boston—ha’,
man;
Till Willie Howe took
o’er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;
Wi’ sword an’
gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid
to draw, man;
But at New York, wi’
knife an’ fork,
Sir-Loin he hacked sma’,
man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like
spur an’ whip,
Till Fraser brave did
fa’, man;
Then lost his way, ae
misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as
lang’s he dought,
An’ did the Buckskins
claw, man;
But Clinton’s
glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa’,
man.
Then Montague, an’
Guilford too,
Began to fear, a fa’,
man;
And Sackville dour,
wha stood the stour,
The German chief to
thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like
ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a’,
man;
An’ Charlie Fox
threw by the box,
An’ lows’d
his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took
up the game,
Till death did on him
ca’, man;
When Shelburne meek
held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law,
man:
Saint Stephen’s
boys, wi’ jarring noise,
They did his measures
thraw, man;
For North an’
Fox united stocks,
An’ bore him to
the wa’, man.
Then clubs an’
hearts were Charlie’s cartes,
He swept the stakes
awa’, man,
Till the diamond’s
ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux
pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi’
loud placads,
On Chatham’s boy
did ca’, man;
An’ Scotland drew
her pipe an’ blew,
“Up, Willie, waur
them a’, man!”
Behind the throne then
Granville’s gone,
A secret word or twa,
man;
While slee Dundas arous’d
the class
Be-north the Roman wa’,
man:
An’ Chatham’s
wraith, in heav’nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw,
man),
Wi’ kindling eyes,
cry’d, “Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear’d
them a’, man?”
But, word an’
blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff’d Willie
like a ba’, man;
Till Suthron raise,
an’ coost their claise
Behind him in a raw,
man:
An’ Caledon threw
by the drone,
An’ did her whittle
draw, man;
An’ swoor fu’
rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid,
To mak it guid in law,
man.
Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing
To The Poet,
That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A
Child To Him.
I am a keeper of the
law
In some sma’ points,
altho’ not a’;
Some people tell me
gin I fa’,
Ae way or ither,
The breaking of ae point,
tho’ sma’,
Breaks a’ thegither.
I hae been in for’t
ance or twice,
And winna say o’er
far for thrice;
Yet never met wi’
that surprise
That broke my rest;
But now a rumour’s
like to rise—
A whaup’s i’
the nest!
Enclosing Some Poems
O Rough, rude, ready-witted
Rankine,
The wale o’ cocks
for fun an’ drinkin!
There’s mony godly
folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like,
a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nick’s.
Ye hae saw mony cracks
an’ cants,
And in your wicked,
drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o’
the saunts,
An’ fill them
fou;
And then their failings,
flaws, an’ wants,
Are a’ seen thro’.
Hypocrisy, in mercy
spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna
tear it!
Spare’t for their
sakes, wha aften wear it—
The lads in black;
But your curst wit,
when it comes near it,
Rives’t aff their
back.
Think, wicked Sinner,
wha ye’re skaithing:
It’s just the
Blue-gown badge an’ claithing
O’ saunts; tak
that, ye lea’e them naething
To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate
heathen,
Like you or I.
I’ve sent you
here some rhyming ware,
A’ that I bargain’d
for, an’ mair;
Sae, when ye hae an
hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang ye’ll
sen’t, wi’ cannie care,
And no neglect.
Tho’ faith, sma’
heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely
spread her wing;
I’ve play’d
mysel a bonie spring,
An’ danc’d
my fill!
I’d better gaen
an’ sair’t the king,
At Bunkjer’s Hill.
’Twas ae night
lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin’
wi’ the gun,
An’ brought a
paitrick to the grun’—
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight
was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing
was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee
for sport,
Ne’er thinkin
they wad fash me for’t;
But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.
Some auld, us’d
hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got
a shot;
I was suspected for
the plot;
I scorn’d to lie;
So gat the whissle o’
my groat,
An’ pay’t
the fee.
But by my gun, o’
guns the wale,
An’ by my pouther
an’ my hail,
An’ by my hen,
an’ by her tail,
I vow an’ swear!
The game shall pay,
o’er muir an’ dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon’s the
clockin-time is by,
An’ the wee pouts
begun to cry,
Lord, I’se hae
sporting by an’ by
For my gowd guinea,
Tho’ I should
herd the buckskin kye
For’t in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle
for to blame!
’Twas neither
broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps
about the wame,
Scarce thro’ the
feathers;
An’ baith a yellow
George to claim,
An’ thole their
blethers!
It pits me aye as mad’s
a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write
nae mair;
But pennyworths again
is fair,
When time’s expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected
Sir,
Your most obedient.
A Poet’s Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
The First Instance That
Entitled Him To
The Venerable Appellation
Of Father
Thou’s welcome,
wean; mishanter fa’ me,
If thoughts o’
thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton me
or awe me,
My bonie lady,
Or if I blush when thou
shalt ca’ me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho’ now they
ca’ me fornicator,
An’ tease my name
in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk,
I’m kent the better,
E’en let them
clash;
An auld wife’s
tongue’s a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet,
wee dochter,
Tho’ ye come here
a wee unsought for,
And tho’ your
comin’ I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye’re
no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Wee image o’ my
bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and
daut thee,
As dear, and near my
heart I set thee
Wi’ as gude will
As a’ the priests
had seen me get thee
That’s out o’
hell.
Sweet fruit o’
mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now
a’ tint,
Sin’ thou came
to the warl’ asklent,
Which fools may scoff
at;
In my last plack thy
part’s be in’t
The better ha’f
o’t.
Tho’ I should
be the waur bestead,
Thou’s be as braw
and bienly clad,
And thy young years
as nicely bred
Wi’ education,
As ony brat o’
wedlock’s bed,
In a’ thy station.
Lord grant that thou
may aye inherit
Thy mither’s person,
grace, an’ merit,
An’ thy poor,
worthless daddy’s spirit,
Without his failins,
’Twill please
me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what
I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel
I shall gie thee,
I’ll never rue
my trouble wi’ thee,
The cost nor shame o’t,
But be a loving father
to thee,
And brag the name o’t.
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
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;
Your fine Tom Jones
and Grandisons,
They make your youthful
fancies reel;
They heat your brains,
and fire your veins,
And then you’re
prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that’s
smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly
seems to feel;
That feeling heart but
acts a part—
’Tis rakish art
in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the
soft caress,
Are worse than poisoned
darts of steel;
The frank address, and
politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob
Mossgiel.
Fragment—The Mauchline Lady
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
When first I came to
Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady;
Where’er I gaed,
where’er I rade,
A mistress still I had
aye.
But when I came roun’
by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin anybody,
My heart was caught,
before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
Tune—“Black Jock.”
My girl she’s
airy, she’s buxom and gay;
Her breath is as sweet
as the blossoms in May;
A touch of her lips
it ravishes quite:
She’s always good
natur’d, good humour’d, and free;
She dances, she glances,
she smiles upon me;
I never am happy when
out of her sight.
The Belles Of Mauchline
In Mauchline there dwells
six proper young belles,
The pride of the place
and its neighbourhood a’;
Their carriage and dress,
a stranger would guess,
In Lon’on or Paris,
they’d gotten it a’.
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 wi’ Miss Morton,
But Armour’s the
jewel for me o’ them a’.
Below thir stanes lie
Jamie’s banes;
O Death, it’s
my opinion,
Thou ne’er took
such a bleth’rin bitch
Into thy dark dominion!
Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire
As father Adam first
was fool’d,
(A case that’s
still too common,)
Here lies man a woman
ruled,
The devil ruled the
woman.
O Death, had’st
thou but spar’d his life,
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged
the wife,
And a’ been weel
content.
Ev’n as he is,
cauld in his graff,
The swap we yet will
do’t;
Tak thou the carlin’s
carcase aff,
Thou’se get the
saul o’boot.
Another
One Queen Artemisia,
as old stories tell,
When deprived of her
husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love
and affection he show’d her,
She reduc’d him
to dust and she drank up the powder.
But Queen Netherplace,
of a diff’rent complexion,
When called on to order
the fun’ral direction,
Would have eat her dead
lord, on a slender pretence,
Not to show her respect,
but—to save the expense!
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 his pack,
And there blaws up a
hearty crack:
His social, friendly,
honest heart
Sae tickled Death, they
could na part;
Sae, after viewing knives
and garters,
Death taks him hame
to gie him quarters.
Epitaph On John Rankine
Ae day, as Death, that
gruesome 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:
Ashamed himself to see
the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin
at the bitches,
“By God I’ll
not be seen behint them,
Nor ’mang the
sp’ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae
honest man,
To grace this damn’d
infernal clan!”
By Adamhill a glance
he threw,
“Lord God!”
quoth he, “I have it now;
There’s just the
man I want, i’ faith!”
And quickly stoppit
Rankine’s breath.
Written With The Supposed
View Of
Being Handed To Rankine
After The Poet’s Interment
He who of Rankine sang,
lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock
hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish
change indeed.
Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge
When chill November’s
surly blast
Made fields and forests
bare,
One ev’ning, as
I wander’d forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose
aged step
Seem’d weary,
worn with care;
His face furrow’d
o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
“Young stranger,
whither wand’rest thou?”
Began the rev’rend
sage;
“Does thirst of
wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s
rage?
Or haply, prest with
cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with
me to mourn
The miseries of man.
“The sun that
overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and
wide,
Where hundreds labour
to support
A haughty lordling’s
pride;—
I’ve seen yon
weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev’ry time
has added proofs,
That man was made to
mourn.
“O man! while
in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy
precious hours—
Thy glorious, youthful
prime!
Alternate follies take
the sway;
Licentious passions
burn;
Which tenfold force
gives Nature’s law.
That man was made to
mourn.
“Look not alone
on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active
might;
Man then is useful to
his kind,
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge
of life,
With cares and sorrows
worn;
Then Age and Want—oh!
ill-match’d pair—
Shew man was made to
mourn.
“A few seem favourites
of fate,
In pleasure’s
lap carest;
Yet, think not all the
rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds
in ev’ry land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life
this lesson learn,
That man was made to
mourn.
“Many and sharp
the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we
make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and
shame!
And man, whose heav’n-erected
face
The smiles of love adorn,—
Man’s inhumanity
to man
Makes countless thousands
mourn!
“See yonder poor,
o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and
vile,
Who begs a brother of
the earth
To give him leave to
toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho’
a weeping wife
And helpless offspring
mourn.
“If I’m
design’d yon lordling’s slave,
By Nature’s law
design’d,
Why was an independent
wish
E’er planted in
my mind?
If not, why am I subject
to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has man the will
and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?
“Yet, let not
this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful
breast:
This partial view of
human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed,
honest man
Had never, sure, been
born,
Had there not been some
recompense
To comfort those that
mourn!
“O Death! the
poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the
best!
Welcome the hour my
aged limbs
Are laid with thee at
rest!
The great, the wealthy
fear thy blow
From pomp and pleasure
torn;
But, oh! a blest relief
for those
That weary-laden mourn!”
An Unco Mournfu’ Tale
“Blockheads with
reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is
barbarous civil war,”—Pope.
O a’ ye pious
godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures
orthodox,
Wha now will keep you
frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the
waifs an’ crocks,
About the dykes?
The twa best herds in
a’ the wast,
The e’er ga’e
gospel horn a blast
These five an’
twenty simmers past—
Oh, dool to tell!
Hae had a bitter black
out-cast
Atween themsel’.
O, Moddie,^1 man, an’
wordy Russell,^2
How could you raise
so vile a bustle;
Ye’ll see how
New-Light herds will whistle,
An’ think it fine!
The Lord’s cause
ne’er gat sic a twistle,
Sin’ I hae min’.
O, sirs! whae’er
wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae
negleckit,
Ye wha were ne’er
by lairds respeckit
To wear the plaid;
But by the brutes themselves
eleckit,
To be their guide.
What flock wi’
Moodie’s flock could rank?—
Sae hale and hearty
every shank!
Nae poison’d soor
Arminian stank
He let them taste;
Frae Calvin’s
well, aye clear, drank,—
O, sic a feast!
[Footnote 1: Rev. Mr. Moodie of Riccarton.]
[Footnote 2: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]
The thummart, willcat,
brock, an’ tod,
Weel kend his voice
thro’ a’ the wood,
He smell’d their
ilka hole an’ road,
Baith out an in;
An’ weel he lik’d
to shed their bluid,
An’ sell their
skin.
What herd like Russell
tell’d his tale;
His voice was heard
thro’ muir and dale,
He kenn’d the
Lord’s sheep, ilka tail,
Owre a’ the height;
An’ saw gin they
were sick or hale,
At the first sight.
He fine a mangy sheep
could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel
club,
And New-Light herds
could nicely drub
Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o’er
the burning dub,
Or heave them in.
Sic twa—O!
do I live to see’t?—
Sic famous twa should
disagree’t,
And names, like “villain,”
“hypocrite,”
Ilk ither gi’en,
While New-Light herds,
wi’ laughin spite,
Say neither’s
liein!
A’ ye wha tent
the gospel fauld,
There’s Duncan^3
deep, an’ Peebles^4 shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle
Auld,^5
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work
them, het an’ cauld,
Till they agree.
Consider, sirs, how
we’re beset;
There’s scarce
a new herd that we get,
But comes frae ’mang
that cursed set,
I winna name;
I hope frae heav’n
to see them yet
In fiery flame.
[Footnote 3: Dr. Robert Duncan of Dundonald.]
[Footnote 4: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-on-Ayr.]
[Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Auld of Mauchline.]
Dalrymple^6 has been
lang our fae,
M’Gill^7 has wrought
us meikle wae,
An’ that curs’d
rascal ca’d M’Quhae,^8
And baith the Shaws,^9
That aft hae made us
black an’ blae,
Wi’ vengefu’
paws.
Auld Wodrow^10 lang
has hatch’d mischief;
We thought aye death
wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to
our grief,
Ane to succeed him,^11
A chield wha’ll
soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.
And mony a ane that
I could tell,
Wha fain wad openly
rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang
oursel’,
There’s Smith^12
for ane;
I doubt he’s but
a grey nick quill,
An’ that ye’ll
fin’.
O! a’ ye flocks
o’er a, the hills,
By mosses, meadows,
moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel
and your skills
To cowe the lairds,
An’ get the brutes
the power themsel’s
To choose their herds.
Then Orthodoxy yet may
prance,
An’ Learning in
a woody dance,
An’ that fell
cur ca’d Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banished o’er
the sea to France:
Let him bark there.
Then Shaw’s an’
D’rymple’s eloquence,
M’Gill’s
close nervous excellence
[Footnote 6: Rev. Dr. Dalrymple of Ayr.]
[Footnote 7: Rev. Wm. M’Gill, colleague of Dr. Dalrymple.]
[Footnote 8: Minister of St. Quivox.]
[Footnote 9: Dr.
Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of
Coylton.]
[Footnote 10: Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton.]
[Footnote 11: Rev.
John M’Math, a young assistant and successor
to Wodrow.]
[Footnote 12: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]
M’Quhae’s
pathetic manly sense,
An’ guid M’Math,
Wi’ Smith, wha
thro’ the heart can glance,
May a’ pack aff.
1785
January
While winds frae aff
Ben-Lomond blaw,
An’ bar the doors
wi’ driving snaw,
An’ hing us owre
the ingle,
I set me down to pass
the time,
An’ spin a verse
or twa o’ rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw
in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folk’s
gift,
That live sae bien an’
snug:
I tent less, and want
less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed
pride.
It’s hardly in
a body’s pow’r
To keep, at times, frae
being sour,
To see how things are
shar’d;
How best o’ chiels
are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless
thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair’t;
But, Davie, lad, ne’er
fash your head,
Tho’ we hae little
gear;
We’re fit to win
our daily bread,
As lang’s we’re
hale and fier:
“Mair spier na,
nor fear na,"^1
Auld age ne’er
mind a feg;
The last o’t,
the warst o’t
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and
barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d,
and bluid is thin,
Is doubtless, great
distress!
[Footnote 1: Ramsay.—R. B.]
Yet then content could
make us blest;
Ev’n then, sometimes,
we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that’s
free frae a’
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick
the ba’,
Has aye some cause to
smile;
An’ mind still,
you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’;
Nae mair then we’ll
care then,
Nae farther can we fa’.
What tho’, like
commoners of air,
We wander out, we know
not where,
But either house or
hal’,
Yet nature’s charms,
the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales,
and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies
deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle
clear,
With honest joy our
hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please,
then,
We’ll sit an’
sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till’t
we’ll time till’t,
An’ sing’t
when we hae done.
It’s no in titles
nor in rank;
It’s no in wealth
like Lon’on bank,
To purchase peace and
rest:
It’s no in makin’
muckle, mair;
It’s no in books,
it’s no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not
her seat
An’ centre in
the breast,
We may be wise, or rich,
or great,
But never can be blest;
Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy
lang;
The heart aye’s
the part aye
That makes us right
or wrang.
Think ye, that sic as
you and I,
Wha drudge an’
drive thro’ wet and dry,
Wi’ never-ceasing
toil;
Think ye, are we less
blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us
in their way,
As hardly worth their
while?
Alas! how aft in haughty
mood,
God’s creatures
they oppress!
Or else, neglecting
a’ that’s guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or
hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It’s a’
an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu’
acquiesce,
Nor make our scanty
pleasures less,
By pining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes
come,
I, here wha sit, hae
met wi’ some—
An’s thankfu’
for them yet.
They gie the wit of
age to youth;
They let us ken oursel’;
They make us see the
naked truth,
The real guid and ill:
Tho’ losses an’
crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there,
ye’ll get there,
Ye’ll find nae
other where.
But tent me, Davie,
ace o’ hearts!
(To say aught less wad
wrang the cartes,
And flatt’ry I
detest)
This life has joys for
you and I;
An’ joys that
riches ne’er could buy,
An’ joys the very
best.
There’s a’
the pleasures o’ the heart,
The lover an’
the frien’;
Ye hae your Meg, your
dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms
me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets
me,
An’ sets me a’
on flame!
O all ye Pow’rs
who rule above!
O Thou whose very self
art love!
Thou know’st my
words sincere!
The life-blood streaming
thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear immortal
part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding
care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings
relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r;
Still take her, and
make her
Thy most peculiar care!
All hail! ye tender
feelings dear!
The smile of love, the
friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this world’s
thorny ways
Had number’d out
my weary days,
Had it not been for
you!
Fate still has blest
me with a friend,
In ev’ry care
and ill;
And oft a more endearing
band—
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet
with
My Davie, or my Jean!
O, how that name inspires
my style!
The words come skelpin,
rank an’ file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins
as fine,
As Phoebus an’
the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my
pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will
limp,
Till ance he’s
fairly het;
And then he’ll
hilch, and stilt, an’ jimp,
And rin an unco fit:
But least then the beast
then
Should rue this hasty
ride,
I’ll light now,
and dight now
His sweaty, wizen’d
hide.
Holy Willie’s Prayer
“And send the godly in a pet to pray.”—Pope.
Argument.
Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline—a Mr. Gavin Hamilton—Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton’s counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton’s being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him [Holy Willie] at his devotions, as follows:—
O Thou, who in the heavens
does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best
Thysel’,
Sends ane to heaven
an’ ten to hell,
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude
or ill
They’ve done afore
Thee!
I bless and praise Thy
matchless might,
When thousands Thou
hast left in night,
That I am here afore
Thy sight,
For gifts an’
grace
A burning and a shining
light
To a’ this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic
exaltation,
I wha deserve most just
damnation
For broken laws,
Five thousand years
ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s
cause?
When frae my mither’s
womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged
me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to
weep and wail,
In burnin lakes,
Where damned devils
roar and yell,
Chain’d to their
stakes.
Yet I am here a chosen
sample,
To show thy grace is
great and ample;
I’m here a pillar
o’ Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler,
and example,
To a’ Thy flock.
O Lord, Thou kens what
zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink,
an’ swearers swear,
An’ singin there,
an’ dancin here,
Wi’ great and
sma’;
For I am keepit by Thy
fear
Free frae them a’.
But yet, O Lord! confess
I must,
At times I’m fash’d
wi’ fleshly lust:
An’ sometimes,
too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we
are dust,
Defil’d wi’
sin.
O Lord! yestreen, Thou
kens, wi’ Meg—
Thy pardon I sincerely
beg,
O! may’t ne’er
be a livin plague
To my dishonour,
An’ I’ll
ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun
allow,
Wi’ Leezie’s
lass, three times I trow—
But Lord, that Friday
I was fou,
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens,
Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
Maybe Thou lets this
fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e’en
and morn,
Lest he owre proud and
high shou’d turn,
That he’s sae
gifted:
If sae, Thy han’
maun e’en be borne,
Until Thou lift it.
Lord, bless Thy chosen
in this place,
For here Thou hast a
chosen race:
But God confound their
stubborn face,
An’ blast their
name,
Wha bring Thy elders
to disgrace
An’ public shame.
Lord, mind Gaw’n
Hamilton’s deserts;
He drinks, an’
swears, an’ plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin
arts,
Wi’ great and
sma’,
Frae God’s ain
priest the people’s hearts
He steals awa.
An’ when we chasten’d
him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred
sic a splore,
An’ set the warld
in a roar
O’ laughing at
us;—
Curse Thou his basket
and his store,
Kail an’ potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest
cry and pray’r,
Against that Presbyt’ry
o’ Ayr;
Thy strong right hand,
Lord, make it bare
Upo’ their heads;
Lord visit them, an’
dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord, my God! that
glib-tongu’d Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh
are quakin,
To think how we stood
sweatin’, shakin,
An’ p-’d
wi’ dread,
While he, wi’
hingin lip an’ snakin,
Held up his head.
Lord, in Thy day o’
vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha
did employ him,
And pass not in Thy
mercy by ’em,
Nor hear their pray’r,
But for Thy people’s
sake, destroy ’em,
An’ dinna spare.
But, Lord, remember
me an’ mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral
an’ divine,
That I for grace an’
gear may shine,
Excell’d by nane,
And a’ the glory
shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
Here Holy Willie’s
sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta’en
some other way,
I fear, the left-hand
road.
Stop! there he is, as
sure’s a gun,
Poor, silly body, see
him;
Nae wonder he’s
as black’s the grun,
Observe wha’s
standing wi’ him.
Your brunstane devilship,
I see,
Has got him there before
ye;
But haud your nine-tail
cat a wee,
Till ance you’ve
heard my story.
Your pity I will not
implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gi’en
him o’er,
And mercy’s day
is gane.
But hear me, Sir, deil
as ye are,
Look something to your
credit;
A coof like him wad
stain your name,
If it were kent ye did
it.
Death and Doctor Hornbook
A True Story
Some books are lies
frae end to end,
And some great lies
were never penn’d:
Ev’n ministers
they hae been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times
to vend,
And nail’t wi’
Scripture.
But this that I am gaun
to tell,
Which lately on a night
befell,
Is just as true’s
the Deil’s in hell
Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer
comes oursel’
’S a muckle pity.
The clachan yill had
made me canty,
I was na fou, but just
had plenty;
I stacher’d whiles,
but yet too tent aye
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks,
stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye
Frae ghaists an’
witches.
The rising moon began
to glowre
The distant Cumnock
hills out-owre:
To count her horns,
wi’ a my pow’r,
I set mysel’;
But whether she had
three or four,
I cou’d na tell.
I was come round about
the hill,
An’ todlin down
on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff wi’
a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whiles,
against my will,
I took a bicker.
I there wi’ Something
did forgather,
That pat me in an eerie
swither;
An’ awfu’
scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d
leister on the ither
Lay, large an’
lang.
Its stature seem’d
lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that
e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it
had ava;
And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as
sharp an’ sma’
As cheeks o’ branks.
“Guid-een,”
quo’ I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are
busy sawin!"^1
I seem’d to make
a kind o’ stan’
But naething spak;
At length, says I, “Friend!
whare ye gaun?
Will ye go back?”
It spak right howe,—“My
name is Death,
But be na fley’d.”—Quoth
I, “Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come
to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care
o’ skaith
See, there’s a
gully!”
“Gudeman,”
quo’ he, “put up your whittle,
I’m no designed
to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad
be kittle
To be mislear’d;
I wad na mind it, no
that spittle
Out-owre my beard.”
“Weel, weel!”
says I, “a bargain be’t;
Come, gie’s your
hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our
shanks an tak a seat—
Come, gie’s your
news;
This while ye hae been
mony a gate,
At mony a house."^2
[Footnote 1: This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785.—R.B.]
[Footnote 2: An
epidemical fever was then raging in that
country.—R.B.]
“Ay, ay!”
quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
“It’s e’en
a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to
nick the thread,
An’ choke the
breath:
Folk maun do something
for their bread,
An’ sae maun Death.
“Sax thousand
years are near-hand fled
Sin’ I was to
the butching bred,
An’ mony a scheme
in vain’s been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook’s^3
ta’en up the trade,
And faith! he’ll
waur me.
“Ye ken Hornbook
i’ the clachan,
Deil mak his king’s-hood
in spleuchan!
He’s grown sae
weel acquaint wi’ Buchan^4
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their
fingers laughin,
An’ pouk my hips.
“See, here’s
a scythe, an’ there’s dart,
They hae pierc’d
mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook,
wi’ his art
An’ cursed skill,
Has made them baith
no worth a f-t,
Damn’d haet they’ll
kill!
“’Twas but
yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw
at ane;
Wi’ less, I’m
sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play’d
dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.
“Hornbook was
by, wi’ ready art,
An’ had sae fortify’d
the part,
[Footnote 3: This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.—R.B.]
[Footnote 4: Burchan’s Domestic Medicine.—R.B.]
That when I looked to
my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t
wad hae pierc’d the heart
Of a kail-runt.
“I drew my scythe
in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi’
my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae
tried a quarry
O’ hard whin rock.
“Ev’n them
he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face
he ne’er had kend it,
Just—in a
kail-blade, an’ sent it,
As soon’s he smells
’t,
Baith their disease,
and what will mend it,
At once he tells ’t.
“And then, a’ doctor’s saws an’ whittles, Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles, A’ kind o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles, He’s sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles as A B C.
“Calces o’
fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o’
the seas;
The farina of beans
an’ pease,
He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, what you
please,
He can content ye.
“Forbye some new,
uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons;
Or mite-horn shavings,
filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per
se;
Sal-alkali o’
midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae.”
“Waes me for Johnie
Ged’s^5 Hole now,”
Quoth I, “if that
thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare
gowans grew,
Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt they’ll
rive it wi’ the plew;
They’ll ruin Johnie!”
The creature grain’d
an eldritch laugh,
And says “Ye needna
yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon
be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They’ll be trench’d
wi’ mony a sheugh,
In twa-three year.
“Whare I kill’d
ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood
or want of breath
This night I’m
free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook’s
skill
Has clad a score i’
their last claith,
By drap an’ pill.
“An honest wabster
to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa
nieves were scarce weel-bred
Gat tippence-worth to
mend her head,
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie
to her bed,
But ne’er spak
mair.
“A country laird
had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in
his guts,
His only son for Hornbook
sets,
An’ pays him well:
The lad, for twa guid
gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel’.
“A bonie lass—ye
kend her name—
Some ill-brewn drink
had hov’d her wame;
She trusts hersel’,
to hide the shame,
In Hornbook’s
care;
Horn sent her aff to
her lang hame,
To hide it there.
[Footnote 5: The grave-digger.—R.B.]
“That’s
just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;
Thus goes he on from
day to day,
Thus does he poison,
kill, an’ slay,
An’s weel paid
for’t;
Yet stops me o’
my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’ his damn’d
dirt:
“But, hark!
I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye
be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the
self-conceited sot,
As dead’s a herrin;
Neist time we meet,
I’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!”
But just as he began
to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer
strak the bell
Some wee short hour
ayont the twal’,
Which rais’d us
baith:
I took the way that
pleas’d mysel’,
And sae did Death.
April 1, 1785
While briers an’
woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks
scraichin loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie
whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an
unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.
On Fasten—e’en
we had a rockin,
To ca’ the crack
and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle
fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty
yokin
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang
the rest,
Aboon them a’
it pleas’d me best,
That some kind husband
had addrest
To some sweet wife;
It thirl’d the
heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.
I’ve scarce heard
ought describ’d sae weel,
What gen’rous,
manly bosoms feel;
Thought I “Can
this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark?”
They tauld me ’twas
an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain
to hear’t,
An’ sae about
him there I speir’t;
Then a’ that kent
him round declar’d
He had ingine;
That nane excell’d
it, few cam near’t,
It was sae fine:
That, set him to a pint
of ale,
An’ either douce
or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’
sangs he’d made himsel,
Or witty catches—
‘Tween Inverness
an’ Teviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an’
swoor an aith,
Tho’ I should
pawn my pleugh an’ graith,
Or die a cadger pownie’s
death,
At some dyke-back,
A pint an’ gill
I’d gie them baith,
To hear your crack.
But, first an’
foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I
could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle
fell;
Tho’ rude an’
rough—
Yet crooning to a body’s
sel’
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae poet, in a
sense;
But just a rhymer like
by chance,
An’ hae to learning
nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter?
Whene’er my muse
does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may
cock their nose,
And say, “How
can you e’er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse
frae prose,
To mak a sang?”
But, by your leaves,
my learned foes,
Ye’re maybe wrang.
What’s a’
your jargon o’ your schools—
Your Latin names for
horns an’ stools?
If honest Nature made
you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye’d better taen
up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o’ dull,
conceited hashes
Confuse their brains
in college classes!
They gang in stirks,
and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An’ syne they
think to climb Parnassus
By dint o’ Greek!
Gie me ae spark o’
nature’s fire,
That’s a’
the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge
thro’ dub an’ mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, tho’
hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o’
Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s
the bauld an’ slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s,
my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh
for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae
friends enow,
Tho’ real friends,
I b’lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue
be fu’,
I’se no insist:
But, gif ye want ae
friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts
to tell;
But friends, an’
folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose
me;
Tho’ I maun own,
as mony still
As far abuse me.
There’s ae wee
faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses—Gude
forgie me!
For mony a plack they
wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing
they gie me,
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline Race,
or Mauchline Fair,
I should be proud to
meet you there;
We’se gie ae night’s
discharge to care,
If we forgather;
An’ hae a swap
o’ rhymin-ware
Wi’ ane anither.
The four-gill chap,
we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsen him
wi’ reekin water;
Syne we’ll sit
down an’ tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’se
be acquainted better
Before we part.
Awa ye selfish, war’ly
race,
Wha think that havins,
sense, an’ grace,
Ev’n love an’
friendship should give place
To catch—the—plack!
I dinna like to see
your face,
Nor hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure
charms
Whose hearts the tide
of kindness warms,
Who hold your being
on the terms,
“Each aid the
others,”
Come to my bowl, come
to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But, to conclude my
lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s
worn to the gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad
gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing
or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
Second Epistle To J. Lapraik
April 21, 1785
While new-ca’d
kye rowte at the stake
An’ pownies reek
in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e’enin’s
edge I take,
To own I’m debtor
To honest-hearted, auld
Lapraik,
For his kind letter.
Forjesket sair, with
weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out-owre
the rigs,
Or dealing thro’
amang the naigs
Their ten-hours’
bite,
My awkart Muse sair
pleads and begs
I would na write.
The tapetless, ramfeezl’d
hizzie,
She’s saft at
best an’ something lazy:
Quo’ she, “Ye
ken we’ve been sae busy
This month an’
mair,
That trowth, my head
is grown right dizzie,
An’ something
sair.”
Her dowff excuses pat
me mad;
“Conscience,”
says I, “ye thowless jade!
I’ll write, an’
that a hearty blaud,
This vera night;
So dinna ye affront
your trade,
But rhyme it right.
“Shall bauld Lapraik,
the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were
a pack o’ cartes,
Roose you sae weel for
your deserts,
In terms sae friendly;
Yet ye’ll neglect
to shaw your parts
An’ thank him
kindly?”
Sae I gat paper in a
blink,
An’ down gaed
stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, “Before
I sleep a wink,
I vow I’ll close
it;
An’ if ye winna
mak it clink,
By Jove, I’ll
prose it!”
Sae I’ve begun
to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose,
or baith thegither;
Or some hotch-potch
that’s rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble
down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.
My worthy friend, ne’er
grudge an’ carp,
Tho’ fortune use
you hard an’ sharp;
Come, kittle up your
moorland harp
Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how
Fortune waft and warp;
She’s but a bitch.
She ‘s gien me
mony a jirt an’ fleg,
Sin’ I could striddle
owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, tho’
I should beg
Wi’ lyart pow,
I’ll laugh an’
sing, an’ shake my leg,
As lang’s I dow!
Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth
simmer
I’ve seen the
bud upon the timmer,
Still persecuted by
the limmer
Frae year to year;
But yet, despite the
kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.
Do ye envy the city
gent,
Behint a kist to lie
an’ sklent;
Or pursue-proud, big
wi’ cent. per cent.
An’ muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to
represent
A bailie’s name?
Or is’t the paughty,
feudal thane,
Wi’ ruffl’d
sark an’ glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae
sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks;
While caps and bonnets
aff are taen,
As by he walks?
“O Thou wha gies
us each guid gift!
Gie me o’ wit
an’ sense a lift,
Then turn me, if thou
please, adrift,
Thro’ Scotland
wide;
Wi’ cits nor lairds
I wadna shift,
In a’ their pride!”
Were this the charter
of our state,
“On pain o’
hell be rich an’ great,”
Damnation then would
be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to heaven,
that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate
ran,
When first the human
race began;
“The social, friendly,
honest man,
Whate’er he be—
’Tis he fulfils
great Nature’s plan,
And none but he.”
O mandate glorious and
divine!
The ragged followers
o’ the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils!
yet may shine
In glorious light,
While sordid sons o’
Mammon’s line
Are dark as night!
Tho’ here they
scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless nievefu’
of a soul
May in some future carcase
howl,
The forest’s fright;
Or in some day-detesting
owl
May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and
Burns arise,
To reach their native,
kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures,
hopes an’ joys,
In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in
friendship’s ties,
Each passing year!
Schoolmaster, Ochiltree.—May, 1785
I gat your letter, winsome
Willie;
Wi’ gratefu’
heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho’ I maun say’t,
I wad be silly,
And unco vain,
Should I believe, my
coaxin billie
Your flatterin strain.
But I’se believe
ye kindly meant it:
I sud be laith to think
ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins
sklented
On my poor Musie;
Tho’ in sic phraisin
terms ye’ve penn’d it,
I scarce excuse ye.
My senses wad be in
a creel,
Should I but dare a
hope to speel
Wi’ Allan, or
wi’ Gilbertfield,
The braes o’ fame;
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious
parts
Ill suited law’s
dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane
hearts,
Ye E’nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o’ what
ye waste at cartes
Wad stow’d his
pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes
i’ my head,
Or lassies gie my heart
a screed—
As whiles they’re
like to be my dead,
(O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic
reed;
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge
fu’ fain,
She’s gotten poets
o’ her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters
winna hain,
But tune their lays,
Till echoes a’
resound again
Her weel-sung praise.
Nae poet thought her
worth his while,
To set her name in measur’d
style;
She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle
Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting
oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.
Ramsay an’ famous
Fergusson
Gied Forth an’
Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed,
to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar,
Ayr, an’ Doon
Naebody sings.
Th’ Illissus,
Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in monie
a tunefu’ line:
But Willie, set your
fit to mine,
An’ cock your
crest;
We’ll gar our
streams an’ burnies shine
Up wi’ the best!
We’ll sing auld
Coila’s plains an’ fells,
Her moors red-brown
wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’
braes, her dens and dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as
story tells,
Frae Suthron billies.
At Wallace’ name,
what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide
flood!
Oft have our fearless
fathers strode
By Wallace’ side,
Still pressing onward,
red-wat-shod,
Or glorious died!
O, sweet are Coila’s
haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant
amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in
amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy;
While thro’ the
braes the cushat croods
With wailfu’ cry!
Ev’n winter bleak
has charms to me,
When winds rave thro’
the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of
Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious
flee,
Dark’ning the
day!
O Nature! a’ thy
shews an’ forms
To feeling, pensive
hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly
warms,
Wi’ life an light;
Or winter howls, in
gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!
The muse, nae poet ever
fand her,
Till by himsel he learn’d
to wander,
Adown some trottin burn’s
meander,
An’ no think lang:
O sweet to stray, an’
pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!
The war’ly race
may drudge an’ drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie,
stretch, an’ strive;
Let me fair Nature’s
face descrive,
And I, wi’ pleasure,
Shall let the busy,
grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure.
Fareweel, “my
rhyme-composing” brither!
We’ve been owre
lang unkenn’d to ither:
Now let us lay our heads
thegither,
In love fraternal:
May envy wallop in a
tether,
Black fiend, infernal!
While Highlandmen hate
tools an’ taxes;
While moorlan’s
herds like guid, fat braxies;
While terra firma, on
her axis,
Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in
faith an’ practice,
In Robert Burns.
Postcript
My memory’s no
worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten
clean,
Ye bade me write you
what they mean
By this “new-light,”
’Bout which our
herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind
were but callans
At grammar, logic, an’
sic talents,
They took nae pains
their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie;
But spak their thoughts
in plain, braid lallans,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times,
they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or
pair o’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till
her last roon
Gaed past their viewin;
An’ shortly after
she was done
They gat a new ane.
This passed for certain,
undisputed;
It ne’er cam i’
their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an’
wad confute it,
An’ ca’d
it wrang;
An’ muckle din
there was about it,
Baith loud an’
lang.
Some herds, weel learn’d
upo’ the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk
the thing misteuk;
For ’twas the
auld moon turn’d a neuk
An’ out of’
sight,
An’ backlins-comin
to the leuk
She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d,
it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels
were alarm’d
The rev’rend gray-beards
rav’d an’ storm’d,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better
wer inform’d,
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it
gaed to sticks;
Frae words an’
aiths to clours an’ nicks;
An monie a fallow gat
his licks,
Wi’ hearty crunt;
An’ some, to learn
them for their tricks,
Were hang’d an’
brunt.
This game was play’d
in mony lands,
An’ auld-light
caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters
took the sands
Wi’ nimble shanks;
Till lairds forbad,
by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds
gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin’d
stick-an-stowe;
Till now, amaist on
ev’ry knowe
Ye’ll find ane
plac’d;
An’ some their
new-light fair avow,
Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the auld-light
flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds
are vex’d an’ sweatin;
Mysel’, I’ve
even seen them greetin
Wi’ girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae
sadly lied on
By word an’ write.
But shortly they will
cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds
in neebor touns
Are mind’t, in
things they ca’ balloons,
To tak a flight;
An’ stay ae month
amang the moons
An’ see them right.
Guid observation they
will gie them;
An’ when the auld
moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmaist shaird,
they’ll fetch it wi’ them
Just i’ their
pouch;
An’ when the new-light
billies see them,
I think they’ll
crouch!
Sae, ye observe that
a’ this clatter
Is naething but a “moonshine
matter”;
But tho’ dull
prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulyie,
I hope we bardies ken
some better
Than mind sic brulyie.
Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.”
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 through the braes . . . . . . .
Tho’ Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part
Tune—“The Northern Lass.”
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine. Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean. . . . . . . .
[Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.]
Tune—“Daintie Davie.”
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.
Chor.—Robin
was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’, rovin’,
rantin’, rovin’,
Robin was a rovin’
boy,
Rantin’, rovin’,
Robin!
Our monarch’s
hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty
days begun^2,
‘Twas then a blast
o’ Janwar’ win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
[Footnote 2: January
25, 1759, the date of my
bardship’s
vital existence.—R.B.]
The gossip keekit in
his loof,
Quo’ scho, “Wha
lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be
nae coof:
I think we’ll
ca’ him Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“He’ll hae
misfortunes great an’ sma’,
But aye a heart aboon
them a’,
He’ll be a credit
till us a’—
We’ll a’
be proud o’ Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“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.”
Robin was, &c.
“Guid faith,”
quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie
aspar;
But twenty fauts ye
may hae waur
So blessins on thee!
Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^1
Now Robin lies in his
last lair,
He’ll gabble rhyme,
nor sing nae mair;
Cauld poverty, wi’
hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear
him;
Nor anxious fear, nor
cankert care,
E’er mair come
near him.
To tell the truth, they
seldom fash’d him,
Except the moment that
they crush’d him;
For sune as chance or
fate had hush’d ’em
Tho’ e’er
sae short.
Then wi’ a rhyme
or sang he lash’d ’em,
And thought it sport.
[Footnote 1: Ruisseaux
is French for rivulets
or “burns,”
a translation of his name.]
Tho’he was bred
to kintra-wark,
And counted was baith
wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin’s
mark
To mak a man;
But tell him, he was
learn’d and clark,
Ye roos’d him
then!
Author Of The Gospel Recovered.—August, 1785
O Gowdie, terror o’
the whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats
and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her
last legs,
Girns an’ looks
back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian
plagues
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’
Superstition!
Wae’s me, she’s
in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black
Jock,^1 her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas, there’s
ground for great suspicion
She’ll ne’er
get better.
Enthusiasm’s past
redemption,
Gane in a gallopin’
consumption:
Not a’ her quacks,
wi’ a’ their gumption,
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies
strong presumption,
She’ll soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang
did grapple,
For every hole to get
a stapple;
But now she fetches
at the thrapple,
An’ fights for
breath;
Haste, gie her name
up in the chapel,^2
Near unto death.
It’s you an’
Taylor^3 are the chief
To blame for a’
this black mischief;
[Footnote 1: The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.—R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Mr. Russell’s Kirk.—R. B.]
[Footnote 3: Dr. Taylor of Norwich.—R. B.]
But, could the Lord’s
ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An’ twa red peats
wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.
For me, my skill’s
but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose
I’ve nane ava’;
But quietlins-wise,
between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho’ they
sud your sair misca’,
Ne’er fash your
head.
E’en swinge the
dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel
aye chap the thicker;
And still ’mang
hands a hearty bicker
O’ something stout;
It gars an owthor’s
pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There’s naething
like the honest nappy;
Whare’ll ye e’er
see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft
an’ sappy,
’Tween morn and
morn,
As them wha like to
taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me dazed
upon a time,
I scarce could wink
or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin
does me prime,—
Ought less is little—
Then back I rattle on
the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.
The Holy Fair^1
A robe of seeming truth
and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with
poison’d crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
[Footnote 1: “Holy
Fair” is a common phrase in the west of Scotland
for a sacramental
occasion.—R. B.]
A mask that like the
gorget show’d,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large
and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
Hypocrisy A-La-Mode
Upon a simmer Sunday
morn
When Nature’s
face is fair,
I walked forth to view
the corn,
An’ snuff the
caller air.
The rising sun owre
Galston muirs
Wi’ glorious light
was glintin;
The hares were hirplin
down the furrs,
The lav’rocks
they were chantin
Fu’ sweet that
day.
As lightsomely I glowr’d
abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early
at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o’
dolefu’ black,
But ane wi’ lyart
lining;
The third, that gaed
a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu’ gay that day.
The twa appear’d
like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an’
claes;
Their visage wither’d,
lang an’ thin,
An’ sour as only
slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’a
curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e’er
she saw me,
Fu’ kind that
day.
Wi’ bonnet aff,
quoth I, “Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken
me;
I’m sure I’ve
seen that bonie face
But yet I canna name
ye.”
Quo’ she, an’
laughin as she spak,
An’ taks me by
the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake,
hae gien the feck
Of a’ the ten
comman’s
A screed some day.”
“My name is Fun—your
cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye
hae;
An’ this is Superstitution
here,
An’ that’s
Hypocrisy.
I’m gaun to Mauchline
Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in
daffin:
Gin ye’ll go there,
yon runkl’d pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day.”
Quoth I, “Wi’
a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;
I’ll get my Sunday’s
sark on,
An’ meet you on
the holy spot;
Faith, we’se hae
fine remarkin!”
Then I gaed hame at
crowdie-time,
An’ soon I made
me ready;
For roads were clad,
frae side to side,
Wi’ mony a weary
body
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in
ridin graith,
Gaed hoddin by their
cotters;
There swankies young,
in braw braid-claith,
Are springing owre the
gutters.
The lasses, skelpin
barefit, thrang,
In silks an’ scarlets
glitter;
Wi’ sweet-milk
cheese, in mony a whang,
An’ farls, bak’d
wi’ butter,
Fu’ crump that
day.
When by the plate we
set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi’
ha’pence,
A greedy glowr black-bonnet
throws,
An’ we maun draw
our tippence.
Then in we go to see
the show:
On ev’ry side
they’re gath’rin;
Some carrying dails,
some chairs an’ stools,
An’ some are busy
bleth’rin
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to
fend the show’rs,
An’ screen our
countra gentry;
There Racer Jess,^2
an’ twa-three whores,
Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’
tittlin jads,
Wi’ heaving breast
an’ bare neck;
An’ there a batch
o’ wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.
Here, some are thinkin
on their sins,
An’ some upo’
their claes;
Ane curses feet that
fyl’d his shins,
Anither sighs an’
prays:
On this hand sits a
chosen swatch,
Wi’ screwed-up,
grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’
chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin on the
lasses
To chairs that day.
O happy is that man,
an’ blest!
Nae wonder that it pride
him!
Whase ain dear lass,
that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside
him!
Wi’ arms repos’d
on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose
him;
Which, by degrees, slips
round her neck,
An’s loof upon
her bosom,
Unkend that day.
Now a’ the congregation
o’er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie^3 speels
the holy door,
Wi’ tidings o’
damnation:
[Footnote 2: Racer
Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of
Possie Nansie.
She was a great pedestrian.]
[Footnote 3: Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.]
Should Hornie, as in
ancient days,
‘Mang sons o’
God present him,
The vera sight o’
Moodie’s face,
To ’s ain het
hame had sent him
Wi’ fright that
day.
Hear how he clears the
point o’ faith
Wi’ rattlin and
wi’ thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now
wild in wrath,
He’s stampin,
an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d
chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel
an’ gestures,
O how they fire the
heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters
On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has
chang’d its voice,
There’s peace
an’ rest nae langer;
For a’ the real
judges rise,
They canna sit for anger,
Smith^4 opens out his
cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly
pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an’
barrels
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren
shine,
Of moral powers an’
reason?
His English style, an’
gesture fine
Are a’ clean out
o’ season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does
define,
But ne’er a word
o’ faith in
That’s right that
day.
In guid time comes an
antidote
Against sic poison’d
nostrum;
For Peebles,^5 frae
the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
[Footnote 4: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]
[Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]
See, up he’s got,
the word o’ God,
An’ meek an’
mim has view’d it,
While Common-sense has
taen the road,
An’ aff, an’
up the Cowgate^6
Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller^7 neist the
guard relieves,
An’ Orthodoxy
raibles,
Tho’ in his heart
he weel believes,
An’ thinks it
auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie
wants a manse,
So, cannilie he hums
them;
Altho’ his carnal
wit an’ sense
Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes
him
At times that day.
Now, butt an’
ben, the change-house fills,
Wi’ yill-caup
commentators;
Here ’s cryin
out for bakes and gills,
An’ there the
pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’
thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
Wi’ logic an’
wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that
in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O’ wrath that
day.
Leeze me on drink! it
gies us mair
Than either school or
college;
It kindles wit, it waukens
lear,
It pangs us fou o’
knowledge:
Be’t whisky-gill
or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin
deep,
To kittle up our notion,
By night or day.
The lads an’ lasses,
blythely bent
To mind baith saul an’
body,
Sit round the table,
weel content,
An’ steer about
the toddy:
[Footnote 6: A
street so called which faces the tent in
Mauchline.—R.
B.]
[Footnote 7: Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.]
On this ane’s
dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,
They’re makin
observations;
While some are cozie
i’ the neuk,
An’ forming assignations
To meet some day.
But now the Lord’s
ain trumpet touts,
Till a’ the hills
are rairin,
And echoes back return
the shouts;
Black Russell is na
sparin:
His piercin words, like
Highlan’ swords,
Divide the joints an’
marrow;
His talk o’ Hell,
whare devils dwell,
Our vera “sauls
does harrow”
Wi’ fright that
day!
A vast, unbottom’d,
boundless pit,
Fill’d fou o’
lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame,
an’ scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest
whun-stane!
The half-asleep start
up wi’ fear,
An’ think they
hear it roarin;
When presently it does
appear,
’Twas but some
neibor snorin
Asleep that day.
’Twad be owre
lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past;
An’ how they crouded
to the yill,
When they were a’
dismist;
How drink gaed round,
in cogs an’ caups,
Amang the furms an’
benches;
An’ cheese an’
bread, frae women’s laps,
Was dealt about in lunches
An’ dawds that
day.
In comes a gawsie, gash
guidwife,
An’ sits down
by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck
an’ her knife;
The lasses they are
shyer:
The auld guidmen, about
the grace
Frae side to side they
bother;
Till some ane by his
bonnet lays,
An’ gies them’t
like a tether,
Fu’ lang that
day.
Waesucks! for him that
gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has
he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu’
ance yoursel’
How bonie lads ye wanted;
An’ dinna for
a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, wi’
rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an’
croon;
Some swagger hame the
best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies
halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their
shoon:
Wi’ faith an’
hope, an’ love an’ drink,
They’re a’
in famous tune
For crack that day.
How mony hearts this
day converts
O’ sinners and
o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’
stane, gin night, are gane
As saft as ony flesh
is:
There’s some are
fou o’ love divine;
There’s some are
fou o’ brandy;
An’ mony jobs
that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.
Guid speed and furder
to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han’s,
an’ weather bonie;
Now, when ye’re
nickin down fu’ cannie
The staff o’ bread,
May ye ne’er want
a stoup o’ bran’y
To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh
your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles
aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff o’er
muirs an’ haggs
Like drivin wrack;
But may the tapmost
grain that wags
Come to the sack.
I’m bizzie, too,
an’ skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin showers
hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie
pen I gat it
Wi’ muckle wark,
An’ took my jocteleg
an whatt it,
Like ony clark.
It’s now twa month
that I’m your debtor,
For your braw, nameless,
dateless letter,
Abusin me for harsh
ill-nature
On holy men,
While deil a hair yoursel’
ye’re better,
But mair profane.
But let the kirk-folk
ring their bells,
Let’s sing about
our noble sel’s:
We’ll cry nae
jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us;
But browster wives an’
whisky stills,
They are the muses.
Your friendship, Sir,
I winna quat it,
An’ if ye mak’
objections at it,
Then hand in neive some
day we’ll knot it,
An’ witness take,
An’ when wi’
usquabae we’ve wat it
It winna break.
But if the beast an’
branks be spar’d
Till kye be gaun without
the herd,
And a’ the vittel
in the yard,
An’ theekit right,
I mean your ingle-side
to guard
Ae winter night.
Then muse-inspirin’
aqua-vitae
Shall make us baith
sae blythe and witty,
Till ye forget ye’re
auld an’ gatty,
An’ be as canty
As ye were nine years
less than thretty—
Sweet ane an’
twenty!
But stooks are cowpit
wi’ the blast,
And now the sinn keeks
in the west,
Then I maun rin amang
the rest,
An’ quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe myself’
in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.
Epistle To The Rev. John M’math
Sept. 13, 1785.
Inclosing A Copy Of
“Holy Willie’s Prayer,”
Which He Had Requested,
Sept. 17, 1785
While at the stook the
shearers cow’r
To shun the bitter blaudin’
show’r,
Or in gulravage rinnin
scowr
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the
hour
In idle rhyme.
My musie, tir’d
wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’,
an’ douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie
now she’s done it,
Lest they should blame
her,
An’ rouse their
holy thunder on it
An anathem her.
I own ‘twas rash,
an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple, country
bardie,
Should meddle wi’
a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi’
a single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me.
But I gae mad at their
grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin,
grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers,
an’ half-mile graces,
Their raxin conscience,
Whase greed, revenge,
an’ pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.
There’s Gaw’n,
misca’d waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour
in his breast
Than mony scores as
guid’s the priest
Wha sae abus’d
him:
And may a bard no crack
his jest
What way they’ve
us’d him?
See him, the poor man’s
friend in need,
The gentleman in word
an’ deed—
An’ shall his
fame an’ honour bleed
By worthless, skellums,
An’ not a muse
erect her head
To cowe the blellums?
O Pope, had I thy satire’s
darts
To gie the rascals their
deserts,
I’d rip their
rotten, hollow hearts,
An’ tell aloud
Their jugglin hocus-pocus
arts
To cheat the crowd.
God knows, I’m
no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing
I could be,
But twenty times I rather
would be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours
hid be
Just for a screen.
An honest man may like
a glass,
An honest man may like
a lass,
But mean revenge, an’
malice fause
He’ll still disdain,
An’ then cry zeal
for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They take religion in
their mouth;
They talk o’ mercy,
grace, an’ truth,
For what?—to
gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
An’ hunt him down,
owre right and ruth,
To ruin straight.
All hail, Religion!
maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean
as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect
line
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false
friends of thine
Can ne’er defame
thee.
Tho’ blotch’t
and foul wi’ mony a stain,
An’ far unworthy
of thy train,
With trembling voice
I tune my strain,
To join with those
Who boldly dare thy
cause maintain
In spite of foes:
In spite o’ crowds,
in spite o’ mobs,
In spite o’ undermining
jobs,
In spite o’ dark
banditti stabs
At worth an’ merit,
By scoundrels, even
wi’ holy robes,
But hellish spirit.
O Ayr! my dear, my native
ground,
Within thy presbyterial
bound
A candid liberal band
is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians
too, renown’d,
An’ manly preachers.
Sir, in that circle
you are nam’d;
Sir, in that circle
you are fam’d;
An’ some, by whom
your doctrine’s blam’d
(Which gies you honour)
Even, sir, by them your
heart’s esteem’d,
An’ winning manner.
Pardon this freedom
I have ta’en,
An’ if impertinent
I’ve been,
Impute it not, good
Sir, in ane
Whase heart ne’er
wrang’d ye,
But to his utmost would
befriend
Ought that belang’d
ye.
A Brother Poet
Auld Neibour,
I’m three times
doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant,
frien’ly letter;
Tho’ I maun say’t
I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly,
rhymin clatter
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart,
hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck
jink diddle,
To cheer you thro’
the weary widdle
O’ war’ly
cares;
Till barins’ barins
kindly cuddle
Your auld grey hairs.
But Davie, lad, I’m
red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the
muse ye hae negleckit;
An, gif it’s sae,
ye sud by lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic haun’s as
you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha
like.
For me, I’m on
Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin the words to gar
them clink;
Whiles dazed wi’
love, whiles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whiles, but
aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a’ the thoughtless
sons o’ man,
Commen’ to me
the bardie clan;
Except it be some idle
plan
O’ rhymin clink,
The devil haet,—that
I sud ban—
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view,
nae scheme o’ livin,
Nae cares to gie us
joy or grievin,
But just the pouchie
put the neive in,
An’ while ought’s
there,
Then, hiltie, skiltie,
we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it’s
aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my
only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’,
at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’
raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my
daintie Davie:
The warl’ may
play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll
never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er
sae puir,
Na, even tho’
limpin wi’ the spavie
Frae door tae door.
Song—Young Peggy Blooms
Tune—“Loch Eroch-side.”
Young Peggy blooms our
boniest lass,
Her blush is like the
morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing
grass,
With early gems adorning.
Her eyes outshine the
radiant beams
That gild the passing
shower,
And glitter o’er
the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh’ning
flower.
Her lips, more than
the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced
them;
They charm th’
admiring gazer’s sight,
And sweetly tempt to
taste them;
Her smile is as the
evening mild,
When feather’d
pairs are courting,
And little lambkins
wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely
Peggy’s foe,
Such sweetness would
relent her;
As blooming spring unbends
the brow
Of surly, savage Winter.
Detraction’s eye
no aim can gain,
Her winning pow’rs
to lessen;
And fretful Envy grins
in vain
The poison’d tooth
to fasten.
Ye Pow’rs of Honour,
Love, and Truth,
From ev’ry ill
defend her!
Inspire the highly-favour’d
youth
The destinies intend
her:
Still fan the sweet
connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental
name
With many a filial blossom.
Tune—“Miss Forbe’s farewell to Banff.”
The Catrine woods were
yellow seen,
The flowers decay’d
on Catrine lee,
Nae lav’rock sang
on hillock green,
But nature sicken’d
on the e’e.
Thro’ faded groves
Maria sang,
Hersel’ in beauty’s
bloom the while;
And aye the wild-wood
ehoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o’
Ballochmyle!
Low in your wintry beds,
ye flowers,
Again ye’ll flourish
fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in
with’ring bowers,
Again ye’ll charm
the vocal air.
But here, alas! for
me nae mair
Shall birdie charm,
or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonie banks
of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel!
sweet Ballochmyle!
Fragment—Her Flowing Locks
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 bonie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial
hue,
A crimson still diviner!
[Footnote 1: Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary,.—R.B.]
The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.—R.B.
Yes! let the rich deride,
the proud disdain,
The simple pleasure
of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial
to my heart,
One native charm, than
all the gloss of art.—Goldsmith.
Upon that night, when
fairies light
On Cassilis Downans^2
dance,
Or owre the lays, in
splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers
prance;
Or for Colean the rout
is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s
pale beams;
There, up the Cove,^3
to stray an’ rove,
Amang the rocks and
streams
To sport that night;
[Footnote 2: Certain
little, romantic, rocky, green hills,
in the neighbourhood
of the ancient seat of the Earls of
Cassilis.—R.B.]
[Footnote 3: A noted cavern near Colean house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of fairies.—R.B.]
Amang the bonie winding
banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin,
clear;
Where Bruce^4 ance rul’d
the martial ranks,
An’ shook his
Carrick spear;
Some merry, friendly,
countra-folks
Together did convene,
To burn their nits,
an’ pou their stocks,
An’ haud their
Halloween
Fu’ blythe that
night.
[Footnote 4: The
famous family of that name, the ancestors
of Robert, the great
deliverer of his country, were Earls of
Carrick.—R.B.]
The lasses feat, an’
cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when
they’re fine;
Their faces blythe,
fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, an’
warm, an’ kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’
wooer-babs
Weel-knotted on their
garten;
Some unco blate, an’
some wi’ gabs
Gar lasses’ hearts
gang startin
Whiles fast at night.
Then, first an’
foremost, thro’ the kail,
Their stocks^5 maun
a’ be sought ance;
[Footnote 5: The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a “stock,” or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If any “yird,” or earth, stick to the root, that is “tocher,” or fortune; and the taste of the “custock,” that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the “runts,” are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the “runts,” the names in question.—R. B.]
They steek their een,
and grape an’ wale
For muckle anes, an’
straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will
fell aff the drift,
An’ wandered thro’
the bow-kail,
An’ pou’t
for want o’ better shift
A runt was like a sow-tail
Sae bow’t that
night.
Then, straught or crooked,
yird or nane,
They roar an’
cry a’ throu’ther;
The vera wee-things,
toddlin, rin,
Wi’ stocks out
owre their shouther:
An’ gif the custock’s
sweet or sour,
Wi’ joctelegs
they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon
the door,
Wi’ cannie care,
they’ve plac’d them
To lie that night.
The lassies staw frae
‘mang them a’,
To pou their stalks
o’ corn;^6
But Rab slips out, an’
jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard
and fast:
Loud skirl’d a’
the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist
was lost,
Whan kiutlin in the
fause-house^7
Wi’ him that night.
[Footnote 6: They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the “top-pickle,” that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.—R.B.]
[Footnote 7: When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a “fause-house.”—R.B.]
The auld guid-wife’s
weel-hoordit nits^8
Are round an’
round dividend,
An’ mony lads
an’ lasses’ fates
Are there that night
decided:
Some kindle couthie
side by side,
And burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi’
saucy pride,
An’ jump out owre
the chimlie
Fu’ high that
night.
[Footnote 8: Burning the nuts is a favorite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.—R.B.]
Jean slips in twa, wi’
tentie e’e;
Wha ’twas, she
wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an’
this is me,
She says in to hersel’:
He bleez’d owre
her, an’ she owre him,
As they wad never mair
part:
Till fuff! he started
up the lum,
An’ Jean had e’en
a sair heart
To see’t that
night.
Poor Willie, wi’
his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi’
primsie Mallie;
An’ Mary, nae
doubt, took the drunt,
To be compar’d
to Willie:
Mall’s nit lap
out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,
An’ her ain fit,
it brunt it;
While Willie lap, and
swore by jing,
’Twas just the
way he wanted
To be that night.
Nell had the fause-house
in her min’,
She pits hersel an’
Rob in;
In loving bleeze they
sweetly join,
Till white in ase they’re
sobbin:
Nell’s heart was
dancin at the view;
She whisper’d
Rob to leuk for’t:
Rob, stownlins, prie’d
her bonie mou’,
Fu’ cozie in the
neuk for’t,
Unseen that night.
But Merran sat behint
their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew
Bell:
She lea’es them
gashin at their cracks,
An’ slips out—by
hersel’;
She thro’ the
yard the nearest taks,
An’ for the kiln
she goes then,
An’ darklins grapit
for the bauks,
And in the blue-clue^9
throws then,
Right fear’t that
night.
[Footnote 9: Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the “pot” a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and, toward the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, “Wha hauds?” i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.—R.B.]
An’ ay she win’t,
an’ ay she swat—
I wat she made nae jaukin;
Till something held
within the pat,
Good Lord! but she was
quaukin!
But whether ’twas
the deil himsel,
Or whether ‘twas
a bauk-en’,
Or whether it was Andrew
Bell,
She did na wait on talkin
To spier that night.
Wee Jenny to her graunie
says,
“Will ye go wi’
me, graunie?
I’ll eat the apple
at the glass,^10
I gat frae uncle Johnie:”
She fuff’t her
pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae
vap’rin,
She notic’t na
an aizle brunt
Her braw, new, worset
apron
Out thro’ that
night.
[Footnote 10: Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjungal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.—R.B.]
“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s
face!
I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul thief
ony place,
For him to spae your
fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may
get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to
fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten
a fright,
An’ liv’d
an’ died deleerit,
On sic a night.
“Ae hairst afore
the Sherra-moor,
I mind’t as weel’s
yestreen—
I was a gilpey then,
I’m sure
I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been
cauld an’ wat,
An’ stuff was
unco green;
An’ eye a rantin
kirn we gat,
An’ just on Halloween
It fell that night.
“Our stibble-rig
was Rab M’Graen,
A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim
wi’ wean,
That lived in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed,^11
I mind it weel,
An’he made unco
light o’t;
But mony a day was by
himsel’,
He was sae sairly frighted
That vera night.”
[Footnote 11: Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then: “Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “Come after me and shaw thee,”Page 53
that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say: “Come after me and harrow thee.”—R.B.]
Then up gat fechtin
Jamie Fleck,
An’ he swoor by
his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed
a peck;
For it was a’
but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught
down the pock,
An’ out a handfu’
gied him;
Syne bad him slip frae’
mang the folk,
Sometime when nae ane
see’d him,
An’ try’t
that night.
He marches thro’
amang the stacks,
Tho’ he was something
sturtin;
The graip he for a harrow
taks,
An’ haurls at
his curpin:
And ev’ry now
an’ then, he says,
“Hemp-seed I saw
thee,
An’ her that is
to be my lass
Come after me, an’
draw thee
As fast this night.”
He wistl’d up
Lord Lennox’ March
To keep his courage
cherry;
Altho’ his hair
began to arch,
He was sae fley’d
an’ eerie:
Till presently he hears
a squeak,
An’ then a grane
an’ gruntle;
He by his shouther gae
a keek,
An’ tumbled wi’
a wintle
Out-owre that night.
He roar’d a horrid
murder-shout,
In dreadfu’ desperation!
An’ young an’
auld come rinnin out,
An’ hear the sad
narration:
He swoor ’twas
hilchin Jean M’Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie—
Till stop! she trotted
thro’ them a’;
And wha was it but grumphie
Asteer that night!
Meg fain wad to the
barn gaen,
To winn three wechts
o’ naething;^12
But for to meet the
deil her lane,
She pat but little faith
in:
[Footnote 12: This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a “wecht,” and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.—R.B.]
She gies the herd a
pickle nits,
An’ twa red cheekit
apples,
To watch, while for
the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam
Kipples
That vera night.
She turns the key wi’
cannie thraw,
An’owre the threshold
ventures;
But first on Sawnie
gies a ca’,
Syne baudly in she enters:
A ratton rattl’d
up the wa’,
An’ she cry’d
Lord preserve her!
An’ ran thro’
midden-hole an’ a’,
An’ pray’d
wi’ zeal and fervour,
Fu’ fast that
night.
They hoy’t out
Will, wi’ sair advice;
They hecht him some
fine braw ane;
It chanc’d the
stack he faddom’t thrice^13
Was timmer-propt for
thrawin:
He taks a swirlie auld
moss-oak
For some black, grousome
carlin;
An’ loot a winze,
an’ drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes
cam haurlin
Aff’s nieves that
night.
[Footnote 13: Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a “bear-stack,” and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.—R.B.]
A wanton widow Leezie
was,
As cantie as a kittlen;
But och! that night,
amang the shaws,
She gat a fearfu’
settlin!
She thro’ the
whins, an’ by the cairn,
An’ owre the hill
gaed scrievin;
Whare three lairds’
lan’s met at a burn,^14
To dip her left sark-sleeve
in,
Was bent that night.
[Footnote 14: You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring, or rivulet, where “three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and, some time near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.—R.B.]
Whiles owre a linn the
burnie plays,
As thro’ the glen
it wimpl’t;
Whiles round a rocky
scar it strays,
Whiles in a wiel it
dimpl’t;
Whiles glitter’d
to the nightly rays,
Wi’ bickerin’,
dancin’ dazzle;
Whiles cookit undeneath
the braes,
Below the spreading
hazel
Unseen that night.
Amang the brachens,
on the brae,
Between her an’
the moon,
The deil, or else an
outler quey,
Gat up an’ ga’e
a croon:
Poor Leezie’s
heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav’rock-height
she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an’
in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she
plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that
night.
In order, on the clean
hearth-stane,
The luggies^15 three
are ranged;
An’ ev’ry
time great care is ta’en
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha
wedlock’s joys
Sin’ Mar’s-year
did desire,
Because he gat the toom
dish thrice,
He heav’d them
on the fire
In wrath that night.
[Footnote 15: Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all.Page 55
It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.—R.B.]
Wi’ merry sangs,
an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an’
funnie jokes—
Their sports were cheap
an’ cheery:
Till butter’d
sowens,^16 wi’ fragrant lunt,
[Footnote 16: Sowens,
with butter instead of milk to them,
is always the Halloween
Supper.—R.B.]
Set a’ their gabs
a-steerin;
Syne, wi’ a social
glass o’ strunt,
They parted aff careerin
Fu’ blythe that
night.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin,
tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s
in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa
sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering
brattle!
I wad be laith to rin
an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring
pattle!
I’m truly sorry
man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s
social union,
An’ justifies
that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born
companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles,
but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie,
thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a
thrave
‘S a sma’
request;
I’ll get a blessin
wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie,
too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s
the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething,
now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s
winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’
keen!
Thou saw the fields
laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter
comin fast,
An’ cozie here,
beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell—
Till crash! the cruel
coulter past
Out thro’ thy
cell.
That wee bit heap o’
leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a
weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d
out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s
sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch
cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art
no thy lane,
In proving foresight
may be vain;
The best-laid schemes
o’ mice an ’men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e
us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still thou art blest,
compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth
thee:
But, Och! I backward
cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’
I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper
Here lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
Whae’er desires
to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnie Pigeon
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.
Lament him, Mauchline
husbands a’,
He aften did assist
ye;
For had ye staid hale
weeks awa,
Your wives they ne’er
had miss’d 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!
Adam Armour’s Prayer
Gude pity me, because
I’m little!
For though I am an elf
o’ mettle,
An’ can, like
ony wabster’s shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang’s
a gude kail-whittle,
I’m unco queer.
An’ now Thou kens
our waefu’ case;
For Geordie’s
jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d
her through the place,
An’ hurt her spleuchan;
For whilk we daurna
show our face
Within the clachan.
An’ now we’re
dern’d in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William
Wallace,
Wi’ constables-thae
blackguard fallows,
An’ sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us
frae the gallows,
That shamefu’
death!
Auld grim black-bearded
Geordie’s sel’—
O shake him owre the
mouth o’ hell!
There let him hing,
an’ roar, an’ yell
Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to
rebel,
Then heave him in.
When Death comes in
wi’ glimmerin blink,
An’ tips auld
drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup
a clink
Within his yett,
An’ fill her up
wi’ brimstone drink,
Red-reekin het.
Though Jock an’
hav’rel Jean are merry—
Some devil seize them
in a hurry,
An’ waft them
in th’ infernal wherry
Straught through the
lake,
An’ gie their
hides a noble curry
Wi’ oil of aik!
As for the jurr-puir
worthless body!
She’s got mischief
enough already;
Wi’ stanged hips,
and buttocks bluidy
She’s suffer’d
sair;
But, may she wintle
in a woody,
If she wh-e mair!
[Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.]
Recitativo
When lyart leaves bestrow
the yird,
Or wavering like the
bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas’
blast;
When hailstanes drive
wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin
to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e’en
a merry core
O’ randie, gangrel
bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie’s
held the splore,
To drink their orra
duddies;
Wi’ quaffing an’
laughing,
They ranted an’
they sang,
Wi’ jumping an’
thumping,
The vera girdle rang,
First, neist the fire,
in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac’d
wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’
in order;
His doxy lay within
his arm;
Wi’ usquebae an’
blankets warm
She blinkit on her sodger;
An’ aye he gies
the tozie drab
The tither skelpin’
kiss,
While she held up her
greedy gab,
Just like an aumous
dish;
Ilk smack still, did
crack still,
Just like a cadger’s
whip;
Then staggering an’
swaggering
He roar’d this
ditty up—
Air
Tune—“Soldier’s Joy.”
I am a son of Mars who
have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and
scars wherever I come;
This here was for a
wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French
at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram: and I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d, And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis
among the floating batt’ries,
And there I left for
witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need
me, with Elliot to head me,
I’d clatter on
my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And now tho’ I
must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tatter’d
rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with
my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet
to follow a drum.
What tho’ with
hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and
rocks oftentimes for a home,
When the t’other
bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop
of hell, at the sound of a drum.
Recitativo
He ended; and the kebars
sheuk,
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons
backward leuk,
An’ seek the benmost
bore:
A fairy fiddler frae
the neuk,
He skirl’d out,
encore!
But up arose the martial
chuck,
An’ laid the loud
uproar.
Air
Tune—“Sodger Laddie.”
I once was a maid, tho’
I cannot tell when,
And still my delight
is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop
of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m
fond of a sodger laddie,
Sing, lal de lal, &c.
The first of my loves
was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering
drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight,
and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with
my sodger laddie.
But the godly old chaplain
left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook
for the sake of the church:
He ventur’d the
soul, and I risked the body,
’Twas then I proved
false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick
of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large
for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon
to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but
a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduc’d
me to beg in despair,
Till I met old boy in
a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental,
they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic’d
at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv’d—I
know not how long,
And still I can join
in a cup and a song;
But whilst with both
hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee,
my hero, my sodger laddie.
Recitativo
Poor Merry-Andrew, in
the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi’
a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind’t na
wha the chorus teuk,
Between themselves they
were sae busy:
At length, wi’
drink an’ courting dizzy,
He stoiter’d up
an’ made a face;
Then turn’d an’
laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun’d his
pipes wi’ grave grimace.
Air
Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”
Sir Wisdom’s a
fool when he’s fou;
Sir Knave is a fool
in a session;
He’s there but
a ’prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought
me a beuk,
An’ I held awa
to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae
of a fool?
For drink I would venture
my neck;
A hizzie’s the
half of my craft;
But what could ye other
expect
Of ane that’s
avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like
a stirk,
For civilly swearing
and quaffin;
I ance was abus’d
i’ the kirk,
For towsing a lass i’
my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles
for sport,
Let naebody name wi’
a jeer;
There’s even,
I’m tauld, i’ the Court
A tumbler ca’d
the Premier.
Observ’d ye yon
reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle
the mob;
He rails at our mountebank
squad,—
It’s rivalship
just i’ the job.
And now my conclusion
I’ll tell,
For faith I’m
confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s
a fool for himsel’,
Guid Lord! he’s
far dafter than I.
Recitativo
Then niest outspak a
raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu’ weel
to cleek the sterlin;
For mony a pursie she
had hooked,
An’ had in mony
a well been douked;
Her love had been a
Highland laddie,
But weary fa’
the waefu’ woodie!
Wi’ sighs an’
sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John
Highlandman.
Air
Tune—“O, an ye were dead, Guidman.”
A Highland lad my love
was born,
The Lalland laws he
held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’
to his clan,
My gallant, braw John
Highlandman.
Chorus
Sing hey my braw John
Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John
Highlandman!
There’s not a
lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John
Highlandman.
With his philibeg an’
tartan plaid,
An’ guid claymore
down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts
he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John
Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
We ranged a’ from
Tweed to Spey,
An’ liv’d
like lords an’ ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he
feared none,—
My gallant, braw John
Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
They banish’d
him beyond the sea.
But ere the bud was
on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the
pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
But, och! they catch’d
him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon
fast:
My curse upon them every
one,
They’ve hang’d
my braw John Highlandman!
Sing hey, &c.
And now a widow, I must
mourn
The pleasures that will
ne’er return:
The comfort but a hearty
can,
When I think on John
Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
Recitativo
A pigmy scraper wi’
his fiddle,
Wha us’d at trystes
an’ fairs to driddle.
Her strappin limb and
gausy middle
(He reach’d nae
higher)
Had hol’d his
heartie like a riddle,
An’ blawn’t
on fire.
Wi’ hand on hainch,
and upward e’e,
He croon’d his
gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
The wee Apoll
Set off wi’ allegretto
glee
His giga solo.
Air
Tune—“Whistle owre the lave o’t.”
Let me ryke up to dight
that tear,
An’ go wi’
me an’ be my dear;
An’ then your
every care an’ fear
May whistle owre the
lave o’t.
Chorus
I am a fiddler to my
trade,
An’ a’ the
tunes that e’er I played,
The sweetest still to
wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the
lave o’t.
At kirns an’ weddins
we’se be there,
An’ O sae nicely’s
we will fare!
We’ll bowse about
till Daddie Care
Sing whistle owre the
lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily’s
the banes we’ll pyke,
An’ sun oursel’s
about the dyke;
An’ at our leisure,
when ye like,
We’ll whistle
owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
But bless me wi’
your heav’n o’ charms,
An’ while I kittle
hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an’
a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the
lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Recitativo
Her charms had struck
a sturdy caird,
As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler
by the beard,
An’ draws a roosty
rapier—
He swoor, by a’
was swearing worth,
To speet him like a
pliver,
Unless he would from
that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi’ ghastly e’e
poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
An’ pray’d
for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
An’ so the quarrel
ended.
But tho’ his little
heart did grieve
When round the tinkler
prest her,
He feign’d to
snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird
address’d her:
Air
Tune—“Clout the Cauldron.”
My bonie lass, I work
in brass,
A tinkler is my station:
I’ve travell’d
round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I’ve taen the
gold, an’ been enrolled
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d
when off I march’d
To go an’ clout
the cauldron.
I’ve taen the
gold, &c.
Despise that shrimp,
that wither’d imp,
With a’ his noise
an’ cap’rin;
An’ take a share
with those that bear
The budget and the apron!
And by that stowp! my
faith an’ houp,
And by that dear Kilbaigie,^1
If e’er ye want,
or meet wi’ scant,
May I ne’er weet
my craigie.
And by that stowp, &c.
[Footnote 1: A
peculiar sort of whisky so called,
a great favorite
with Poosie Nansie’s clubs.—R.B.]
Recitativo
The caird prevail’d—th’
unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk;
Partly wi’ love
o’ercome sae sair,
An’ partly she
was drunk:
Sir Violino, with an
air
That show’d a
man o’ spunk,
Wish’d unison
between the pair,
An’ made the bottle
clunk
To their health that
night.
But hurchin Cupid shot
a shaft,
That play’d a
dame a shavie—
The fiddler rak’d
her, fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight of
Homer’s craft,^2
Tho’ limpin wi’
the spavie,
He hirpl’d up,
an’ lap like daft,
An’ shor’d
them Dainty Davie.
O’ boot that night.
He was a care-defying
blade
As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho’ Fortune sair
upon him laid,
His heart, she ever
miss’d it.
He had no wish but—to
be glad,
Nor want but—when
he thirsted;
He hated nought but—to
be sad,
An’ thus the muse
suggested
His sang that night.
Air
Tune—“For a’ that, an’ a’ that.”
I am a Bard of no regard,
Wi’ gentle folks
an’ a’ that;
But Homer-like, the
glowrin byke,
Frae town to town I
draw that.
Chorus
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s
a’ that;
I’ve lost but
ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife eneugh
for a’ that.
[Footnote 2: Homer
is allowed to be the
oldest ballad-singer
on record.—R.B.]
I never drank the Muses’
stank,
Castalia’s burn,
an’ a’ that;
But there it streams
an’ richly reams,
My Helicon I ca’
that.
For a’ that, &c.
Great love Idbear to
a’ the fair,
Their humble slave an’
a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold
it still
A mortal sin to thraw
that.
For a’ that, &c.
In raptures sweet, this
hour we meet,
Wi’ mutual love
an’ a’ that;
But for how lang the
flie may stang,
Let inclination law
that.
For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’
craft hae put me daft,
They’ve taen me
in, an’ a’ that;
But clear your decks,
and here’s—“The Sex!”
I like the jads for
a’ that.
Chorus
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s
a’ that;
My dearest bluid, to
do them guid,
They’re welcome
till’t for a’ that.
Recitativo
So sang the bard—and
Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder
of applause,
Re-echo’d from
each mouth!
They toom’d their
pocks, they pawn’d their duds,
They scarcely left to
co’er their fuds,
To quench their lowin
drouth:
Then owre again, the
jovial thrang
The poet did request
To lowse his pack an’
wale a sang,
A ballad o’ the
best;
He rising, rejoicing,
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an’
found them
Impatient for the chorus.
Air
Tune—“Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”
See the smoking bowl
before us,
Mark our jovial ragged
ring!
Round and round take
up the chorus,
And in raptures let
us sing—
Chorus
A fig for those by law
protected!
Liberty’s a glorious
feast!
Courts for cowards were
erected,
Churches built to please
the priest.
What is title, what
is treasure,
What is reputation’s
care?
If we lead a life of
pleasure,
’Tis no matter
how or where!
A fig for, &c.
With the ready trick
and fable,
Round we wander all
the day;
And at night in barn
or stable,
Hug our doxies on the
hay.
A fig for, &c.
Does the train-attended
carriage
Thro’ the country
lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of
marriage
Witness brighter scenes
of love?
A fig for, &c.
Life is al a variorum,
We regard not how it
goes;
Let them cant about
decorum,
Who have character to
lose.
A fig for, &c.
Here’s to budgets,
bags and wallets!
Here’s to all
the wandering train.
Here’s our ragged
brats and callets,
One and all cry out,
Amen!
Chorus
A fig for those by law
protected!
Liberty’s a glorious
feast!
Courts for cowards were
erected,
Churches built to please
the priest.
Song—For A’ That^1
Tune—“For a’ that.”
Tho’ women’s
minds, like winter winds,
May shift, and turn,
an’ a’ that,
The noblest breast adores
them maist—
A consequence I draw
that.
Chorus
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
And twice as meikle’s
a’ that;
The bonie lass that
I loe best
She’ll be my ain
for a’ that.
Great love I bear to
a’ the fair,
Their humble slave,
an’ a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold
it still
A mortal sin to thraw
that.
For a’ that, &c.
But there is ane aboon
the lave,
Has wit, and sense,
an’ a’ that;
A bonie lass, I like
her best,
And wha a crime dare
ca’ that?
For a’ that, &c.
In rapture sweet this
hour we meet,
Wi’ mutual love
an’ a’ that,
[Footnote 1: A
later version of “I am a bard
of no regard”
in “The Jolly Beggars.”]
But for how lang the
flie may stang,
Let inclination law
that.
For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’
craft hae put me daft.
They’ve taen me
in, an’ a’ that;
But clear your decks,
and here’s—“The Sex!”
I like the jads for
a’ that.
For a’ that, &c.
Tune—“The bob O’ Dumblane.”
O Merry hae I been teethin’
a heckle,
An’ merry hae
I been shapin’ a spoon;
O merry hae I been cloutin’
a kettle,
An’ kissin’
my Katie when a’ was done.
O a’ the lang
day I ca’ at my hammer,
An’ a’ the
lang day I whistle and sing;
O a’ the lang
night I cuddle my kimmer,
An’ a’ the
lang night as happy’s a king.
Bitter in idol I lickit
my winnins
O’ marrying Bess,
to gie her a slave:
Blest be the hour she
cool’d in her linnens,
And blythe be the bird
that sings on her grave!
Come to my arms, my
Katie, my Katie;
O come to my arms and
kiss me again!
Drucken or sober, here’s
to thee, Katie!
An’ blest be the
day I did it again.
The Cotter’s Saturday Night
Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq., of Ayr.
Let not Ambition mock
their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and
destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with
a disdainful smile,
The short and simple
annals of the Poor.
Gray.
My lov’d, my honour’d,
much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his
homage pays;
With honest pride, I
scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend’s
esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple
Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s
sequester’d scene,
The native feelings
strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage
would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth
unknown, far happier there I ween!
November chill blaws
loud wi’ angry sugh;
The short’ning
winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating
frae the pleugh;
The black’ning
trains o’ craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter
frae his labour goes,—
This night his weekly
moil is at an end,
Collects his spades,
his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease
and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er
the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely
cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter
of an aged tree;
Th’ expectant
wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dead,
wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin
bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane,
his thrifty wifie’s smile,
The lisping infant,
prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary
kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite
forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns
come drapping in,
At service out, amang
the farmers roun’;
Some ca’ the pleugh,
some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a
neibor town:
Their eldest hope, their
Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom-love
sparkling in her e’e—
Comes hame, perhaps
to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won
penny-fee,
To help her parents
dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign’d,
brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other’s
weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing’d,
unnotic’d fleet:
Each tells the uncos
that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial,
eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward
points the view;
The mother, wi’
her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look
amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’
wi’ admonition due.
Their master’s
and their mistress’ command,
The younkers a’
are warned to obey;
And mind their labours
wi’ an eydent hand,
And ne’er, tho’
out o’ sight, to jauk or play;
“And O! be sure
to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty,
duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation’s
path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel
and assisting might:
They never sought in
vain that sought the Lord aright.”
But hark! a rap comes
gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the
meaning o’ the same,
Tells how a neibor lad
came o’er the moor,
To do some errands,
and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees
the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s
e’e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious
care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins
is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother
hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi’ kindly welcome,
Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he
takes the mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the
visit’s no ill ta’en;
The father cracks of
horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster’s
artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate an’
laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi’
a woman’s wiles, can spy
What makes the youth
sae bashfu’ and sae grave,
Weel-pleas’d to
think her bairn’s respected like the lave.
O happy love! where
love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures!
bliss beyond compare!
I’ve paced much
this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience
bids me this declare,—
“If Heaven a draught
of heavenly pleasure spare—
One cordial in this
melancholy vale,
’Tis when a youthful,
loving, modest pair
In other’sarms,
breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white
thorn that scents the evening gale.”
Is there, in human form,
that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain!
lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied,
sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny’s
unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur’d
arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue,
conscience, all exil’d?
Is there no pity, no
relenting ruth,
Points to the parents
fondling o’er their child?
Then paints the ruin’d
maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns
their simple board,
The halesome parritch,
chief of Scotia’s food;
The sowp their only
hawkie does afford,
That, ’yont the
hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth,
in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her
weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell;
And aft he’s prest,
and aft he ca’s it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous,
will tell
How t’was a towmond
auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.
The cheerfu’ supper
done, wi’ serious face,
They, round the ingle,
form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er,
with patriarchal grace,
The big ha’bible,
ance his father’s pride:
His bonnet rev’rently
is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing
thin and bare;
Those strains that once
did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with
judicious care;
And “Let us worship
God!” he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless
notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts,
by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee’s
wild-warbling measures rise;
Or plaintive Martyrs,
worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets
the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of
Scotia’s holy lays:
Compar’d with
these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears
no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they
with our Creator’s praise.
The priest-like father
reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend
of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal
warfare wage
With Amalek’s
ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard
did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of
Heaven’s avenging ire;
Or Job’s pathetic
plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah’s
wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers
that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian
volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood
for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in
Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon
to lay His head:
How His first followers
and servants sped;
The precepts sage they
wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in
Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty
angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s
doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
Then, kneeling down
to Heaven’s Eternal King,
The saint, the father,
and the husband prays:
Hope “springs
exulting on triumphant wing,"^1
That thus they all shall
meet in future days,
There, ever bask in
uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or
shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their
Creator’s praise,
In such society, yet
still more dear;
While circling Time
moves round in an eternal sphere
Compar’d with
this, how poor Religion’s pride,
In all the pomp of method,
and of art;
When men display to
congregations wide
[Footnote 1: Pope’s “Windsor Forest.”—R.B.]
Devotion’s ev’ry
grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens’d,
the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain,
the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage
far apart,
May hear, well-pleas’d,
the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life
the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take
off their sev’ral way;
The youngling cottagers
retire to rest:
The parent-pair their
secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven
the warm request,
That he who stills the
raven’s clam’rous nest,
And decks the lily fair
in flow’ry pride,
Would, in the way His
wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their
little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their
hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these,
old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
That makes her lov’d
at home, rever’d abroad:
Princes and lords are
but the breath of kings,
“An honest man’s
the noblest work of God;”
And certes, in fair
virtue’s heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the
palace far behind;
What is a lordling’s
pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch
of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell,
in wickedness refin’d!
O Scotia! my dear, my
native soil!
For whom my warmest
wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons
of rustic toil
Be blest with health,
and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their
simple lives prevent
From luxury’s
contagion, weak and vile!
Then howe’er crowns
and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace
may rise the while,
And stand a wall of
fire around their much-lov’d isle.
O Thou! who pour’d
the patriotic tide,
That stream’d
thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
Who dar’d to nobly
stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second
glorious part:
(The patriot’s
God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer,
guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia’s
realm desert;
But still the patriot,
and the patriot-bard
In bright succession
raise, her ornament and guard!
O Prince! O chief
of many throned Pow’rs
That led th’ embattl’d
Seraphim to war—
Milton.
O Thou! whatever title
suit thee—
Auld Hornie, Satan,
Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim
an’ sootie,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane
cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie,
for a wee,
An’ let poor damned
bodies be;
I’m sure sma’
pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud
poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow’r
an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d an’
noted is thy name;
An’ tho’
yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s
neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.
Whiles, ranging like
a roarin lion,
For prey, a’ holes
and corners tryin;
Whiles, on the strong-wind’d
tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;
Whiles, in the human
bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my
rev’rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like
to stray;
Or where auld ruin’d
castles grey
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly
wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.
When twilight did my
graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs,
douse, honest woman!
Aft’yont the dyke
she’s heard you bummin,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin, thro’
the boortrees comin,
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter
night,
The stars shot down
wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you, mysel’
I gat a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-buss,
stood in sight,
Wi’ wavin’
sough.
The cudgel in my nieve
did shake,
Each brist’ld
hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch,
stoor “quaick, quaick,”
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d
like a drake,
On whistlin’ wings.
Let warlocks grim, an’
wither’d hags,
Tell how wi’ you,
on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs
an’ dizzy crags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew
their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives,
wi’ toil and pain,
May plunge an’
plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s
ta’en
By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint
hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the
bill.
Thence mystic knots
mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond,
keen an’ crouse,
When the best wark-lume
i’ the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth
a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve
the snawy hoord,
An’ float the
jinglin’ icy boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt
the foord,
By your direction,
And ’nighted trav’llers
are allur’d
To their destruction.
And aft your moss-traversin
Spunkies
Decoy the wight that
late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst,
mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough
he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to
rise.
When masons’ mystic
word an’ grip
In storms an’
tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your
rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither
ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.
Lang syne in Eden’s
bonie yard,
When youthfu’
lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the soul
of love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant
flow’ry swaird,
In shady bower;^1
Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing
dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
[Footnote 1: The verse originally ran: “Lang syne, in Eden’s happy scene When strappin Adam’s days were green, And Eve was like my bonie Jean, My dearest part, A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean, O’ guileless heart.”]
An’ play’d
on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant
warld a shog,
‘Maist rui’d
a’.
D’ye mind that
day when in a bizz
Wi’ reekit duds,
an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your
smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on
the man of Uzz
Your spitefu’
joke?
An’ how ye gat
him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out
o’ house an hal’,
While scabs and botches
did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw;
An’ lows’d
his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul’,
Was warst ava?
But a’ your doings
to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’
fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day
Michael^2 did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tounge,
or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
An’ now, auld
Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,
A certain bardie’s
rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will
send him linkin
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll
turn a corner jinkin,
An’ cheat you
yet.
But fare-you-weel, auld
Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought
an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I
dinna ken—
Stil hae a stake:
I’m wae to think
up’ yon den,
Ev’n for your
sake!
[Footnote 2: Vide Milton, Book vi.—R. B.]
Scotch Drink
Gie him strong drink
until he wink,
That’s sinking
in despair;
An’ liquor guid
to fire his bluid,
That’s prest wi’
grief and care:
There let him bouse,
an’ deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing
o’er,
Till he forgets his
loves or debts,
An’ minds his
griefs no more.
(Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.)
Let other poets raise
a fracas
‘Bout vines, an’
wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,
An’ crabbit names
an’stories wrack us,
An’ grate our
lug:
I sing the juice Scotch
bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my muse! guid
auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro’
wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream
owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp
an’ wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the
haughs adorn,
An’ aits set up
their awnie horn,
An’ pease and
beans, at e’en or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John
Barleycorn,
Thou king o’ grain!
On thee aft Scotland
chows her cood,
In souple scones, the
wale o’food!
Or tumblin in the boiling
flood
Wi’ kail an’
beef;
But when thou pours
thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame,
an’ keeps us leevin;
Tho’ life’s
a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg’d
wi’ pine an’ grievin;
But, oil’d by
thee,
The wheels o’
life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi’ rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head
o’doited Lear;
Thou cheers ahe heart
o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves
o’ Labour sair,
At’s weary toil;
Though even brightens
dark Despair
Wi’ gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy siller
weed,
Wi’ gentles thou
erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in
time o’ need,
The poor man’s
wine;
His weep drap parritch,
or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o’
public haunts;
But thee, what were
our fairs and rants?
Ev’n godly meetings
o’ the saunts,
By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege
the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.
That merry night we
get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou
reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-year
mornin
In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee
drap sp’ritual burn in,
An’ gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his
bellows breath,
An’ ploughmen
gather wi’ their graith,
O rare! to see thee
fizz an freath
I’ th’ luggit
caup!
Then Burnewin comes
on like death
At every chap.
Nae mercy then, for
airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie,
ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip,
wi’ sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an’
studdie ring an reel,
Wi’ dinsome clamour.
When skirling weanies
see the light,
Though maks the gossips
clatter bright,
How fumblin’ cuiffs
their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social
night,
Or plack frae them.
When neibors anger at
a plea,
An’ just as wud
as wud can be,
How easy can the barley
brie
Cement the quarrel!
It’s aye the cheapest
lawyer’s fee,
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e’er
my muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen
wi’ treason!
But mony daily weet
their weason
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in
a winter season,
E’er Spier her
price.
Wae worth that brandy,
burnin trash!
Fell source o’
mony a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt,
drucken hash,
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside,
auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld
Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my
tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils
like mysel’!
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’
wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his
blather wrench,
An’ gouts torment
him, inch by inch,
What twists his gruntle
wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’
whisky-punch
Wi’ honest men!
O Whisky! soul o’
plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie’s
gratfu’ thanks!
When wanting thee, what
tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes—they
rattle in their ranks,
At ither’s a-s!
Thee, Ferintosh!
O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae
coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an’
barkin hoast
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’
charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa?
Thae curst horse-leeches
o’ the’ Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells
their prize!
Haud up thy han’,
Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them
up in brunstane pies
For poor damn’d
drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll
but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone,
an’ whisky gill,
An’ rowth o’
rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a’ the rest,
An’ deal’t
about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.
1786
On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.
A Guid New-year I wish
thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a
ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s
howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
I’ve seen the
day
Thou could hae gaen
like ony staggie,
Out-owre the lay.
Tho’ now thou’s
dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide
as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee
dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie,
A bonie gray:
He should been tight
that daur’t to raize thee,
Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i’
the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve,
an’ swank;
An’ set weel down
a shapely shank,
As e’er tread
yird;
An’ could hae
flown out-owre a stank,
Like ony bird.
It’s now some
nine-an’-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was
my guid-father’s mear;
He gied me thee, o’
tocher clear,
An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’,
’twas weel-won gear,
An’ thou was stark.
When first I gaed to
woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting
wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie,
slee, an’ funnie,
Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet,
an’ cannie,
An’ unco sonsie.
That day, ye pranc’d
wi’ muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my
bonie bride:
An’ sweet an’
gracefu’ she did ride,
Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could
bragged wide
For sic a pair.
Tho’ now ye dow
but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like
a saumont coble,
That day, ye was a jinker
noble,
For heels an’
win’!
An’ ran them till
they a’ did wauble,
Far, far, behin’!
When thou an’
I were young an’ skeigh,
An’ stable-meals
at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance,
and snore, an’ skreigh
An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies
ran, an’ stood abeigh,
An’ ca’t
thee mad.
When thou was corn’t,
an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye
like a swallow:
At brooses thou had
ne’er a fellow,
For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail
thou pay’t them hollowm
Whare’er thou
gaed.
The sma’, droop-rumpl’t,
hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur’t
thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile,
thou try’t their mettle,
An’ gar’t
them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but
just a wattle
O’ saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug
or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I,
in aught hours’ gaun,
In guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax
rood beside our han’,
For days thegither.
Thou never braing’t,
an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou
wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed
thy weel-fill’d brisket,
Wi’ pith an’
power;
Till sprittie knowes
wad rair’t an’ riskit
An’ slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang,
an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d
labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee
bit heap
Aboon the timmer:
I ken’d my Maggie
wad na sleep,
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou
never reestit;
The steyest brae thou
wad hae fac’t it;
Thou never lap, an’
sten’t, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a
wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov’t awa.
My pleugh is now thy
bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes
as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve
sell’t awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen
pund an’ twa,
The vera warst.
Mony a sair daurk we
twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’
the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious
day, I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age
we’re brought,
Wi’ something
yet.
An’ think na’,
my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s
less deservin,
An’ thy auld days
may end in starvin;
For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I’ll
reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We’ve worn to
crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about
wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care
I’ll flit thy tether
To some hain’d
rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax
your leather,
Wi’ sma’
fatigue.
The Twa Dogs^1
A Tale
‘Twas in that
place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name
o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in
June,
When wearin’ thro’
the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were
na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance
upon a time.
The first I’ll
name, they ca’d him Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honor’s
pleasure:
His hair, his size,
his mouth, his lugs,
Shew’d he was
nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;
But whalpit some place
far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to
fish for cod.
His locked, letter’d,
braw brass collar
Shew’d him the
gentleman an’ scholar;
But though he was o’
high degree,
The fient a pride, nae
pride had he;
But wad hae spent an
hour caressin,
Ev’n wi’
al tinkler-gipsy’s messin:
At kirk or market, mill
or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho’
e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stan’t,
as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’t
on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s
collie—
A rhyming, ranting,
raving billie,
Wha for his friend an’
comrade had him,
And in freak had Luath
ca’d him,
After some dog in Highland
Sang,^2
Was made lang syne,—Lord
knows how lang.
He was a gash an’
faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh
or dyke.
His honest, sonsie,
baws’nt face
Aye gat him friends
in ilka place;
His breast was white,
his touzie back
Weel clad wi’
coat o’ glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi’
upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdie’s
wi’ a swirl.
[Footnote 1: Luath was Burns’ own dog.]
[Footnote 2: Luath, Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.”—R. B.]
Nae doubt but they were
fain o’ ither,
And unco pack an’
thick thegither;
Wi’ social nose
whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit;
Whiles mice an’
moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour’d
awa’ in lang excursion,
An’ worry’d
ither in diversion;
Until wi’ daffin’
weary grown
Upon a knowe they set
them down.
An’ there began
a lang digression.
About the “lords
o’ the creation.”
Caesar
I’ve aften wonder’d,
honest Luath,
What sort o’ life
poor dogs like you have;
An’ when the gentry’s
life I saw,
What way poor bodies
liv’d ava.
Our laird gets in his
racked rents,
His coals, his kane,
an’ a’ his stents:
He rises when he likes
himsel’;
His flunkies answer
at the bell;
He ca’s his coach;
he ca’s his horse;
He draws a bonie silken
purse,
As lang’s my tail,
where, thro’ the steeks,
The yellow letter’d
Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e’en,
it’s nought but toiling
At baking, roasting,
frying, boiling;
An’ tho’
the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev’n the ha’
folk fill their pechan
Wi’ sauce, ragouts,
an’ sic like trashtrie,
That’s little
short o’ downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee,
blasted wonner,
Poor, worthless elf,
it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honour has in a’
the lan’:
An’ what poor
cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it’s past
my comprehension.
Luath
Trowth, Caesar, whiles
they’re fash’t eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a
sheugh,
Wi’ dirty stanes
biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an’
sic like;
Himsel’, a wife,
he thus sustains,
A smytrie o’ wee
duddie weans,
An’ nought but
his han’-daurk, to keep
Them right an’
tight in thack an’ rape.
An’ when they
meet wi’ sair disasters,
Like loss o’ health
or want o’ masters,
Ye maist wad think,
a wee touch langer,
An’ they maun
starve o’ cauld an’ hunger:
But how it comes, I
never kent yet,
They’re maistly
wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels,
an’ clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way
as this is.
Caesar
But then to see how
ye’re negleckit,
How huff’d, an’
cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit!
Lord man, our gentry
care as little
For delvers, ditchers,
an’ sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by
poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin
brock.
I’ve notic’d,
on our laird’s court-day,—
An’ mony a time
my heart’s been wae,—
Poor tenant bodies,
scant o’cash,
How they maun thole
a factor’s snash;
He’ll stamp an’
threaten, curse an’ swear
He’ll apprehend
them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan’,
wi’ aspect humble,
An’ hear it a’,
an’ fear an’ tremble!
I see how folk live
that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk
maun be wretches!
Luath
They’re no sae
wretched’s ane wad think.
Tho’ constantly
on poortith’s brink,
They’re sae accustom’d
wi’ the sight,
The view o’t gives
them little fright.
Then chance and fortune
are sae guided,
They’re aye in
less or mair provided:
An’ tho’
fatigued wi’ close employment,
A blink o’ rest’s
a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort
o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans
an’ faithfu’ wives;
The prattling things
are just their pride,
That sweetens a’
their fire-side.
An’ whiles twalpennie
worth o’ nappy
Can mak the bodies unco
happy:
They lay aside their
private cares,
To mind the Kirk and
State affairs;
They’ll talk o’
patronage an’ priests,
Wi’ kindling fury
i’ their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation’s
comin,
An’ ferlie at
the folk in Lon’on.
As bleak-fac’d
Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial,
rantin kirns,
When rural life, of
ev’ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps,
an’ social Mirth
Forgets there’s
Care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year
begins,
They bar the door on
frosty win’s;
The nappy reeks wi’
mantling ream,
An’ sheds a heart-inspiring
steam;
The luntin pipe, an’
sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi’
right guid will;
The cantie auld folks
crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin
thro’ the house—
My heart has been sae
fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit
wi’ them.
Still it’s owre
true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre
aften play’d;
There’s mony a
creditable stock
O’ decent, honest,
fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith
root an’ branch,
Some rascal’s
pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel
the faster
In favour wi’
some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang
a parliamentin,
For Britain’s
guid his saul indentin—
Caesar
Haith, lad, ye little
ken about it:
For Britain’s
guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as
Premiers lead him:
An’ saying ay
or no’s they bid him:
At operas an’
plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling,
masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic
daft,
To Hague or Calais takes
a waft,
To mak a tour an’
tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an’
see the worl’.
There, at Vienna, or
Versailles,
He rives his father’s
auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes
the rout,
To thrum guitars an’
fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian vista
startles,
Whore-hunting amang
groves o’ myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie
German-water,
To mak himsel look fair
an’ fatter,
An’ clear the
consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival
signoras.
For Britain’s
guid! for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation,
feud, an’ faction.
Luath
Hech, man! dear sirs!
is that the gate
They waste sae mony
a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten
an’ harass’d
For gear to gang that
gate at last?
O would they stay aback
frae courts,
An’ please themsels
wi’ country sports,
It wad for ev’ry
ane be better,
The laird, the tenant,
an’ the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin,
ramblin billies,
Feint haet o’
them’s ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o’
their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o’
their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare
or moor-cock,
The ne’er-a-bit
they’re ill to poor folk,
But will ye tell me,
Master Caesar,
Sure great folk’s
life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger
e’er can steer them,
The very thought o’t
need na fear them.
Caesar
Lord, man, were ye but
whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad
ne’er envy them!
It’s true, they
need na starve or sweat,
Thro’ winter’s
cauld, or simmer’s heat:
They’ve nae sair
wark to craze their banes,
An’ fill auld
age wi’ grips an’ granes:
But human bodies are
sic fools,
For a’ their colleges
an’ schools,
That when nae real ills
perplex them,
They mak enow themsel’s
to vex them;
An’ aye the less
they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion,
less will hurt them.
A country fellow at
the pleugh,
His acre’s till’d,
he’s right eneugh;
A country girl at her
wheel,
Her dizzen’s dune,
she’s unco weel;
But gentlemen, an’
ladies warst,
Wi’ ev’n-down
want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging,
lank an’ lazy;
Tho’ deil-haet
ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid,
dull, an’ tasteless;
Their nights unquiet,
lang, an’ restless.
An’ev’n
their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping through
public places,
There’s sic parade,
sic pomp, an’ art,
The joy can scarcely
reach the heart.
The men cast out in
party-matches,
Then sowther a’
in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re
mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life
is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm
in clusters,
As great an’ gracious
a’ as sisters;
But hear their absent
thoughts o’ ither,
They’re a’
run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee
bit cup an’ platie,
They sip the scandal-potion
pretty;
Or lee-lang nights,
wi’ crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil’s
pictur’d beuks;
Stake on a chance a
farmer’s stackyard,
An’ cheat like
ony unhanged blackguard.
There’s some exceptions,
man an’ woman;
But this is gentry’s
life in common.
By this, the sun was
out of sight,
An’ darker gloamin
brought the night;
The bum-clock humm’d
wi’ lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin
i’ the loan;
When up they gat an’
shook their lugs,
Rejoic’d they
werena men but dogs;
An’ each took
aff his several way,
Resolv’d to meet
some ither day.
To the Right Honourable
and Honourable Scotch
Representatives in the
House of Commons.^1
Dearest of distillation! last and best—
—How art thou lost!—
Parody on Milton.
Ye Irish lords, ye knights
an’ squires,
Wha represent our brughs
an’ shires,
An’ doucely manage
our affairs
In parliament,
To you a simple poet’s
pray’rs
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupit Muse
is hearse!
Your Honours’
hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,
To see her sittin on
her arse
Low i’ the dust,
And scriechinhout prosaic
verse,
An like to brust!
[Footnote 1: This
was written before the Act anent the
Scotch distilleries,
of session 1786, for which Scotland and
the author return their
most grateful thanks.—R.B.]
Tell them wha hae the
chief direction,
Scotland an’ me’s
in great affliction,
E’er sin’
they laid that curst restriction
On aqua-vitae;
An’ rouse them
up to strong conviction,
An’ move their
pity.
Stand forth an’
tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked
truth:
Tell him o’ mine
an’ Scotland’s drouth,
His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw
you south
If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch
an’ gloom?
Speak out, an’
never fash your thumb!
Let posts an’
pensions sink or soom
Wi’ them wha grant
them;
If honestly they canna
come,
Far better want them.
In gath’rin votes
you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly
by your tack:
Ne’er claw your
lug, an’ fidge your back,
An’ hum an’
haw;
But raise your arm,
an’ tell your crack
Before them a’.
Paint Scotland greetin
owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as
toom’s a whissle;
An’ damn’d
excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushin’t
like a mussel,
Or limpet shell!
Then, on the tither
hand present her—
A blackguard smuggler
right behint her,
An’ cheek-for-chow,
a chuffie vintner
Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as
bare as winter
Of a’ kind coin.
Is there, that bears
the name o’ Scot,
But feels his heart’s
bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld
mither’s pot
Thus dung in staves,
An’ plunder’d
o’ her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?
Alas! I’m
but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ the mire
out o’ sight?
But could I like Montgomeries
fight,
Or gab like Boswell,^2
There’s some sark-necks
I wad draw tight,
An’ tie some hose
well.
God bless your Honours!
can ye see’t—
The kind, auld cantie
carlin greet,
An’ no get warmly
to your feet,
An’ gar them hear
it,
An’ tell them
wi’a patriot-heat
Ye winna bear it?
Some o’ you nicely
ken the laws,
To round the period
an’ pause,
An’ with rhetoric
clause on clause
To mak harangues;
Then echo thro’
Saint Stephen’s wa’s
Auld Scotland’s
wrangs.
Dempster,^3 a true blue
Scot I’se warran’;
Thee, aith-detesting,
chaste Kilkerran;^4
An’ that glib-gabbit
Highland baron,
The Laird o’ Graham;^5
An’ ane, a chap
that’s damn’d aulfarran’,
Dundas his name:^6
Erskine, a spunkie Norland
billie;^7
True Campbells, Frederick
and Ilay;^8
[Footnote 2: James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.]
[Footnote 3: George Dempster of Dunnichen.]
[Footnote 4: Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.]
[Footnote 5: The
Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of
Montrose.]
[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.]
[Footnote 7: Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.]
[Footnote 8: Lord
Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke
of Argyll, and Ilay
Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland,
afterward President
of the Court of Session.]
An’ Livistone,
the bauld Sir Willie;^9
An’ mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes
or Tully
Might own for brithers.
See sodger Hugh,^10
my watchman stented,
If poets e’er
are represented;
I ken if that your sword
were wanted,
Ye’d lend a hand;
But when there’s
ought to say anent it,
Ye’re at a stand.
Arouse, my boys! exert
your mettle,
To get auld Scotland
back her kettle;
Or faith! I’ll
wad my new pleugh-pettle,
Ye’ll see’t
or lang,
She’ll teach you,
wi’ a reekin whittle,
Anither sang.
This while she’s
been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fir’d
her bluid;
(Deil na they never
mair do guid,
Play’d her that
pliskie!)
An’ now she’s
like to rin red-wud
About her whisky.
An’ Lord! if ance
they pit her till’t,
Her tartan petticoat
she’ll kilt,
An’durk an’
pistol at her belt,
She’ll tak the
streets,
An’ rin her whittle
to the hilt,
I’ the first she
meets!
For God sake, sirs!
then speak her fair,
An’ straik her
cannie wi’ the hair,
An’ to the muckle
house repair,
Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’
a’ your wit an’ lear,
To get remead.
[Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.]
[Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.]
Yon ill-tongu’d
tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi’
his jeers and mocks;
But gie him’t
het, my hearty cocks!
E’en cowe the
cadie!
An’ send him to
his dicing box
An’ sportin’
lady.
Tell you guid bluid
o’ auld Boconnock’s, ^11
I’ll be his debt
twa mashlum bonnocks,
An’ drink his
health in auld Nance Tinnock’s ^12
Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like
tea an’ winnocks,
Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation
broach,
I’ll pledge my
aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna fear their
foul reproach
Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer
hotch-potch,
The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a
raucle tongue;
She’s just a devil
wi’ a rung;
An’ if she promise
auld or young
To tak their part,
Tho’ by the neck
she should be strung,
She’ll no desert.
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither’s
heart support ye;
Then, tho’a minister
grow dorty,
An’ kick your
place,
Ye’ll snap your
gingers, poor an’ hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honours,
a’ your days,
Wi’ sowps o’
kail and brats o’ claise,
[Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]
[Footnote 12: A
worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline,
where he sometimes studies
politics over a glass of gude auld
Scotch Drink.—R.B.]
In spite o’ a’
the thievish kaes,
That haunt St. Jamie’s!
Your humble poet sings
an’ prays,
While Rab his name is.
Postscript
Let half-starv’d
slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust’ring,
rise;
Their lot auld Scotland
ne’re envies,
But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn,
martial boys
Tak aff their whisky.
What tho’ their
Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms
and beauty charms,
When wretches range,
in famish’d swarms,
The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour
arms
In hungry droves!
Their gun’s a
burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the
stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s
a hank’ring swither
To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp—a
shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman
frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a
Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George’s
will,
An’ there’s
the foe!
He has nae thought but
how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted
doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’
fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’bluidy hand
a welcome gies him;
An’ when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’
breathin lea’es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een
may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic
reek,
An’ physically
causes seek,
In clime an’ season;
But tell me whisky’s
name in Greek
I’ll tell the
reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected
mither!
Tho’ whiles ye
moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on
craps o’ heather,
Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an’ whisky
gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
The Ordination
For sense they little
owe to frugal Heav’n—
To please the mob, they
hide the little giv’n.
Kilmarnock wabsters,
fidge an’ claw,
An’ pour your
creeshie nations;
An’ ye wha leather
rax an’ draw,
Of a’ denominations;
Swith to the Ligh Kirk,
ane an’ a’
An’ there tak
up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie’s
in a raw,
An’ pour divine
libations
For joy this day.
Curst Common-sense,
that imp o’ hell,
Cam in wi’ Maggie
Lauder;^1
But Oliphant^2 aft made
her yell,
An’ Russell^3
sair misca’d her:
This day Mackinlay^4
taks the flail,
An’ he’s
the boy will blaud her!
He’ll clap a shangan
on her tail,
An’ set the bairns
to daud her
Wi’ dirt this
day.
[Footnote 1: Alluding
to a scoffing ballad which was made on the
admission of the late
reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the
“Laigh Kirk.”—R.B.]
[Footnote 2: Rev.
James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease,
Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 3: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 4: Rev. James Mackinlay.]
Mak haste an’
turn King David owre,
And lilt wi’ holy
clangor;
O’ double verse
come gie us four,
An’ skirl up the
Bangor:
This day the kirk kicks
up a stoure;
Nae mair the knaves
shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her
pow’r,
And gloriously she’ll
whang her
Wi’ pith this
day.
Come, let a proper text
be read,
An’ touch it aff
wi’ vigour,
How graceless Ham^5
leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a
nigger;
Or Phineas^6 drove the
murdering blade,
Wi’ whore-abhorring
rigour;
Or Zipporah,^7 the scauldin
jad,
Was like a bluidy tiger
I’ th’ inn
that day.
There, try his mettle
on the creed,
An’ bind him down
wi’ caution,
That stipend is a carnal
weed
He taks by for the fashion;
And gie him o’er
the flock, to feed,
And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that
cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient
threshin;
Spare them nae day.
Now, auld Kilmarnock,
cock thy tail,
An’ toss thy horns
fu’ canty;
Nae mair thou’lt
rowt out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture’s
scanty;
For lapfu’s large
o’ gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib
in plenty,
An’ runts o’
grace the pick an’ wale,
No gi’en by way
o’ dainty,
But ilka day.
[Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.—R. B.]
[Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.—R. B.]
[Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.—R. B]
Nae mair by Babel’s
streams we’ll weep,
To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles
up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin!
Come, screw the pegs
wi’ tunefu’ cheep,
And o’er the thairms
be tryin;
Oh, rare to see our
elbucks wheep,
And a’ like lamb-tails
flyin
Fu’ fast this
day.
Lang, Patronage, with
rod o’ airn,
Has shor’d the
Kirk’s undoin;
As lately Fenwick, sair
forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:^8
Our patron, honest man!
Glencairn,
He saw mischief was
brewin;
An’ like a godly,
elect bairn,
He’s waled us
out a true ane,
And sound, this day.
Now Robertson^9 harangue
nae mair,
But steek your gab for
ever;
Or try the wicked town
of Ayr,
For there they’ll
think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on
your lear,
Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton^10
repair,
An’ turn a carpet
weaver
Aff-hand this day.
Mu’trie^11 and
you were just a match,
We never had sic twa
drones;
Auld Hornie did the
Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin baudrons,
And aye he catch’d
the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons;
But now his Honour maun
detach,
Wi’ a’ his
brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.
[Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.]
[Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.]
[Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 11: The
Rev. John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay
succeeded.]
See, see auld Orthodoxy’s
faes
She’s swingein
thro’ the city!
Hark, how the nine-tail’d
cat she plays!
I vow it’s unco
pretty:
There, Learning, with
his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin
ditty;
And Common-sense is
gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie
Her plaint this day.
But there’s Morality
himsel’,
Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the
tither yell,
Between his twa companions!
See, how she peels the
skin an’ fell,
As ane were peelin onions!
Now there, they’re
packed aff to hell,
An’ banish’d
our dominions,
Henceforth this day.
O happy day! rejoice,
rejoice!
Come bouse about the
porter!
Morality’s demure
decoys
Shall here nae mair
find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russell,
are the boys
That heresy can torture;
They’ll gie her
on a rape a hoyse,
And cowe her measure
shorter
By th’ head some
day.
Come, bring the tither
mutchkin in,
And here’s—for
a conclusion—
To ev’ry New Light^12
mother’s son,
From this time forth,
Confusion!
If mair they deave us
wi’ their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We’ll light a
spunk, and ev’ry skin,
We’ll rin them
aff in fusion
Like oil, some day.
[Footnote 12: “New
Light” is a cant phrase in the west of
Scotland for those religious
opinions which Dr. Taylor of
Norwich has so strenuously
defended.—R. B.]
Friendship, mysterious
cement of the soul!
Sweet’ner of Life,
and solder of Society!
I owe thee much—Blair.
Dear Smith, the slee’st,
pawkie thief,
That e’er attempted
stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
Owre human hearts;
For ne’er a bosom
yet was prief
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun
an’ moon,
An’ ev’ry
star that blinks aboon,
Ye’ve cost me
twenty pair o’ shoon,
Just gaun to see you;
An’ ev’ry
ither pair that’s done,
Mair taen I’m
wi’ you.
That auld, capricious
carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit
stature,
She’s turn’d
you off, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on
ev’ry feature
She’s wrote the
Man.
Just now I’ve
ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,
My barmie noddle’s
working prime.
My fancy yerkit up sublime,
Wi’ hasty summon;
Hae ye a leisure-moment’s
time
To hear what’s
comin?
Some rhyme a neibor’s
name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!)
for needfu’ cash;
Some rhyme to court
the countra clash,
An’ raise a din;
For me, an aim I never
fash;
I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules
my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet
coat,
An’ damn’d
my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a
random-shot
O’countra wit.
This while my notion’s
taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid,
black prent;
But still the mair I’m
that way bent,
Something cries “Hooklie!”
I red you, honest man,
tak tent?
Ye’ll shaw your
folly;
“There’s
ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep
men o’ letters,
Hae thought they had
ensur’d their debtors,
A’ future ages;
Now moths deform, in
shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages.”
Then farewell hopes
of laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic
brows!
Henceforth I’ll
rove where busy ploughs
Are whistlin’
thrang,
An’ teach the
lanely heights an’ howes
My rustic sang.
I’ll wander on,
wi’ tentless heed
How never-halting moments
speed,
Till fate shall snap
the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
I’ll lay me with
th’ inglorious dead
Forgot and gone!
But why o’ death
being a tale?
Just now we’re
living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop
crowd the sail,
Heave Care o’er-side!
And large, before Enjoyment’s
gale,
Let’s tak the
tide.
This life, sae far’s
I understand,
Is a’ enchanted
fairy-land,
Where Pleasure is the
magic-wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes,
hand in hand,
Dance by fu’ light.
The magic-wand then
let us wield;
For ance that five-an’-forty’s
speel’d,
See, crazy, weary, joyless
eild,
Wi’ wrinkl’d
face,
Comes hostin, hirplin
owre the field,
We’ creepin pace.
When ance life’s
day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant,
careless roamin;
An’ fareweel cheerfu’
tankards foamin,
An’ social noise:
An’ fareweel dear,
deluding woman,
The Joy of joys!
O Life! how pleasant,
in thy morning,
Young Fancy’s
rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution’s
lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at
th’ expected warning,
To joy an’ play.
We wander there, we
wander here,
We eye the rose upon
the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn
is near,
Among the leaves;
And tho’ the puny
wound appear,
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a
flow’ry spot,
For which they never
toil’d nor swat;
They drink the sweet
and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And haply eye the barren
hut
With high disdain.
With steady aim, some
Fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev’ry
sinew brace;
Thro’ fair, thro’
foul, they urge the race,
An’ seize the
prey:
Then cannie, in some
cozie place,
They close the day.
And others, like your
humble servan’,
Poor wights! nae rules
nor roads observin,
To right or left eternal
swervin,
They zig-zag on;
Till, curst with age,
obscure an’ starvin,
They aften groan.
Alas! what bitter toil
an’ straining—
But truce with peevish,
poor complaining!
Is fortune’s fickle
Luna waning?
E’n let her gang!
Beneath what light she
has remaining,
Let’s sing our
sang.
My pen I here fling
to the door,
And kneel, ye Pow’rs!
and warm implore,
“Tho’ I
should wander Terra o’er,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I
ask no more,
Aye rowth o’ rhymes.
“Gie dreepin roasts
to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae
their beards;
Gie fine braw claes
to fine life-guards,
And maids of honour;
An’ yill an’
whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.
“A title, Dempster^1
merits it;
A garter gie to Willie
Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d
cit,
In cent. per cent.;
But give me real, sterling
wit,
And I’m content.
[Footnote 1: George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P.]
“While ye are
pleas’d to keep me hale,
I’ll sit down
o’er my scanty meal,
Be’t water-brose
or muslin-kail,
Wi’ cheerfu’
face,
As lang’s the
Muses dinna fail
To say the grace.”
An anxious e’e
I never throws
Behint my lug, or by
my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune’s
blows
As weel’s I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow,
care, and prose,
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk that
live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded,
calm an’cool,
Compar’d wi’
you—O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just
a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-brain’d,
sentimental traces
In your unletter’d,
nameless faces!
In arioso trills and
graces
Ye never stray;
But gravissimo, solemn
basses
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae
doubt ye’re wise;
Nae ferly tho’
ye do despise
The hairum-scairum,
ram-stam boys,
The rattling squad:
I see ye upward cast
your eyes—
Ye ken the road!
Whilst I—but
I shall haud me there,
Wi’ you I’ll
scarce gang ony where—
Then, Jamie, I shall
say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content wi’ you
to mak a pair.
Whare’er I gang.
The Vision
Duan First^1
The sun had clos’d
the winter day,
The curless quat their
roarin play,
And hunger’d maukin
taen her way,
To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws
ilk step betray
Whare she has been.
The thresher’s
weary flingin-tree,
The lee-lang day had
tired me;
And when the day had
clos’d his e’e,
Far i’ the west,
Ben i’ the spence,
right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.
There, lanely by the
ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey’d
the spewing reek,
That fill’d, wi’
hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin;
An’ heard the
restless rattons squeak
About the riggin.
All in this mottie,
misty clime,
I backward mus’d
on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu’
prime,
An’ done nae thing,
But stringing blethers
up in rhyme,
For fools to sing.
Had I to guid advice
but harkit,
I might, by this, hae
led a market,
Or strutted in a bank
and clarkit
My cash-account;
While here, half-mad,
half-fed, half-sarkit.
Is a’ th’
amount.
[Footnote 1: Duan,
a term of Ossian’s for the different
divisions of a digressive
poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. 2 of
M’Pherson’s
translation.—R. B.]
I started, mutt’ring,
“blockhead! coof!”
And heav’d on
high my waukit loof,
To swear by a’
yon starry roof,
Or some rash aith,
That I henceforth wad
be rhyme-proof
Till my last breath—
When click! the string
the snick did draw;
An’ jee! the door
gaed to the wa’;
An’ by my ingle-lowe
I saw,
Now bleezin bright,
A tight, outlandish
hizzie, braw,
Come full in sight.
Ye need na doubt, I
held my whisht;
The infant aith, half-form’d,
was crusht
I glowr’d as eerie’s
I’d been dusht
In some wild glen;
When sweet, like honest
Worth, she blusht,
An’ stepped ben.
Green, slender, leaf-clad
holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu’,
round her brows;
I took her for some
Scottish Muse,
By that same token;
And come to stop those
reckless vows,
Would soon been broken.
A “hair-brain’d,
sentimental trace”
Was strongly marked
in her face;
A wildly-witty, rustic
grace
Shone full upon her;
Her eye, ev’n
turn’d on empty space,
Beam’d keen with
honour.
Down flow’d her
robe, a tartan sheen,
Till half a leg was
scrimply seen;
An’ such a leg!
my bonie Jean
Could only peer it;
Sae straught, sae taper,
tight an’ clean—
Nane else came near
it.
Her mantle large, of
greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly
drew:
Deep lights and shades,
bold-mingling, threw
A lustre grand;
And seem’d, to
my astonish’d view,
A well-known land.
Here, rivers in the
sea were lost;
There, mountains to
the skies were toss’t:
Here, tumbling billows
mark’d the coast,
With surging foam;
There, distant shone
Art’s lofty boast,
The lordly dome.
Here, Doon pour’d
down his far-fetch’d floods;
There, well-fed Irwine
stately thuds:
Auld hermit Ayr staw
thro’ his woods,
On to the shore;
And many a lesser torrent
scuds,
With seeming roar.
Low, in a sandy valley
spread,
An ancient borough rear’d
her head;
Still, as in Scottish
story read,
She boasts a race
To ev’ry nobler
virtue bred,
And polish’d grace.^2
By stately tow’r,
or palace fair,
Or ruins pendent in
the air,
Bold stems of heroes,
here and there,
I could discern;
Some seem’d to
muse, some seem’d to dare,
With feature stern.
My heart did glowing
transport feel,
To see a race heroic^3
wheel,
[Footnote 2: The
seven stanzas following this were first
printed in the Edinburgh
edition, 1787. Other stanzas, never
published by Burns himself,
are given on p. 180.]
[Footnote 3: The Wallaces.—R. B.]
And brandish round the
deep-dyed steel,
In sturdy blows;
While, back-recoiling,
seem’d to reel
Their Suthron foes.
His Country’s
Saviour,^4 mark him well!
Bold Richardton’s
heroic swell;^5
The chief, on Sark who
glorious fell,^6
In high command;
And he whom ruthless
fates expel
His native land.
There, where a sceptr’d
Pictish shade
Stalk’d round
his ashes lowly laid,^7
I mark’d a martial
race, pourtray’d
In colours strong:
Bold, soldier-featur’d,
undismay’d,
They strode along.
Thro’ many a wild,
romantic grove,^8
Near many a hermit-fancied
cove
(Fit haunts for friendship
or for love,
In musing mood),
An aged Judge, I saw
him rove,
Dispensing good.
With deep-struck, reverential
awe,
The learned Sire and
Son I saw:^9
To Nature’s God,
and Nature’s law,
They gave their lore;
This, all its source
and end to draw,
That, to adore.
[Footnote 4: William Wallace.—R.B.]
[Footnote 5: Adam
Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the
immortal preserver of
Scottish independence.—R.B.]
[Footnote 6: Wallace, laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.—R.B.]
[Footnote 7: Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial—place is still shown.—R.B.]
[Footnote 8: Barskimming,
the seat of the Lord Justice—
Clerk.—R.B.]
[Footnote 9: Catrine,
the seat of the late Doctor and
present Professor Stewart.—R.B.]
Brydon’s brave
ward^10 I well could spy,
Beneath old Scotia’s
smiling eye:
Who call’d on
Fame, low standing by,
To hand him on,
Where many a patriot-name
on high,
And hero shone.
Duan Second
With musing-deep, astonish’d
stare,
I view’d the heavenly-seeming
Fair;
A whispering throb did
witness bear
Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder sister’s
air
She did me greet.
“All hail! my
own inspired bard!
In me thy native Muse
regard;
Nor longer mourn thy
fate is hard,
Thus poorly low;
I come to give thee
such reward,
As we bestow!
“Know, the great
genius of this land
Has many a light aerial
band,
Who, all beneath his
high command,
Harmoniously,
As arts or arms they
understand,
Their labours ply.
“They Scotia’s
race among them share:
Some fire the soldier
on to dare;
Some rouse the patriot
up to bare
Corruption’s heart:
Some teach the bard—a
darling care—
The tuneful art.
“’Mong swelling
floods of reeking gore,
They, ardent, kindling
spirits pour;
[Footnote 10: Colonel
Fullarton.—R.B. This gentleman had
travelled under the
care of Patrick Brydone, author of a
well-known “Tour
Through Sicily and Malta.”]
Or, ’mid the venal
senate’s roar,
They, sightless, stand,
To mend the honest patriot-lore,
And grace the hand.
“And when the
bard, or hoary sage,
Charm or instruct the
future age,
They bind the wild poetric
rage
In energy,
Or point the inconclusive
page
Full on the eye.
“Hence, Fullarton,
the brave and young;
Hence, Dempster’s
zeal-inspired tongue;
Hence, sweet, harmonious
Beattie sung
His ‘Minstrel
lays’;
Or tore, with noble
ardour stung,
The sceptic’s
bays.
“To lower orders
are assign’d
The humbler ranks of
human-kind,
The rustic bard, the
lab’ring hind,
The artisan;
All choose, as various
they’re inclin’d,
The various man.
“When yellow waves
the heavy grain,
The threat’ning
storm some strongly rein;
Some teach to meliorate
the plain
With tillage-skill;
And some instruct the
shepherd-train,
Blythe o’er the
hill.
“Some hint the
lover’s harmless wile;
Some grace the maiden’s
artless smile;
Some soothe the lab’rer’s
weary toil
For humble gains,
And make his cottage-scenes
beguile
His cares and pains.
“Some, bounded
to a district-space
Explore at large man’s
infant race,
To mark the embryotic
trace
Of rustic bard;
And careful note each
opening grace,
A guide and guard.
“Of these am I—Coila
my name:
And this district as
mine I claim,
Where once the Campbells,
chiefs of fame,
Held ruling power:
I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful
flame,
Thy natal hour.
“With future hope
I oft would gaze
Fond, on thy little
early ways,
Thy rudely, caroll’d,
chiming phrase,
In uncouth rhymes;
Fir’d at the simple,
artless lays
Of other times.
“I saw thee seek
the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing
roar;
Or when the North his
fleecy store
Drove thro’ the
sky,
I saw grim Nature’s
visage hoar
Struck thy young eye.
“Or when the deep
green-mantled earth
Warm cherish’d
ev’ry floweret’s birth,
And joy and music pouring
forth
In ev’ry grove;
I saw thee eye the general
mirth
With boundless love.
“When ripen’d
fields and azure skies
Call’d forth the
reapers’ rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their
ev’ning joys,
And lonely stalk,
To vent thy bosom’s
swelling rise,
In pensive walk.
“When youthful
love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shivering, shot
thy nerves along,
Those accents grateful
to thy tongue,
Th’ adored Name,
I taught thee how to
pour in song,
To soothe thy flame.
“I saw thy pulse’s
maddening play,
Wild send thee Pleasure’s
devious way,
Misled by Fancy’s
meteor-ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that
led astray
Was light from Heaven.
“I taught thy
manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways
of simple swains,
Till now, o’er
all my wide domains
Thy fame extends;
And some, the pride
of Coila’s plains,
Become thy friends.
“Thou canst not
learn, nor I can show,
To paint with Thomson’s
landscape glow;
Or wake the bosom-melting
throe,
With Shenstone’s
art;
Or pour, with Gray,
the moving flow
Warm on the heart.
“Yet, all beneath
th’ unrivall’d rose,
T e lowly daisy sweetly
blows;
Tho’ large the
forest’s monarch throws
His army shade,
Yet green the juicy
hawthorn grows,
Adown the glade.
“Then never murmur
nor repine;
Strive in thy humble
sphere to shine;
And trust me, not Potosi’s
mine,
Nor king’s regard,
Can give a bliss o’ermatching
thine,
A rustic bard.
“To give my counsels
all in one,
Thy tuneful flame still
careful fan:
Preserve the dignity
of Man,
With soul erect;
And trust the Universal
Plan
Will all protect.
“And wear thou
this”—she solemn said,
And bound the holly
round my head:
The polish’d leaves
and berries red
Did rustling play;
And, like a passing
thought, she fled
In light away.
[To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]
Suppressed Stanza’s Of “The Vision”
After 18th stanza of the text (at “His native land"):—
With secret throes I
marked that earth,
That cottage, witness
of my birth;
And near I saw, bold
issuing forth
In youthful pride,
A Lindsay race of noble
worth,
Famed far and wide.
Where, hid behind a
spreading wood,
An ancient Pict-built
mansion stood,
I spied, among an angel
brood,
A female pair;
Sweet shone their high
maternal blood,
And father’s air.^1
An ancient tower^2 to
memory brought
How Dettingen’s
bold hero fought;
Still, far from sinking
into nought,
It owns a lord
Who far in western climates
fought,
With trusty sword.
[Footnote 1: Sundrum.—R.B.]
[Footnote 2: Stair.—R.B.]
Among the rest I well
could spy
One gallant, graceful,
martial boy,
The soldier sparkled
in his eye,
A diamond water.
I blest that noble badge
with joy,
That owned me frater.^3
After 20th stanza of the text (at “Dispensing good"):—
Near by arose a mansion
fine^4
The seat of many a muse
divine;
Not rustic muses such
as mine,
With holly crown’d,
But th’ ancient,
tuneful, laurell’d Nine,
From classic ground.
I mourn’d the
card that Fortune dealt,
To see where bonie Whitefoords
dwelt;^5
But other prospects
made me melt,
That village near;^6
There Nature, Friendship,
Love, I felt,
Fond-mingling, dear!
Hail! Nature’s
pang, more strong than death!
Warm Friendship’s
glow, like kindling wrath!
Love, dearer than the
parting breath
Of dying friend!
Not ev’n with
life’s wild devious path,
Your force shall end!
The Power that gave
the soft alarms
In blooming Whitefoord’s
rosy charms,
Still threats the tiny,
feather’d arms,
The barbed dart,
While lovely Wilhelmina
warms
The coldest heart.^7
After 21st stanza of the text (at “That, to adore"):—
Where Lugar leaves his
moorland plaid,^8
Where lately Want was
idly laid,
[Footnote 3: Captain
James Montgomerie, Master of St. James’
Lodge, Tarbolton, to
which the author has the honour to
belong.—R.B.]
[Footnote 4: Auchinleck.—R.B.]
[Footnote 5: Ballochmyle.]
[Footnote 6: Mauchline.]
[Footnote 7: Miss Wilhelmina Alexander.]
[Footnote 8: Cumnock.—R.B.]
I marked busy, bustling Trade, In fervid flame, Beneath a Patroness’ aid, of noble name.
Wild, countless hills
I could survey,
And countless flocks
as wild as they;
But other scenes did
charms display,
That better please,
Where polish’d
manners dwell with Gray,
In rural ease.^9
Where Cessnock pours
with gurgling sound;^10
And Irwine, marking
out the bound,
Enamour’d of the
scenes around,
Slow runs his race,
A name I doubly honour’d
found,^11
With knightly grace.
Brydon’s brave
ward,^12 I saw him stand,
Fame humbly offering
her hand,
And near, his kinsman’s
rustic band,^13
With one accord,
Lamenting their late
blessed land
Must change its lord.
The owner of a pleasant
spot,
Near and sandy wilds,
I last did note;^14
A heart too warm, a
pulse too hot
At times, o’erran:
But large in ev’ry
feature wrote,
Appear’d the Man.
The Rantin’ Dog, The Daddie O’t
Tune—“Whare’ll our guidman lie.”
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.
[Footnote 9: Mr. Farquhar Gray.—R.B.]
[Footnote 10: Auchinskieth.—R.B.]
[Footnote 11: Caprington.—R.B.]
[Footnote 12: Colonel Fullerton.—R.B.]
[Footnote 13: Dr. Fullerton.—R.B.]
[Footnote 14: Orangefield.—R.B.]
O wha will own he did
the faut?
O wha will buy the groanin
maut?
O wha will tell me how
to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog,
the daddie o’t.
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.
Wha will crack to me
my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin’
fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er
again?
The rantin’ dog,
the daddie o’t.
Here’s His Health In Water
Tune—“The Job of Journey-work.”
Altho’ my back
be at the wa’,
And tho’ he be
the fautor;
Altho’ my back
be at the wa’,
Yet, here’s his
health in water.
O wae gae by his wanton
sides,
Sae brawlie’s
he could flatter;
Till for his sake I’m
slighted sair,
My Son, these maxims
make a rule,
An’ lump them
aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous
is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:
The cleanest corn that
ere was dight
May hae some pyles o’
caff in;
So ne’er a fellow-creature
slight
For random fits o’
daffin.
(Solomon.—Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.)
O ye wha are sae guid
yoursel’,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to
do but mark and tell
Your neibours’
fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a
weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store
o’ water;
The heaped happer’s
ebbing still,
An’ still the
clap plays clatter.
Hear me, ye venerable
core,
As counsel for poor
mortals
That frequent pass douce
Wisdom’s door
For glaikit Folly’s
portals:
I, for their thoughtless,
careless sakes,
Would here propone defences—
Their donsie tricks,
their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi’
theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment’s
fair regard,
What maks the mighty
differ;
Discount what scant
occasion gave,
That purity ye pride
in;
And (what’s aft
mair than a’ the lave),
Your better art o’
hidin.
Think, when your castigated
pulse
Gies now and then a
wallop!
What ragings must his
veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi’ wind and tide
fair i’ your tail,
Right on ye scud your
sea-way;
But in the teeth o’
baith to sail,
It maks a unco lee-way.
See Social Life and
Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified,
they’re grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to
calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded
hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous
dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty
names,
Suppose a change o’
cases;
A dear-lov’d lad,
convenience snug,
A treach’rous
inclination—
But let me whisper i’
your lug,
Ye’re aiblins
nae temptation.
Then gently scan your
brother man,
Still gentler sister
woman;
Tho’ they may
gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human:
One point must still
be greatly dark,—
The moving Why they
do it;
And just as lamely can
ye mark,
How far perhaps they
rue it.
Who made the heart,
’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord,
its various tone,
Each spring, its various
bias:
Then at the balance
let’s be mute,
We never can adjust
it;
What’s done we
partly may compute,
But know not what’s
resisted.
The Inventory^1
In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes
Sir, as your mandate
did request,
I send you here a faithfu’
list,
O’ gudes an’
gear, an’ a’ my graith,
To which I’m clear
to gi’e my aith.
Imprimis, then, for
carriage cattle,
I hae four brutes o’
gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a
pettle.
My hand-afore ’s
a guid auld has-been,
An’ wight an’
wilfu’ a’ his days been:
My hand-ahin ’s
a weel gaun fillie,
That aft has borne me
hame frae Killie.^2
An’ your auld
borough mony a time
In days when riding
was nae crime.
But ance, when in my
wooing pride
I, like a blockhead,
boost to ride,
The wilfu’ creature
sae I pat to,
(Lord pardon a’
my sins, an’ that too!)
I play’d my fillie
sic a shavie,
She’s a’
bedevil’d wi’ the spavie.
My furr-ahin ’s
a wordy beast,
As e’er in tug
or tow was traced.
The fourth’s a
Highland Donald hastle,
A damn’d red-wud
Kilburnie blastie!
Foreby a cowt, o’
cowts the wale,
As ever ran afore a
tail:
Gin he be spar’d
to be a beast,
He’ll draw me
fifteen pund at least.
Wheel-carriages I ha’e
but few,
Three carts, an’
twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow,
mair for token,
Ae leg an’ baith
the trams are broken;
I made a poker o’
the spin’le,
An’ my auld mither
brunt the trin’le.
[Footnote 1: The
“Inventory” was addressed to
Mr. Aitken of
Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.]
[Footnote 2: Kilmarnock.—R. B.]
For men, I’ve
three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for ranting
an’ for noise;
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher
t’ other:
Wee Davock hauds the
nowt in fother.
I rule them as I ought,
discreetly,
An’ aften labour
them completely;
An’ aye on Sundays
duly, nightly,
I on the Questions targe
them tightly;
Till, faith! wee Davock’s
grown sae gleg,
Tho’ scarcely
langer than your leg,
He’ll screed you
aff Effectual Calling,
As fast as ony in the
dwalling.
I’ve nane in female
servant station,
(Lord keep me aye frae
a’ temptation!)
I hae nae wife—and
thay my bliss is,
An’ ye have laid
nae tax on misses;
An’ then, if kirk
folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the deevils darena
touch me.
Wi’ weans I’m
mair than weel contented,
Heav’n sent me
And now, remember, Mr.
Aiken,
Nae kind of licence
out I’m takin:
Frae this time forth,
I do declare
I’se ne’er
ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro’ dirt and
dub for life I’ll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for
a saddle;
My travel a’ on
foot I’ll shank it,
I’ve sturdy bearers,
Gude the thankit!
The kirk and you may
tak you that,
It puts but little in
your pat;
Sae dinna put me in
your beuk,
Nor for my ten white
shillings leuk.
This list, wi’
my ain hand I wrote it,
The day and date as
under noted;
Then know all ye whom
it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,
Robert Burns.
Mossgiel, February 22,
1786.
Now, Kennedy, if foot
or horse
E’er bring you
in by Mauchlin corse,
(Lord, man, there’s
lasses there wad force
A hermit’s fancy;
An’ down the gate
in faith they’re worse,
An’ mair unchancy).
But as I’m sayin,
please step to Dow’s,
An’ taste sic
gear as Johnie brews,
Till some bit callan
bring me news
That ye are there;
An’ 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 an’ wallow;
But gie me just a true
good fallow,
Wi’ right ingine,
And spunkie ance to
mak us mellow,
An’ 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
to you!
Hae, there’s my
haun’, I wiss you weel,
An’ gude be wi’
you.
Robt. Burness.
Mossgiel, 3rd March,
1786.
To Mr. M’Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan
In answer to an obliging
Letter he sent
in the commencement
of my poetic career.
Sir, o’er a gill
I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
“See wha taks
notice o’ the bard!”
I lap and cried fu’
loud.
Now deil-ma-care about
their jaw,
The senseless, gawky
million;
I’ll cock my nose
abune them a’,
I’m roos’d
by Craigen-Gillan!
’Twas noble, sir;
‘twas like yourself’,
To grant your high protection:
A great man’s
smile ye ken fu’ well
Is aye a blest infection.
Tho’, by his banes
wha in a tub
Match’d Macedonian
Sandy!
On my ain legs thro’
dirt and dub,
I independent stand
aye,—
And when those legs
to gude, warm kail,
Wi’ welcome canna
bear me,
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
An’ barley-scone
shall cheer me.
Heaven spare you lang
to kiss the breath
O’ mony flow’ry
simmers!
An’ bless your
bonie lasses baith,
I’m tauld they’re
loosome kimmers!
An’ God bless
young Dunaskin’s laird,
The blossom of our gentry!
An’ may he wear
and auld man’s beard,
A credit to his country.
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye
crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects
you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt
rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho’, faith!
I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit
wonner,
Detested, shunn’d
by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your
fit upon her—
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and
seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar’s
haffet squattle;
There ye may creep,
and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred,
jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane
ne’er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there,
ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels,
snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll
no be right,
Till ye’ve got
on it—
The verra tapmost, tow’rin
height
O’ Miss’
bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld
ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ grey
as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial
rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic
a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum.
I wad na been surpris’d
to spy
You on an auld wife’s
flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit
dubbie boy,
On’s wyliecoat;
But Miss’ fine
Lunardi! fye!
How daur ye do’t?
O Jeany, dinna toss
your head,
An’ set your beauties
a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed
speed
The blastie’s
makin:
Thae winks an’
finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the
giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers
see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder
free us,
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’
gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n
devotion!
Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s
Presented to the Author by a Lady.
Thou flatt’ring
mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages
call to mind
The dear, the beauteous
donor;
Tho’ sweetly female
ev’ry part,
Yet such a head, and
more the heart
Does both the sexes
honour:
She show’d her
taste refin’d and just,
When she selected thee;
Yet deviating, own I
must,
For sae approving me:
But kind still I’ll
mind still
The giver in the gift;
I’ll bless her,
an’ wiss her
A Friend aboon the lift.
Tune—“Jockey’s Grey Breeks.”
Again rejoicing Nature
sees
Her robe assume its
vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave
in the breeze,
All freshly steep’d
in morning dews.
Chorus.—And
maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s
in her e’e?
For it’s jet,
jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let
a body be.
In vain to me the cowslips
blaw,
In vain to me the vi’lets
spring;
In vain to me in glen
or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite
sing.
And maun I still, &c.
The merry ploughboy
cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie
seedsman stalks;
But life to me’s
a weary dream,
A dream of ane that
never wauks.
And maun I still, &c.
The wanton coot the
water skims,
Amang the reeds the
ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic
swims,
And ev’ry thing
is blest but I.
And maun I still, &c.
The sheep-herd steeks
his faulding slap,
And o’er the moorlands
whistles shill:
Wi’ wild, unequal,
wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy
hill.
And maun I still, &c.
And when the lark, ’tween
light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the
daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings
on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I
hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.
Come winter, with thine
angry howl,
And raging, bend the
naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe
my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad
like me!
And maun I still, &c.
To A Mountain Daisy,
On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786.
Wee, modest crimson-tipped
flow’r,
Thou’s met me
in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang
the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is
past my pow’r,
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it’s no
thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion
meet,
Bending thee ’mang
the dewy weet,
Wi’ spreckl’d
breast!
When upward-springing,
blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting
north
Upon thy early, humble
birth;
Yet cheerfully thou
glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d
above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs
our gardens yield,
High shelt’ring
woods and wa’s maun shield;
But thou, beneath the
random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble
field,
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty
mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward
spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming
head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears
thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of
artless maid,
Sweet flow’ret
of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity
betray’d,
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee,
all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of
simple bard,
On life’s rough
ocean luckless starr’d!
Unskilful he to note
the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and
gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering
worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants
and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning
driv’n
To mis’ry’s
brink;
Till wrench’d
of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!
Ev’n thou who
mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no
distant date;
Stern Ruin’s plough-share
drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath
the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom!
All hail! inexorable
lord!
At whose destruction-breathing
word,
The mightiest empires
fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted
train,
The ministers of grief
and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolv’d,
despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest
tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low’ring,
and pouring,
The storm no more I
dread;
Tho’ thick’ning,
and black’ning,
Round my devoted head.
And thou grim Pow’r
by life abhorr’d,
While life a pleasure
can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch’s
pray’r!
Nor more I shrink appall’d,
afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly
aid,
To close this scene
of care!
When shall my soul,
in silent peace,
Resign life’s
joyless day—
My weary heart is throbbing
cease,
Cold mould’ring
in the clay?
No fear more, no tear
more,
To stain my lifeless
face,
Enclasped, and grasped,
Within thy cold embrace!
The Lament
Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend’s Amour.
Alas! how oft does goodness
would itself,
And sweet affection
prove the spring of woe!
Home.
O thou pale orb that
silent shines
While care-untroubled
mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch
who inly pines.
And wanders here to
wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils
keep,
Beneath thy wan, unwarming
beam;
And mourn, in lamentation
deep,
How life and love are
all a dream!
I joyless view thy rays
adorn
The faintly-marked,
distant hill;
I joyless view thy trembling
horn,
Reflected in the gurgling
rill:
My fondly-fluttering
heart, be still!
Thou busy pow’r,
remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing
thrill
For ever bar returning
peace!
No idly-feign’d,
poetic pains,
My sad, love-lorn lamentings
claim:
No shepherd’s
pipe-Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures,
quaint and tame.
The plighted faith,
the mutual flame,
The oft-attested pow’rs
above,
The promis’d father’s
tender name;
These were the pledges
of my love!
Encircled in her clasping
arms,
How have the raptur’d
moments flown!
How have I wish’d
for fortune’s charms,
For her dear sake, and
her’s alone!
And, must I think it!
is she gone,
My secret heart’s
exulting boast?
And does she heedless
hear my groan?
And is she ever, ever
lost?
Oh! can she bear so
base a heart,
So lost to honour, lost
to truth,
As from the fondest
lover part,
The plighted husband
of her youth?
Alas! life’s path
may be unsmooth!
Her way may lie thro’
rough distress!
Then, who her pangs
and pains will soothe
Her sorrows share, and
make them less?
Ye winged hours that
o’er us pass’d,
Enraptur’d more,
the more enjoy’d,
Your dear remembrance
in my breast
My fondly-treasur’d
thoughts employ’d:
That breast, how dreary
now, and void,
For her too scanty once
of room!
Ev’n ev’ry
ray of hope destroy’d,
And not a wish to gild
the gloom!
The morn, that warns
th’ approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil
and woe;
I see the hours in long
array,
That I must suffer,
lingering, slow:
Full many a pang, and
many a throe,
Keen recollection’s
direful train,
Must wring my soul,
were Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant
western main.
And when my nightly
couch I try,
Sore harass’d
out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves,
and tear-worn eye,
Keep watchings with
the nightly thief:
Or if I slumber, fancy,
chief,
Reigns, haggard—wild,
in sore affright:
Ev’n day, all-bitter,
brings relief
From such a horror-breathing
night.
O thou bright queen,
who o’er th’ expanse
Now highest reign’st,
with boundless sway
Oft has thy silent-marking
glance
Observ’d us, fondly-wand’ring,
stray!
The time, unheeded,
sped away,
While love’s luxurious
pulse beat high,
Beneath thy silver-gleaming
ray,
To mark the mutual-kindling
eye.
Oh! scenes in strong
remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never
to return!
Scenes, if in stupor
I forget,
Again I feel, again
I burn!
From ev’ry joy
and pleasure torn,
Life’s weary vale
I’ll wander thro’;
And hopeless, comfortless,
I’ll mourn
A faithless woman’s
broken vow!
Oppress’d with
grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I
can bear,
I set me down and sigh;
O life! thou art a galling
load,
Along a rough, a weary
road,
To wretches such as
I!
Dim backward as I cast
my view,
What sick’ning
scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may
pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close
ne’er
But with the closing
tomb!
Happy! ye sons of busy
life,
Who, equal to the bustling
strife,
No other view regard!
Ev’n when the
wished end’s denied,
Yet while the busy means
are plied,
They bring their own
reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d
wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev’ry sad
returning night,
And joyless morn the
same!
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and
pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find ev’ry prospect
vain.
How blest the solitary’s
lot,
Who, all-forgetting,
all forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern, wild with
tangling roots,
Sits o’er his
newly gather’d fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or haply, to his ev’ning
thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are
distant brought,
A faint, collected dream;
While praising, and
raising
His thoughts to heav’n
on high,
As wand’ring,
meand’ring,
He views the solemn
sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit
plac’d
Where never human footstep
trac’d,
Less fit to play the
part,
The lucky moment to
improve,
And just to stop, and
just to move,
With self-respecting
art:
But ah! those pleasures,
loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be
blest!
He needs not, he heeds
not,
Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here must cry
here
At perfidy ingrate!
O, enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughtless
pleasure’s maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang’d
for riper times,
To feel the follies,
or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless
sport,
Like linnets in the
bush,
Ye little know the ills
ye court,
When manhood is your
wish!
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears
all,
Of dim declining age!
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline,
Recommending a Boy.
Mossgaville, May 3, 1786.
I hold it, sir, my bounden
duty
To warn you how that
Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M’Gaun,
Was here to hire yon
lad away
’Bout whom ye
spak the tither day,
An’ wad hae don’t
aff han’;
But lest he learn the
callan tricks—
An’ faith I muckle
doubt him—
Like scrapin out auld
Crummie’s nicks,
An’ tellin lies
about them;
As lieve then, I’d
have then
Your clerkship he should
sair,
If sae be ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho’ I say’t,
he’s gleg enough,
An’ ‘bout
a house that’s rude an’ rough,
The boy might learn
to swear;
But then, wi’
you, he’ll be sae taught,
An’ get sic fair
example straught,
I hae na ony fear.
Ye’ll catechise
him, every quirk,
An’ shore him
weel wi’ hell;
An’ gar him follow
to the kirk—
Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then
Frae hame this comin’
Friday,
Then please, sir, to
lea’e, sir,
The orders wi’
your lady.
My word of honour I
hae gi’en,
In Paisley John’s,
that night at e’en,
To meet the warld’s
worm;
To try to get the twa
to gree,
An’ name the airles
an’ the fee,
In legal mode an’
form:
I ken he weel a snick
can draw,
When simple bodies let
him:
An’ if a Devil
be at a’,
In faith he’s
sure to get him.
To phrase you and praise
you,
Ye ken your Laureat
scorns:
The pray’r still
you share still
Of grateful Minstrel
Burns.
Sir,
Yours this moment I
unseal,
And faith I’m
gay and hearty!
To tell the truth and
shame the deil,
I am as fou as Bartie:
But Foorsday, sir, my
promise leal,
Expect me o’ your
partie,
If on a beastie I can
speel,
Or hurl in a cartie.
Yours,
Robert Burns.
Mauchlin, Monday night,
10 o’clock.
Song—Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary?
Tune—“Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.”
Will ye go to the Indies,
my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia’s
shore?
Will ye go to the Indies,
my Mary,
Across th’ Atlantic
roar?
O sweet grows the lime
and the orange,
And the apple on the
pine;
But a’ the charms
o’ the Indies
Can never equal thine.
I hae sworn by the Heavens
to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens
to be true;
And sae may the Heavens
forget me,
When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith,
my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white
hand;
O plight me your faith,
my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia’s
strand.
We hae plighted our
troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection
to join;
And curst be the cause
that shall part us!
The hour and the moment
o’ time!
Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy.”
Nae gentle dames, tho’
e’er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse’s
care:
Their titles a’
arc empty show;
Gie me my Highland lassie,
O.
Chorus.—Within
the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plain sae
rashy, O,
I set me down wi’
right guid will,
To sing my Highland
lassie, O.
O were yon hills and
vallies mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens
fine!
The world then the love
should know
I bear my Highland Lassie,
O.
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.
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.
For her I’ll dare
the billow’s roar,
For her I’ll trace
a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may
lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie,
O.
She has my heart, she
has my hand,
By secret troth 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
rashy, O!
To other lands I now
must go,
To sing my Highland
lassie, O.
Epistle To A Young Friend
May __, 1786.
I Lang hae thought,
my youthfu’ friend,
A something to have
sent you,
Tho’ it should
serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme
may gang,
Let time and chance
determine;
Perhaps it may turn
out a sang:
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye’ll try the
world soon, my lad;
And, Andrew dear, believe
me,
Ye’ll find mankind
an unco squad,
And muckle they may
grieve ye:
For care and trouble
set your thought,
Ev’n when your
end’s attained;
And a’ your views
may come to nought,
Where ev’ry nerve
is strained.
I’ll no say, men
are villains a’;
The real, harden’d
wicked,
Wha hae nae check but
human law,
Are to a few restricked;
But, Och! mankind are
unco weak,
An’ little to
be trusted;
If self the wavering
balance shake,
It’s rarely right
adjusted!
Yet they wha fa’
in fortune’s strife,
Their fate we shouldna
censure;
For still, th’
important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest
heart,
Tho’ poortith
hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor’s
part,
Yet hae nae cash to
spare him.
Aye free, aff-han’,
your story tell,
When wi’ a bosom
crony;
But still keep something
to yoursel’,
Ye scarcely tell to
ony:
Conceal yoursel’
as weel’s ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’
ev’ry other man,
Wi’ sharpen’d,
sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o’
weel-plac’d love,
Luxuriantly indulge
it;
But never tempt th’
illicit rove,
Tho’ naething
should divulge it:
I waive the quantum
o’ the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But, Och! it hardens
a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune’s
golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon
her;
And gather gear by ev’ry
wile
That’s justified
by honour;
Not for to hide it in
a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious
privilege
Of being independent.
The fear o’ hell’s
a hangman’s whip,
To haud the wretch in
order;
But where ye feel your
honour grip,
Let that aye be your
border;
Its slightest touches,
instant pause—
Debar a’ side-pretences;
And resolutely keep
its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to
revere,
Must sure become the
creature;
But still the preaching
cant forbear,
And ev’n the rigid
feature:
Yet ne’er with
wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laugh’s
a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in
pleasure’s ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random
sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we’re
tempest driv’n—
A conscience but a canker—
A correspondence fix’d
wi’ Heav’n,
Is sure a noble anchor!
Adieu, dear, amiable
youth!
Your heart can ne’er
be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude,
and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase,
“God send you speed,”
Still daily to grow
wiser;
And may ye better reck
the rede,
Then ever did th’
adviser!
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M’Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty.
Long life, my Lord,
an’ health be yours,
Unskaithed by hunger’d
Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie,
desperate beggar,
Wi’ dirk, claymore,
and rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland
o’ a life
She likes—as
butchers like a knife.
Faith you and Applecross
were right
To keep the Highland
hounds in sight:
I doubt na! they wad
bid nae better,
Than let them ance out
owre the water,
Then up among thae lakes
and seas,
They’ll mak what
rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke,
or a Franklin,
May set their Highland
bluid a-ranklin;
Some Washington again
may head them,
Or some Montgomery,
fearless, lead them,
Till God knows what
may be effected
When by such heads and
hearts directed,
Poor dunghill sons of
dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights
aspire!
Nae sage North now,
nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier
o’er the pack vile,—
An’ whare will
ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right
repentance—
To cowe the rebel generation,
An’ save the honour
o’ the nation?
They, an’ be d-d!
what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or
light o’ day?
Far less—to
riches, pow’r, or freedom,
But what your lordship
likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord!
Glengarry, hear!
Your hand’s owre
light to them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves,
trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they
do gaylies;
They lay aside a’
tender mercies,
An’ tirl the hallions
to the birses;
Yet while they’re
only poind’t and herriet,
They’ll keep their
stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them! crash
them a’ to spails,
An’ rot the dyvors
i’ the jails!
The young dogs, swinge
them to the labour;
Let wark an’ hunger
mak them sober!
Beelzebub.
June 1st, Anno Mundi,
5790.
Thoughts, words, and
deeds, the Statute blames with reason;
But surely Dreams were
ne’er indicted Treason.
On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate’s Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address:
Guid-Mornin’ to
our Majesty!
May Heaven augment your
blisses
On ev’ry new birth-day
ye see,
A humble poet wishes.
My bardship here, at
your Levee
On sic a day as this
is,
Is sure an uncouth sight
to see,
Amang thae birth-day
dresses
Sae fine this day.
I see ye’re complimented
thrang,
By mony a lord an’
lady;
“God save the
King” ’s a cuckoo sang
That’s unco easy
said aye:
The poets, too, a venal
gang,
Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d
an’ ready,
Wad gar you trow ye
ne’er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
On sic a day.
For me! before a monarch’s
face
Ev’n there I winna
flatter;
For neither pension,
post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on
your Grace,
Your Kingship to bespatter;
There’s mony waur
been o’ the race,
And aiblins ane been
better
Than you this day.
’Tis very true,
my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be
doubted;
But facts are chiels
that winna ding,
An’ downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath
your wing,
Is e’en right
reft and clouted,
And now the third part
o’ the string,
An’ less, will
gang aboot it
Than did ae day.^1
Far be’t frae
me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want,
or fire,
To rule this mighty
nation:
But faith! I muckle
doubt, my sire,
Ye’ve trusted
ministration
To chaps wha in barn
or byre
Wad better fill’d
their station
Than courts yon day.
And now ye’ve
gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to
plaister,
Your sair taxation does
her fleece,
Till she has scarce
a tester:
For me, thank God, my
life’s a lease,
Nae bargain wearin’
faster,
Or, faith! I fear,
that, wi’ the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I’ the craft some
day.
[Footnote 1: The American colonies had recently been lost.]
I’m no mistrusting
Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An’ Will’s
a true guid fallow’s get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay
your debt,
An’ lessen a’
your charges;
But, God-sake! let nae
saving fit
Abridge your bonie barges
An’boats this
day.
Adieu, my Liege; may
freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An’ may ye rax
Corruption’s neck,
And gie her for dissection!
But since I’m
here, I’ll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,
To pay your Queen, wi’
due respect,
May fealty an’
subjection
This great birth-day.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive
to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment,
A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonie bairntime,
Heav’n has lent,
Still higher may they
heeze ye
In bliss, till fate
some day is sent
For ever to release
ye
Frae care that day.
For you, young Potentate
o’Wales,
I tell your highness
fairly,
Down Pleasure’s
stream, wi’ swelling sails,
I’m tauld ye’re
driving rarely;
But some day ye may
gnaw your nails,
An’ curse your
folly sairly,
That e’er ye brak
Diana’s pales,
Or rattl’d dice
wi’ Charlie
By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt’s
been known,
To mak a noble aiver;
So, ye may doucely fill
the throne,
For a’their clish-ma-claver:
There, him^2 at Agincourt
wha shone,
Few better were or braver:
And yet, wi’ funny,
queer Sir John,^3
He was an unco shaver
For mony a day.
For you, right rev’rend
Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve
sweeter,
Altho’ a ribbon
at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty
dog,
That bears the keys
of Peter,
Then swith! an’
get a wife to hug,
Or trowth, ye’ll
stain the mitre
Some luckless day!
Young, royal Tarry-breeks,
I learn,
Ye’ve lately come
athwart her—
A glorious galley,^4
stem and stern,
Weel rigg’d for
Venus’ barter;
But first hang out,
that she’ll discern,
Your hymeneal charter;
Then heave aboard your
grapple airn,
An’ large upon
her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms
a’,
Ye royal lasses dainty,
Heav’n mak you
guid as well as braw,
An’ gie you lads
a-plenty!
But sneer na British
boys awa!
For kings are unco scant
aye,
An’ German gentles
are but sma’,
They’re better
just than want aye
On ony day.
[Footnote 2: King Henry V.—R.B.]
[Footnote 3: Sir John Falstaff, vid. Shakespeare.—R. B.]
[Footnote 4: Alluding
to the newspaper account of a certain
Royal sailor’s
amour.—R. B. This was Prince William
Henry,
third son of George
III, afterward King William iv.]
Gad bless you a’!
consider now,
Ye’re unco muckle
dautit;
But ere the course o’
life be through,
It may be bitter sautit:
An’ I hae seen
their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow’t
at it.
But or the day was done,
I trow,
The laggen they hae
clautit
Fu’ clean that
day.
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
Expect na, sir, in this
narration,
A fleechin, fleth’rin
Dedication,
To roose you up, an’
ca’ you guid,
An’ sprung o’
great an’ noble bluid,
Because ye’re
surnam’d like His Grace—
Perhaps related to the
race:
Then, when I’m
tir’d—and sae are ye,
Wi’ mony a fulsome,
sinfu’ lie,
Set up a face how I
stop short,
For fear your modesty
be hurt.
This may do—maun
do, sir, wi’ them wha
Maun please the great
folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I
need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit,
I can plough;
And when I downa yoke
a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit,
I can beg;
Sae I shall say—an’
that’s nae flatt’rin—
It’s just sic
Poet an’ sic Patron.
The Poet, some guid
angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some
ill ane skelp him!
He may do weel for a’
he’s done yet,
But only—he’s
no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir, ye
maun forgie me;
I winna lie, come what
will o’ me),
On ev’ry hand
it will allow’d be,
He’s just—nae
better than he should be.
I readily and freely
grant,
He downa see a poor
man want;
What’s no his
ain, he winna tak it;
What ance he says, he
winna break it;
Ought he can lend he’ll
no refus’t,
Till aft his guidness
is abus’d;
And rascals whiles that
do him wrang,
Ev’n that, he
does na mind it lang;
As master, landlord,
husband, father,
He does na fail his
part in either.
But then, nae thanks
to him for a’that;
Nae godly symptom ye
can ca’ that;
It’s naething
but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu’
corrupt nature:
Ye’ll get the
best o’ moral works,
’Mang black Gentoos,
and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he’s the
poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word
and deed,
It’s no thro’
terror of damnation;
It’s just a carnal
inclination.
Morality, thou deadly
bane,
Thy tens o’ thousands
thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whase
stay an’ trust is
In moral mercy, truth,
and justice!
No—stretch
a point to catch a plack:
Abuse a brother to his
back;
Steal through the winnock
frae a whore,
But point the rake that
taks the door;
Be to the poor like
ony whunstane,
And haud their noses
to the grunstane;
Ply ev’ry art
o’ legal thieving;
No matter—stick
to sound believing.
Learn three-mile pray’rs,
an’ half-mile graces,
Wi’ weel-spread
looves, an’ lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d
groan,
And damn a’ parties
but your own;
I’ll warrant they
ye’re nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch
believer.
O ye wha leave the springs
o’ Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your
ain delvin!
Ye sons of Heresy and
Error,
Ye’ll some day
squeel in quaking terror,
When Vengeance draws
the sword in wrath.
And in the fire throws
the sheath;
When Ruin, with his
sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav’n
commission gies him;
While o’er the
harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deep’ning
tones,
Still louder shrieks,
and heavier groans!
Your pardon, sir, for
this digression:
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes
’cross me,
My readers still are
sure to lose me.
So, sir, you see ’twas
nae daft vapour;
But I maturely thought
it proper,
When a’ my works
I did review,
To dedicate them, sir,
to you:
Because (ye need na
tak it ill),
I thought them something
like yoursel’.
Then patronize them
wi’ your favor,
And your petitioner
shall ever—
I had amaist said, ever
pray,
But that’s a word
I need na say;
For prayin, I hae little
skill o’t,
I’m baith dead-sweer,
an’ wretched ill o’t;
But I’se repeat
each poor man’s pray’r,
That kens or hears about
you, sir—
“May ne’er
Misfortune’s gowling bark,
Howl thro’ the
dwelling o’ the clerk!
May ne’er his
genrous, honest heart,
For that same gen’rous
spirit smart!
May Kennedy’s
far-honour’d name
Lang beet his hymeneal
I will not wind a lang
conclusion,
With complimentary effusion;
But, whilst your wishes
and endeavours
Are blest with Fortune’s
smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with
zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted,
humble servant.
But if (which Pow’rs
above prevent)
That iron-hearted carl,
Want,
Attended, in his grim
advances,
By sad mistakes, and
black mischances,
While hopes, and joys,
and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog
as I am,
Your humble servant
then no more;
For who would humbly
serve the poor?
But, by a poor man’s
hopes in Heav’n!
While recollection’s
pow’r is giv’n—
If, in the vale of humble
life,
The victim sad of fortune’s
strife,
I, thro’ the tender-gushing
tear,
Should recognise my
master dear;
If friendless, low,
we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand—my
Friend and Brother!
Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline
Friday first’s
the day appointed
By the Right Worshipful
anointed,
To hold our grand procession;
To get a blad o’
Johnie’s morals,
And taste a swatch o’
Manson’s barrels
I’ the way of
our profession.
The Master and the Brotherhood
Would a’ be glad
to see you;
For me I would be mair
than proud
To share the mercies
wi’ you.
If Death, then, wi’
skaith, then,
Some mortal heart is
hechtin,
Inform him, and storm
him,
That Saturday you’ll
fecht him.
Robert Burns.
Mossgiel, An. M.
5790.
The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton.
Tune—“Guidnight, and joy be wi’ you a’.”
Adieu! a heart-warm
fond adieu;
Dear brothers of the
mystic tie!
Ye favoured, enlighten’d
few,
Companions of my social
joy;
Tho’ I to foreign
lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune’s
slidd’ry ba’;
With melting heart,
and brimful eye,
I’ll mind you
still, tho’ far awa.
Oft have I met your
social band,
And spent the cheerful,
festive night;
Oft, honour’d
with supreme command,
Presided o’er
the sons of light:
And by that hieroglyphic
bright,
Which none but Craftsmen
ever saw
Strong Mem’ry
on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes,
when far awa.
May Freedom, Harmony,
and Love,
Unite you in the grand
Design,
Beneath th’ Omniscient
Eye above,
The glorious Architect
Divine,
That you may keep th’
unerring line,
Still rising by the
plummet’s law,
Till Order bright completely
shine,
Shall be my pray’r
when far awa.
And you, farewell! whose
merits claim
Justly that highest
badge to wear:
Heav’n bless your
honour’d noble name,
To Masonry and Scotia
dear!
A last request permit
me here,—
When yearly ye assemble
a’,
One round, I ask it
with a tear,
To him, the Bard that’s
far awa.
A’ ye wha live
by sowps o’ drink,
A’ ye wha live
by crambo-clink,
A’ ye wha live
and never think,
Come, mourn wi’
me!
Our billie ‘s
gien us a’ a jink,
An’ owre the sea!
Lament him a’
ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random
splore;
Nae mair he’ll
join the merry roar;
In social key;
For now he’s taen
anither shore.
An’ owre the sea!
The bonie lasses weel
may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions
place him:
The widows, wives, an’
a’ may bless him
Wi’ tearfu’
e’e;
For weel I wat they’ll
sairly miss him
That’s owre the
sea!
O Fortune, they hae
room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff
some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but
fyke an’ fumble,
’Twad been nae
plea;
But he was gleg as ony
wumble,
That’s owre the
sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may
weepers wear,
An’ stain them
wi’ the saut, saut tear;
’Twill mak her
poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee:
He was her Laureat mony
a year,
That’s owre the
sea!
He saw Misfortune’s
cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a
bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart
at last,
Ill may she be!
So, took a berth afore
the mast,
An’ owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune’s
cummock,
On a scarce a bellyfu’
o’ drummock,
Wi’ his proud,
independent stomach,
Could ill agree;
So, row’t his
hurdies in a hammock,
An’ owre the sea.
He ne’er was gien
to great misguidin,
Yet coin his pouches
wad na bide in;
Wi’ him it ne’er
was under hiding;
He dealt it free:
The Muse was a’
that he took pride in,
That’s owre the
sea.
Jamaica bodies, use
him weel,
An’ hap him in
cozie biel:
Ye’ll find him
aye a dainty chiel,
An’ fou o’
glee:
He wad na wrang’d
the vera deil,
That’s owre the
sea.
Farewell, my rhyme-composing
billie!
Your native soil was
right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish
like a lily,
Now bonilie!
I’ll toast you
in my hindmost gillie,
Tho’ owre the
sea!
Song—Farewell To Eliza
Tune—“Gilderoy.”
From thee, Eliza, I
must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between
us throw
A boundless ocean’s
roar:
But boundless oceans,
roaring wide,
Between my love and
me,
They never, never can
divide
My heart and soul from
thee.
Farewell, farewell,
Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in
mine ear,
We part to meet no more!
But the latest throb
that leaves my heart,
While Death stands victor
by,—
That throb, Eliza, is
thy part,
And thine that latest
sigh!
Is there a whim-inspired
fool,
Owre fast for thought,
owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek,
owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy
heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic
song,
Who, noteless, steals
the crowds among,
That weekly this area
throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling
strong,
Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose
judgment clear
Can others teach the
course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life’s
mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause—and,
thro’ the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant
below
Was quick to learn the
wise to know,
And keenly felt the
friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies
laid him low,
And stain’d his
name!
Reader, attend! whether
thy soul
Soars fancy’s
flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this
earthly hole,
In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious,
self-control
Is wisdom’s root.
Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq.
Know thou, O stranger
to the fame
Of this much lov’d,
much honoured name!
(For none that knew
him need be told)
A warmer heart death
ne’er made cold.
Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
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!
Epitaph On “Wee Johnie”
Hic Jacet wee Johnie.
Whoe’er thou art,
O reader, know
That Death has murder’d
Johnie;
An’ here his body
lies fu’ low;
For saul he ne’er
had ony.
Tune—“Ettrick Banks.”
’Twas even—the
dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls
hang;
The zephyr wanton’d
round the bean,
And bore its fragrant
sweets alang:
In ev’ry glen
the mavis sang,
All nature list’ning
seem’d the while,
Except where greenwood
echoes rang,
Amang the braes o’
Ballochmyle.
With careless step I
onward stray’d,
My heart rejoic’d
in nature’s joy,
When, musing in a lonely
glade,
A maiden fair I chanc’d
to spy:
Her look was like the
morning’s eye,
Her air like nature’s
vernal smile:
Perfection whisper’d,
passing by,
“Behold the lass
o’ Ballochmyle!”
Fair is the morn in
flowery May,
And sweet is night in
autumn mild;
When roving thro’
the garden gay,
Or wand’ring in
the lonely wild:
But woman, nature’s
darling child!
There all her charms
she does compile;
Even there her other
works are foil’d
By the bonie lass o’
Ballochmyle.
O, had she been a country
maid,
And I the happy country
swain,
Tho’ shelter’d
in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland’s
plain!
Thro’ weary winter’s
wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture,
I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom
strain
The bonie lass o’
Ballochmyle.
Then pride might climb
the slipp’ry steep,
Where frame and honours
lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might
tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the
Indian mine:
Give me the cot below
the pine,
To tend the flocks or
till the soil;
And ev’ry day
have joys divine
With the bonie lass
o’ Ballochmyle.
Lines To An Old Sweetheart
Once fondly lov’d,
and still remember’d dear,
Sweet early object of
my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of
friendship, warm, sincere,
Friendship! ’tis
all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the
simple artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for
him—he asks no more,
Who, distant, burns
in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath
th’ Atlantic roar.
The simple Bard, unbroke
by rules of art,
He pours the wild effusions
of the heart;
And if inspir’d
’tis Nature’s pow’rs inspire;
Her’s all the
melting thrill, and her’s the kindling fire.
Lines To Mr. 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!
Wae worth thy power,
thou cursed leaf!
Fell source o’
a’ my woe and grief!
For lack o’ thee
I’ve lost my lass!
For lack o’ thee
I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of
affliction
Unaided, through thy
curst restriction:
I’ve seen the
oppressor’s cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim’s
spoil;
And for thy potence
vainly wished,
To crush the villain
in the dust:
For lack o’ thee,
I leave this much-lov’d shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet
old Scotland more.
R.B.
Stanzas On Naething
Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
To you, sir, this summons
I’ve sent,
Pray, whip till the
pownie is freathing;
But if you demand what
I want,
I honestly answer you—naething.
Ne’er scorn a
poor Poet like me,
For idly just living
and breathing,
While people of every
degree
Are busy employed about—naething.
Poor Centum-per-centum
may fast,
And grumble his hurdies
their claithing,
He’ll find, when
the balance is cast,
He’s gane to the
devil for-naething.
The courtier cringes
and bows,
Ambition has likewise
its plaything;
A coronet beams on his
brows;
And what is a coronet-naething.
Some quarrel the Presbyter
gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal
graithing;
But every good fellow
will own
Their quarrel is a’
about—naething.
The lover may sparkle
and glow,
Approaching his bonie
bit gay thing:
But marriage will soon
let him know
He’s gotten—a
buskit up naething.
The Poet may jingle
and rhyme,
In hopes of a laureate
wreathing,
And when he has wasted
his time,
He’s kindly rewarded
wi’—naething.
The thundering bully
may rage,
And swagger and swear
like a heathen;
But collar him fast,
I’ll engage,
You’ll find that
his courage is—naething.
Last night wi’
a feminine whig—
A Poet she couldna put
faith in;
But soon we grew lovingly
big,
I taught her, her terrors
were naething.
Her whigship was wonderful
pleased,
But charmingly tickled
wi’ ae thing,
Her fingers I lovingly
squeezed,
And kissed her, and
promised her—naething.
The priest anathemas
may threat—
Predicament, sir, that
we’re baith in;
But when honour’s
reveille is beat,
The holy artillery’s
naething.
And now I must mount
on the wave—
My voyage perhaps there
is death in;
But what is a watery
grave?
The drowning a Poet
is naething.
And now, as grim death’s
in my thought,
To you, sir, I make
this bequeathing;
My service as long as
ye’ve ought,
And my friendship, by
God, when ye’ve naething.
The valiant, in himself,
what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard
his single woes?
But when, alas! he multiplies
himself,
To dearer serves, to
the lov’d tender fair,
To those whose bliss,
whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children,—then,
Oh then, he feels
The point of misery
festering in his heart,
And weakly weeps his
fortunes like a coward:
Such, such am I!—undone!
Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora.
Farewell, old Scotia’s
bleak domains,
Far dearer than the
torrid plains,
Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother’s
blessing dear!
A borther’s sigh!
a sister’s tear!
My Jean’s heart-rending
throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho’
thou’rt bereft
Of my paternal care.
A faithful brother I
have left,
My part in him thou’lt
share!
Adieu, too, to you too,
My Smith, my bosom frien’;
When kindly you mind
me,
O then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish
tears my heart;
From thee, my Jeany,
must I part!
Thou, weeping, answ’rest—“No!”
Alas! misfortune stares
my face,
And points to ruin and
disgrace,
I for thy sake must
go!
Thee, Hamilton, and
Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu:
I, with a much-indebted
tear,
Shall still remember
you!
All hail then, the gale
then,
Wafts me from thee,
dear shore!
It rustles, and whistles
I’ll never see
thee more!
To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2. “And ye shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall.”
Right, sir! your text
I’ll prove it true,
Tho’ heretics
may laugh;
For instance, there’s
yourself just now,
God knows, an unco calf.
And should some patron
be so kind,
As bless you wi’
a kirk,
I doubt na, sir but
then we’ll find,
Ye’re still as
great a stirk.
But, if the lover’s
raptur’d hour,
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev’ry
heavenly Power,
You e’er should
be a stot!
Tho’ when some
kind connubial dear
Your but—and—ben
adorns,
The like has been that
you may wear
A noble head of horns.
And, in your lug, most
reverend James,
To hear you roar and
rowt,
Few men o’ sense
will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowt.
And when ye’re
number’d wi’ the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
With justice they may
mark your head—
“Here lies a famous
bullock!”
Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
Great Nature spoke: observant man obey’d—Pope.
Let other heroes boast
their scars,
The marks of sturt and
strife:
And other poets sing
of wars,
The plagues of human
life:
Shame fa’ the
fun, wi’ sword and gun
To slap mankind like
lumber!
I sing his name, and
nobler fame,
Wha multiplies our number.
Great Nature spoke,
with air benign,
“Go on, ye human
race;
This lower world I you
resign;
Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong
desire
I’ve pour’d
it in each bosom;
Here, on this had, does
Mankind stand,
And there is Beauty’s
blossom.”
The Hero of these artless
strains,
A lowly bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes
in Coila’s plains,
With meikle mirth an’glee;
Kind Nature’s
care had given his share
Large, of the flaming
current;
And, all devout, he
never sought
To stem the sacred torrent.
He felt the powerful,
high behest
Thrill, vital, thro’
and thro’;
And sought a correspondent
breast,
To give obedience due:
Propitious Powers screen’d
the young flow’rs,
From mildews of abortion;
And low! the bard—a
great reward—
Has got a double portion!
Auld cantie Coil may
count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra’s
equal sway,
That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes,
an’ other times,
To emulate his sire:
To sing auld Coil in
nobler style
With more poetic fire.
Ye Powers of peace,
and peaceful song,
Look down with gracious
eyes;
And bless auld Coila,
large and long,
With multiplying joys;
Lang may she stand to
prop the land,
The flow’r of
ancient nations;
And Burnses spring,
her fame to sing,
To endless generations!
Song—Willie Chalmers
Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:—
Wi’ braw new branks
in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I’m
got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin;
Whiles owre a bush wi’
donwward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and
off he sets,
For sake o’ Willie
Chalmers.
I doubt na, lass, that
weel ken’d name
May cost a pair o’
blushes;
I am nae stranger to
your fame,
Nor his warm urged wishes.
Your bonie face sae
mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye’ll
no be lost a whit,
Tho’ wair’d
on Willie Chalmers.
Auld Truth hersel’
might swear yer’e fair,
And Honour safely back
her;
And Modesty assume your
air,
And ne’er a ane
mistak her:
And sic twa love-inspiring
een
Might fire even holy
palmers;
Nae wonder then they’ve
fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na fortune may
you shore
Some mim-mou’d
pouther’d priestie,
Fu’ lifted up
wi’ Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie:
But oh! what signifies
to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart’s
the royal blue,
And that’s wi’
Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin’, glowrin’
countra laird
May warsle for your
favour;
May claw his lug, and
straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver:
My bonie maid, before
ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help,
and barefit skelp
Awa wi’ Willie
Chalmers.
Forgive the Bard! my
fond regard
For ane that shares
my bosom,
Inspires my Muse to
gie ’m his dues
For deil a hair I roose
him.
May powers aboon unite
you soon,
And fructify your amours,—
And every year come
in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.
What ails ye now, ye
lousie bitch
To thresh my back at
sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy
wi’ your natch,
Your bodkin’s
bauld;
I didna suffer half
sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.
What tho’ at times,
when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a
random pouse,
Is that enough for you
to souse
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam,
ye prick-the-louse,
An’ jag-the-flea!
King David, o’
poetic brief,
Wrocht ’mang the
lasses sic mischief
As filled his after-life
wi’ grief,
An’ bluidy rants,
An’ yet he’s
rank’d amang the chief
O’ lang-syne saunts.
And maybe, Tam, for
a’ my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an’
drucken rants,
I’ll gie auld
cloven’s Clootie’s haunts
An unco slip yet,
An’ snugly sit
amang the saunts,
At Davie’s hip
yet!
But, fegs! the session
says I maun
Gae fa’ upo’
anither plan
Than garrin lasses coup
the cran,
Clean heels ower body,
An’ sairly thole
their mother’s ban
Afore the howdy.
This leads me on to
tell for sport,
How I did wi’
the Session sort;
Auld Clinkum, at the
inner port,
Cried three times, “Robin!
Come hither lad, and
answer for’t,
Ye’re blam’d
for jobbin!”
Wi’ pinch I put
a Sunday’s face on,
An’ snoov’d
awa before the Session:
I made an open, fair
confession—
I scorn’t to lee,
An’ syne Mess
John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o’ me.
A fornicator-loun he
call’d me,
An’ said my faut
frae bliss expell’d me;
I own’d the tale
was true he tell’d me,
“But, what the
matter?
(Quo’ I) I fear
unless ye geld me,
I’ll ne’er
be better!”
“Geld you! (quo’
he) an’ what for no?
If that your right hand,
leg or toe
Should ever prove your
sp’ritual foe,
You should remember
To cut it aff—an’
what for no
Your dearest member?”
“Na, na, (quo’
I,) I’m no for that,
Gelding’s nae
better than ’tis ca’t;
I’d rather suffer
for my faut
A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as
ye can draw’t,
Tho’ I should
rue it.
“Or, gin ye like
to end the bother,
To please us a’—I’ve
just ae ither—
When next wi’
yon lass I forgather,
Whate’er betide
it,
I’ll frankly gie
her ‘t a’ thegither,
An’ let her guide
it.”
But, sir, this pleas’d
them warst of a’,
An’ therefore,
Tam, when that I saw,
I said “Gude night,”
an’ cam’ awa’,
An’ left the Session;
I saw they were resolved
a’
On my oppression.
The Brigs Of Ayr
A Poem
Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.
The simple Bard, rough
at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful
trade from ev’ry bough;
The chanting linnet,
or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting
sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
The soaring lark, the
perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-ton’d
plovers grey, wild-whistling o’er the hill;
Shall he—nurst
in the peasant’s lowly shed,
To hardy independence
bravely bred,
By early poverty to
hardship steel’d.
And train’d to
arms in stern Misfortune’s field—
Shall he be guilty of
their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary
Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric
close,
With all the venal soul
of dedicating prose?
No! though his artless
strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand
uncouthly o’er the strings,
He glows with all the
spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his
great, his dear reward.
Still, if some patron’s
gen’rous care he trace,
Skill’d in the
secret, to bestow with grace;
When Ballantine befriends
his humble name,
And hands the rustic
stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes
his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to
give, alone excels.
’Twas when the
stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure
the toil-won crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged
up frae skaith
O’ coming Winter’s
biting, frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing
o’er their summer toils,
Unnumber’d buds
an’ flow’rs’ delicious spoils,
’Twas in that
season, when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor—simplicity’s
reward!—
Ae night, within the
ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspir’d,
or haply prest wi’ care,
He left his bed, and
took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson’s^1
wheel’d the left about:
(Whether impell’d
by all-directing Fate,
To witness what I after
shall narrate;
Or whether, rapt in
meditation high,
He wander’d out,
he knew not where or why:)
The drowsy Dungeon-clock^2
had number’d two,
and Wallace Tower^2
had sworn the fact was true:
The tide-swoln firth,
with sullen-sounding roar,
Through the still night
dash’d hoarse along the shore.
All else was hush’d
as Nature’s closed e’e;
The silent moon shone
high o’er tower and tree;
The chilly frost, beneath
the silver beam,
Crept, gently-crusting,
o’er the glittering stream—
When, lo! on either
hand the list’ning Bard,
The clanging sugh of
whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart
through the midnight air;
Swift as the gos^3 drives
on the wheeling hare;
Ane on th’ Auld
Brig his airy shape uprears,
The other flutters o’er
the rising piers:
Our warlock Rhymer instantly
dexcried
The Sprites that owre
the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That Bards are second-sighted
is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of
the sp’ritual folk;
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies,
a’, they can explain them,
And even the very deils
they brawly ken them).
Auld Brig appear’d
of ancient Pictish race,
The very wrinkles Gothic
in his face;
He seem’d as he
wi’ Time had warstl’d lang,
Yet, teughly doure,
he bade an unco bang.
[Footnote 1: A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.—R. B.]
[Footnote 2: The two steeples.—R. B.]
[Footnote 3: The Gos-hawk, or Falcon.—R. B.]
New Brig was buskit
in a braw new coat,
That he, at Lon’on,
frae ane Adams got;
In ’s hand five
taper staves as smooth ’s a bead,
Wi’ virls and
whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking
round with anxious search,
Spying the time-worn
flaws in every arch;
It chanc’d his
new-come neibor took his e’e,
And e’en a vexed
and angry heart had he!
Wi’ thieveless
sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water,
gies him this guid-e’en:—
Auld Brig
“I doubt na, frien’,
ye’ll think ye’re nae sheepshank,
Ance ye were streekit
owre frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig
as auld as me—
Tho’ faith, that
date, I doubt, ye’ll never see—
There’ll be, if
that day come, I’ll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmaleeries
in your noddle.”
New Brig
“Auld Vandal!
ye but show your little mense,
Just much about it wi’
your scanty sense:
Will your poor, narrow
foot-path of a street,
Where twa wheel-barrows
tremble when they meet,
Your ruin’d, formless
bulk o’ stane and lime,
Compare wi’ bonie
brigs o’ modern time?
There’s men of
taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream,^4
Tho’ they should
cast the very sark and swim,
E’er they would
grate their feelings wi’ the view
O’ sic an ugly,
Gothic hulk as you.”
Auld Brig
“Conceited gowk!
puff’d up wi’ windy pride!
This mony a year I’ve
stood the flood an’ tide;
And tho’ wi’
crazy eild I’m sair forfairn,
I’ll be a brig
when ye’re a shapeless cairn!
As yet ye little ken
about the matter,
But twa—three
winters will inform ye better.
When heavy, dark, continued,
a’-day rains,
[Footnote 4: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.—R. B.]
Wi’ deepening
deluges o’erflow the plains;
When from the hills
where springs the brawling Coil,
Or stately Lugar’s
mossy fountains boil;
Or where the Greenock
winds his moorland course.
Or haunted Garpal draws
his feeble source,
Aroused by blustering
winds an’ spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down
the snaw-broo rowes;
While crashing ice,
borne on the rolling spate,
Sweeps dams, an’
mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate;
And from Glenbuck,^5
down to the Ratton-key,^6
Auld Ayr is just one
lengthen’d, tumbling sea—
Then down ye’ll
hurl, (deil nor ye never rise!)
And dash the gumlie
jaups up to the pouring skies!
A lesson sadly teaching,
to your cost,
That Architecture’s
noble art is lost!”
New Brig
“Fine architecture,
trowth, I needs must say’t o’t,
The Lord be thankit
that we’ve tint the gate o’t!
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring
edifices,
Hanging with threat’ning
jut, like precipices;
O’er-arching,
mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
Supporting roofs, fantastic,
stony groves;
Windows and doors in
nameless sculptures drest
With order, symmetry,
or taste unblest;
Forms like some bedlam
Statuary’s dream,
The craz’d creations
of misguided whim;
Forms might be worshipp’d
on the bended knee,
And still the second
dread command be free;
Their likeness is not
found on earth, in air, or sea!
Mansions that would
disgrace the building taste
Of any mason reptile,
bird or beast:
Fit only for a doited
monkish race,
Or frosty maids forsworn
the dear embrace,
Or cuifs of later times,
wha held the notion,
That sullen gloom was
sterling, true devotion:
Fancies that our guid
Brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire,
unblest wi’ resurrection!”
[Footnote 5: The source of the River Ayr.—R. B.]
[Footnote 6: A small landing place above the large quay.—R. B.]
Auld Brig
“O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye; Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers; A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And, agonising, curse the time and place When ye begat the base degen’rate race! Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story; Nae langer thrifty citizens, an’ douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on damn’d new brigs and harbours!”
New Brig
“Now haud you
there! for faith ye’ve said enough,
And muckle mair than
ye can mak to through.
As for your Priesthood,
I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are
a shot right kittle:
But, under favour o’
your langer beard,
Abuse o’ Magistrates
might weel be spar’d;
To liken them to your
auld-warld squad,
I must needs say, comparisons
are odd.
In Ayr, wag-wits nae
mair can hae a handle
To mouth ‘a Citizen,’
a term o’ scandal;
Nae mair the Council
What farther clish-ma-claver
aight been said,
What bloody wars, if
Sprites had blood to shed,
No man can tell; but,
all before their sight,
A fairy train appear’d
in order bright;
Adown the glittering
stream they featly danc’d;
Bright to the moon their
various dresses glanc’d:
They footed o’er
the wat’ry glass so neat,
The infant ice scarce
bent beneath their feet:
While arts of Minstrelsy
among them rung,
And soul-ennobling Bards
heroic ditties sung.
O had M’Lauchlan,^7
thairm-inspiring sage,
Been there to hear this
heavenly band engage,
When thro’ his
dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage;
Or when they struck
old Scotia’s melting airs,
The lover’s raptured
joys or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland
lug been nobler fir’d,
And ev’n his matchless
hand with finer touch inspir’d!
No guess could tell
what instrument appear’d,
But all the soul of
Music’s self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung
in every part,
While simple melody
pour’d moving on the heart.
The Genius of the Stream
in front appears,
A venerable Chief advanc’d
in years;
His hoary head with
water-lilies crown’d,
His manly leg with garter-tangle
bound.
Next came the loveliest
pair in all the ring,
Sweet female Beauty
hand in hand with Spring;
Then, crown’d
with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his
fervid-beaming eye;
[Footnote 7: A
well-known performer of Scottish music on the
violin.—R.
B.]
All-cheering Plenty,
with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn wreath’d
with nodding corn;
Then Winter’s
time-bleach’d locks did hoary show,
By Hospitality with
cloudless brow:
Next followed Courage
with his martial stride,
From where the Feal
wild-woody coverts hide;^8
Benevolence, with mild,
benignant air,
A female form, came
from the tow’rs of Stair;^9
Learning and Worth in
equal measures trode,
From simple Catrine,
their long-lov’d abode:^10
Last, white-rob’d
Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath,
To rustic Agriculture
did bequeath
The broken, iron instruments
of death:
At sight of whom our
Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.
The night was still,
and o’er the hill
The moon shone on the
castle wa’;
The mavis sang, while
dew-drops hang
Around her on the castle
wa’;
Sae merrily they danced
the ring
Frae eenin’ till
the cock did craw;
And aye the o’erword
o’ the spring
Was “Irvine’s
bairns are bonie a’.”
Epigram On Rough Roads
I’m now arrived—thanks
to the gods!—
Thro’ pathways
rough and muddy,
A certain sign that
makin roads
Is no this people’s
study:
Altho’ Im not
wi’ Scripture cram’d,
I’m sure the Bible
says
That heedless sinners
shall be damn’d,
Unless they mend their
ways.
[Footnote 8: A
compliment to the Montgomeries of Coilsfield,
on the Feal or
Faile, a tributary of the Ayr.]
[Footnote 9: Mrs. Stewart of Stair, an early patroness of the poet.]
[Footnote 10: The house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]
Lying at a reverend friend’s house one night, the author left the following verses in the room where he slept:—
O Thou dread Power,
who reign’st above,
I know thou wilt me
hear,
When for this scene
of peace and love,
I make this prayer sincere.
The hoary Sire—the
mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleas’d
to spare;
To bless this little
filial flock,
And show what good men
are.
She, who her lovely
offspring eyes
With tender hopes and
fears,
O bless her with a mother’s
joys,
But spare a mother’s
tears!
Their hope, their stay,
their darling youth.
In manhood’s dawning
blush,
Bless him, Thou God
of love and truth,
Up to a parent’s
wish.
The beauteous, seraph
sister-band—
With earnest tears I
pray—
Thou know’st the
snares on ev’ry hand,
Guide Thou their steps
alway.
When, soon or late,
they reach that coast,
O’er Life’s
rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no
wand’rer lost,
A family in Heaven!
Tune—“Roslin Castle.”
“I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.”—R. B.
The gloomy night is
gath’ring fast,
Loud roars the wild,
inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul
with rain,
I see it driving o’er
the plain;
The hunter now has left
the moor.
The scatt’red
coveys meet secure;
While here I wander,
prest with care,
Along the lonely banks
of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her
rip’ning corn
By early Winter’s
ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure
sky,
She sees the scowling
tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood
to hear it rave;
I think upon the stormy
wave,
Where many a danger
I must dare,
Far from the bonie banks
of Ayr.
’Tis not the surging
billow’s roar,
’Tis not that
fatal, deadly shore;
Tho’ death in
ev’ry shape appear,
The wretched have no
more to fear:
But round my heart the
ties are bound,
That heart transpierc’d
with many a wound;
These bleed afresh,
those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks
of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila’s
hills and dales,
Her healthy moors and
winding vales;
The scenes where wretched
Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy
loves!
Farewell, my friends!
farewell, my foes!
My peace with these,
my love with those:
The bursting tears my
heart declare—
Farewell, the bonie
banks of Ayr!
My curse upon your venom’d
stang,
That shoots my tortur’d
gums alang,
An’ thro’
my lug gies mony a twang,
Wi’ gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi’
bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or
argues freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or
colics squeezes,
Our neibor’s sympathy
can ease us,
Wi’ pitying moan;
But thee—thou
hell o’ a’ diseases—
Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers
trickle
I throw the wee stools
o’er the mickle,
While round the fire
the giglets keckle,
To see me loup,
While, raving mad, I
wish a heckle
Were in their doup!
In a’ the numerous
human dools,
Ill hairsts, daft bargains,
cutty stools,
Or worthy frien’s
rak’d i’ the mools,—
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o’
knaves, or fash o’fools,
Thou bear’st the
gree!
Where’er that
place be priests ca’ hell,
Where a’ the tones
o’ misery yell,
An’ ranked plagues
their numbers tell,
In dreadfu’ raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely
bear’st the bell,
Amang them a’!
O thou grim, mischief-making
chiel,
That gars the notes
o’ discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft
dance a reel
In gore, a shoe-thick,
Gie a’ the faes
o’ Scotland’s weal
A townmond’s toothache!
Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1
This wot ye all whom
it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias
Burns,
October twenty-third,
[Footnote 1: At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]
A ne’er-to-be-forgotten
day,
Sae far I sprackl’d
up the brae,
I dinner’d wi’
a Lord.
I’ve been at drucken
writers’ feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou
’mang godly priests—
Wi’ rev’rence
be it spoken!—
I’ve even join’d
the honour’d jorum,
When mighty Squireships
of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did
sloken.
But wi’ a Lord!—stand
out my shin,
A Lord—a
Peer—an Earl’s son!
Up higher yet, my bonnet
An’ sic a Lord!—lang
Scoth ells twa,
Our Peerage he o’erlooks
them a’,
As I look o’er
my sonnet.
But O for Hogarth’s
magic pow’r!
To show Sir Bardie’s
willyart glow’r,
An’ how he star’d
and stammer’d,
When, goavin, as if
led wi’ branks,
An’ stumpin on
his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer’d.
I sidying shelter’d
in a nook,
An’ at his Lordship
steal’t a look,
Like some portentous
omen;
Except good sense and
social glee,
An’ (what surpris’d
me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.
I watch’d the
symptoms o’ the Great,
The gentle pride, the
lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae
pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state,
that I could see,
Mair than an honest
ploughman.
Then from his Lordship
I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with
unconcern
One rank as weel’s
another;
Nae honest, worthy man
need care
To meet with noble youthful
Daer,
For he but meets a brother.
Tune—“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”
Ye sons of old Killie,
assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble
vocation;
Your thrifty old mother
has scarce such another
To sit in that honoured
station.
I’ve little to
say, but only to pray,
As praying’s the
ton of your fashion;
A prayer from thee Muse
you well may excuse
’Tis seldom her
favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside
o’er the wind, and the tide,
Who marked each element’s
border;
Who formed this frame
with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute
is order:—
Within this dear mansion,
may wayward Contention
Or withered Envy ne’er
enter;
May secrecy round be
the mystical bound,
And brotherly Love be
the centre!
Tam Samson’s Elegy
An honest man’s the noblest work of God—Pope.
When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.—R.B., 1787.
Has auld Kilmarnock
seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay^1
thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson^2 again
grown weel,
To preach an’
read?
“Na’ waur
than a’!” cries ilka chiel,
“Tam Samson’s
dead!”
[Footnote 1: A
certain preacher, a great favourite with the
million. Vide “The
Ordination.” stanza ii.—R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Another
preacher, an equal favourite with the few,
who was at that time
ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,”
stanza ix.—R.B.]
Kilmarnock lang may
grunt an’ grane,
An’ sigh, an’
sab, an’ greet her lane,
An’ cleed her
bairns, man, wife, an’ wean,
In mourning weed;
To Death she’s
dearly pay’d the kane—
Tam Samson’s dead!
The Brethren, o’
the mystic level
May hing their head
in woefu’ bevel,
While by their nose
the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;
Death’s gien the
Lodge an unco devel;
Tam Samson’s dead!
When Winter muffles
up his cloak,
And binds the mire like
a rock;
When to the loughs the
curlers flock,
Wi’ gleesome speed,
Wha will they station
at the cock?
Tam Samson’s dead!
When Winter muffles
up his cloak,
He was the king o’
a’ the core,
To guard, or draw, or
wick a bore,
Or up the rink like
Jehu roar,
In time o’ need;
But now he lags on Death’s
hog-score—
Tam Samson’s dead!
Now safe the stately
sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp’d
wi’ crimson hail,
And eels, weel-ken’d
for souple tail,
And geds for greed,
Since, dark in Death’s
fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson’s dead!
Rejoice, ye birring
paitricks a’;
Ye cootie muircocks,
crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your
fud fu’ braw
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now
awa;
Tam Samson’s dead!
That woefu’ morn
be ever mourn’d,
Saw him in shooting
graith adorn’d,
While pointers round
impatient burn’d,
Frae couples free’d;
But och! he gaed and
ne’er return’d!
Tam Samson’s dead!
In vain auld age his
body batters,
In vain the gout his
ancles fetters,
In vain the burns cam
down like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev’ry auld
wife, greetin, clatters
“Tam Samson’s
dead!”
Owre mony a weary hag
he limpit,
An’ aye the tither
shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind
him jumpit,
Wi’ deadly feid;
Now he proclaims wi’
tout o’ trumpet,
“Tam Samson’s
dead!”
When at his heart he
felt the dagger,
He reel’d his
wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the
mortal trigger,
Wi’ weel-aimed
heed;
“Lord, five!”
he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger—
Tam Samson’s dead!
Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d
a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth
bemoan’d a father;
Yon auld gray stane,
amang the heather,
Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote,
in rhyming blether,
“Tam Samson’s
dead!”
There, low he lies,
in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould’ring
breast
Some spitefu’
muirfowl bigs her nest
To hatch an’ breed:
Alas! nae mair he’ll
them molest!
Tam Samson’s dead!
When August winds the
heather wave,
And sportsmen wander
by yon grave,
Three volleys let his
memory crave,
O’ pouther an’
lead,
Till Echo answer frae
her cave,
“Tam Samson’s
dead!”
Heav’n rest his
saul whare’er he be!
Is th’ wish o’
mony mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or
maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Ae social, honest man
want we:
Tam Samson’s dead!
Tam Samson’s weel-worn
clay here lies
Ye canting zealots,
spare him!
If honest worth in Heaven
rise,
Ye’ll mend or
ye win near him.
Per Contra
Go, Fame, an’
canter like a filly
Thro’ a’
the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie;^3
Tell ev’ry social
honest billie
To cease his grievin’;
For, yet unskaithed
by Death’s gleg gullie.
Tam Samson’s leevin’!
Hail, thairm-inspirin’,
rattlin’ Willie!
Tho’ fortune’s
road be rough an’ hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming
billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the
unback’d filly,
Proud o’ her speed.
[Footnote 3: Kilmarnock.—R. B.]
When, idly goavin’,
whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa
we canter,
Up hill, down brae,
till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us; then the
scathe an’ banter
We’re forced to
thole.
Hale be your heart!
hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck
jink and diddle,
To cheer you through
the weary widdle
O’ this wild warl’.
Until you on a crummock
driddle,
A grey hair’d
carl.
Come wealth, come poortith,
late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings
aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins
aboon
A fifth or mair
The melancholious, lazy
croon
O’ cankrie care.
May still your life
from day to day,
Nae “lente largo”
in the play,
But “allegretto
forte” gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling,
bauld strathspey—
Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery
gang
Wha dearly like a jig
or sang,
An’ never think
o’ right an’ wrang
By square an’
rule,
But, as the clegs o’
feeling stang,
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse
keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock,
purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith
as disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
May fireside discords
jar a base
To a’ their parts.
But come, your hand,
my careless brither,
I’ th’ ither
warl’, if there’s anither,
An’ that there
is, I’ve little swither
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow,
shall jog thegither,
I’se ne’er
bid better.
We’ve faults and
failings—granted clearly,
We’re frail backsliding
mortals merely,
Eve’s bonie squad,
priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa’;
But still, but still,
I like them dearly—
God bless them a’!
Ochone for poor Castalian
drinkers,
When they fa’
foul o’ earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs’d,
delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my
waukrife winkers,
Wi’ girnin’spite.
By by yon moon!—and
that’s high swearin—
An’ every star
within my hearin!
An’ by her een
wha was a dear ane!
I’ll ne’er
forget;
I hope to gie the jads
a clearin
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but
not repent it;
I’ll seek my pursie
whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I
were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf I’ll
yet be dinted;
Then vive l’amour!
Faites mes baissemains
respectueuses,
To sentimental sister
Susie,
And honest Lucky; no
to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate
allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present
can I measure,
An’ trowth my
rhymin ware’s nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some
half-hour’s leisure,
Be’t light, be’t
dark,
Sir Bard will do himself
the pleasure
To call at Park.
Robert Burns.
Mossgiel, 30th October,
1786.
Fragment On Sensibility
Rusticity’s ungainly
form
May cloud the highest
mind;
But when the heart is
nobly warm,
The good excuse will
find.
Propriety’s cold,
cautious rules
Warm fervour may o’erlook:
But spare poor sensibility
Th’ ungentle,
harsh rebuke.
Poor naked wretches,
wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting
of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless
heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and
window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as
these?—Shakespeare.
When biting Boreas,
fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro’
the leafless bow’r;
When Phoebus gies a
short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning
thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the
steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in
sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’
snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl;
Or, thro’ the
mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl:
List’ning the
doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the
ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha
bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the
drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird,—wee,
helpless thing!
That, in the merry months
o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear
thee sing,
What comes o’
thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r
thy chittering wing,
An’ close thy
e’e?
Ev’n you, on murdering
errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage
homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d
roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest
wild
Sore on you beats!
Now Phoebe in her midnight
reign,
Dark-muff’d, view’d
the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts,
a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this
plantive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole:—
“Blow, blow, ye
winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting
frost!
Descend, ye chilly,
smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as
now united, shows
More hard unkindness
unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting.
Than heaven-illumin’d
Man on brother Man bestows!
“See stern Oppression’s
iron grip,
Or mad Ambition’s
gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds
from the slip,
Woe, Want, and Murder
o’er a land!
Ev’n in the peaceful
rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells
the mournful tale,
How pamper’d Luxury,
Flatt’ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning
her ear,
With all the servile
wretches in the rear,
Looks o’er proud
Property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple,
rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the
glitt’ring show—
A creature of another
kind,
Some coarser substance,
unrefin’d—
Plac’d for her
lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!
“Where, where
is Love’s fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour’s
lofty brow,
The pow’rs you
proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love’s
noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the
selfish aim,
To bless himself alone?
Mark maiden-innocence
a prey
To love-pretending snares:
This boasted Honour
turns away,
Shunning soft Pity’s
rising sway,
Regardless of the tears
and unavailing pray’rs!
Perhaps this hour, in
Misery’s squalid nest,
She strains your infant
to her joyless breast,
And with a mother’s
fears shrinks at the rocking blast!
“Oh ye! who, sunk
in beds of down,
Feel not a want but
what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment,
on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune
quite disown!
Ill-satisfy’d
keen nature’s clamorous call,
Stretch’d on his
I heard nae mair, for
Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery
snaw,
And hail’d the
morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.
But deep this truth
impress’d my mind—
Thro’ all His
works abroad,
The heart benevolent
and kind
The most resembles God.
Song—Yon Wild Mossy Mountains
Yon wild mossy mountains
sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their
bosom the youth o’ the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead
their coveys thro’ the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends
his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Not Gowrie’s rich
valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores,
To me hae the charms
o’yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely,
sequestered stream,
Besides a sweet lassie,
my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains
shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down
its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi’
my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o’er us
unheeded flie the swift hours o’love.
She is not the fairest,
altho’ she is fair;
O’ nice education
but sma’ is her share;
Her parentage humble
as humble can be;
But I lo’e the
dear lassie because she lo’es me.
To Beauty what man but
maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances,
and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement
hae polish’d her darts,
They dazzle our een,
as they flie to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet
kindness, in the fond-sparkling e’e,
Has lustre outshining
the diamond to me;
And the heart beating
love as I’m clasp’d in her arms,
O, these are my lassie’s
all-conquering charms!
Edina! Scotia’s
darling seat!
All hail thy palaces
and tow’rs,
Where once, beneath
a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s
sov’reign pow’rs:
From marking wildly
scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr
I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the
lingering hours,
I shelter in they honour’d
shade.
Here Wealth still swells
the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours
plies;
There Architecture’s
noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour
rise:
Here Justice, from her
native skies,
High wields her balance
and her rod;
There Learning, with
his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her
coy abode.
Thy sons, Edina, social,
kind,
With open arms the stranger
hail;
Their views enlarg’d,
their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural
vale:
Attentive still to Sorrow’s
wail,
Or modest Merit’s
silent claim;
And never may their
sources fail!
And never Envy blot
their name!
Thy daughters bright
thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer
sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white
thorn,
Dear as the raptur’d
thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes
th’ adoring eye,
Heaven’s beauties
on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love
on high,
And own His work indeed
divine!
There, watching high
the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress
gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran,
grey in arms,
And mark’d with
many a seamy scar:
The pond’rous
wall and massy bar,
Grim—rising
o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing
war,
And oft repell’d
th’ invader’s shock.
With awe-struck thought,
and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately
Dome,
Where Scotia’s
kings of other years,
Fam’d heroes!
had their royal home:
Alas, how chang’d
the times to come!
Their royal name low
in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand’ring
roam!
Tho’ rigid Law
cries out ’twas just!
Wild beats my heart
to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in
days of yore,
Thro’ hostile
ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody
lion bore:
Ev’n I who sing
in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have
left their shed,
And fac’d grim
Danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where
your fathers led!
Edina! Scotia’s
darling seat!
All hail thy palaces
and tow’rs;
Where once, beneath
a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s
sovereign pow’rs:
From marking wildly-scatt’red
flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr
I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the
ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d
shade.
Address To A Haggis
Fair fa’ your
honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’
the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’
yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’a
grace
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trencher
there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a
distant hill,
Your pin was help to
mend a mill
In time o’need,
While thro’ your
pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic
Labour dight,
An’ cut you up
wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing
entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious
sight,
Warm-reekin’,
rich!
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost!
on they drive,
Till a’ their
weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist
like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.
Is there that owre his
French ragout
Or olio that wad staw
a sow,
Or fricassee wad make
her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’
sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him
owre his trash,
As feckles as wither’d
rash,
His spindle shank, a
guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ blody flood
or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic,
haggis-fed,
The trembling earth
resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve
a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’
arms, an’ hands will sned,
Like taps o’ trissle.
Ye Pow’rs, wha
mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their
bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants
nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her
gratefu’ prayer
Gie her a haggis!
1787
To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.
Again the silent wheels
of time
Their annual round have
driven,
And you, tho’
scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from
Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than
India boasts,
In Edwin’s simple
tale.
Our sex with guile,
and faithless love,
Is charg’d, perhaps
too true;
But may, dear maid,
each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.
Shrewd Willie Smellie
to Crochallan came;
The old cock’d
hat, the grey 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.
Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie^1
As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannilie keekit ben;
Rattlin’, roarin’
Willie
Was sittin at yon boord-en’;
Sittin at yon boord-en,
And amang gude companie;
Rattlin’, roarin’
Willie,
You’re welcome
hame to me!
Song—Bonie Dundee
My blessin’s upon
thy sweet wee lippie!
My blessin’s upon
thy e’e-brie!
Thy smiles are sae like
my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou’s aye the
dearer, and dearer to me!
But I’ll big a
bow’r on yon bonie banks,
Whare Tay rins wimplin’
by sae clear;
An’ I’ll
cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
And mak thee a man like
thy daddie dear.
Tune—“Killiercrankie.”
Lord Advocate
He clenched his pamphlet
in his fist,
He quoted and he hinted,
Till, in a declamation-mist,
His argument he tint
it:
He gaped for’t,
he graped 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;
[Footnote 1: William
Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles,
a convivial club.]
His Lordship sat wi’
ruefu’ e’e,
And ey’d the gathering
storm, man:
Like wind-driven hail
it did assail’
Or torrents owre a lin,
man:
The Bench sae wise,
lift up their eyes,
Half-wauken’d
wi’ the din, man.
Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1
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 the Poet’s dust.
Additional Stanzas
She mourns, sweet tuneful
youth, thy hapless fate;
Tho’ all the powers
of song thy fancy fired,
Yet Luxury and Wealth
lay by in state,
And, thankless, starv’d
what they so much admired.
This tribute, with a
tear, now gives
A brother Bard—he
can no more bestow:
But dear to fame thy
Song immortal lives,
A nobler monument than
Art can shew.
Inscribed Under Fergusson’s Portrait
Curse on ungrateful
man, that can be pleased,
And yet can starve the
author of the pleasure.
O thou, my elder brother
in misfortune,
By far my elder brother
in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy
unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unpitied
by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish
of its pleasures?
[Footnote 1: The
stone was erected at Burns’ expenses in
February—March,
1789.]
Gudewife of Wauchope—House, Roxburghshire.
Gudewife,
I Mind it weel in early
date,
When I was bardless,
young, and blate,
An’ first could
thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin’
at the pleugh;
An, tho’ forfoughten
sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn:
When first amang the
yellow corn
A man I reckon’d
was,
An’ wi’
the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and
lass,
Still shearing, and
clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi’ claivers,
an’ haivers,
Wearing the day awa.
E’en then, a wish,
(I mind its pow’r),
A wish that to my latest
hour
Shall strongly heave
my breast,
That I for poor auld
Scotland’s sake
But still the elements
o’ sang,
In formless jumble,
right an’ wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
’Till on that
har’st I said before,
May partner in the merry
core,
She rous’d the
forming strain;
I see her yet, the sonsie
quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile,
her pawky een
That gart my heart-strings
tingle;
I fired, inspired,
At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.
Health to the sex! ilk
guid chiel says:
Wi’ merry dance
in winter days,
An’ we to share
in common;
The gust o’ joy,
the balm of woe,
The saul o’ life,
the heaven below,
Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who
hate the name,
Be mindfu’ o’
your mither;
She, honest woman, may
think shame
That ye’re connected
with her:
Ye’re wae men,
ye’re nae men
That slight the lovely
dears;
To shame ye, disclaim
ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to
barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the
Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your
line:
The marled plaid ye
kindly spare,
By me should gratefully
be ware;
’Twad please me
to the nine.
I’d be mair vauntie
o’ my hap,
Douce hingin owre my
curple,
Than ony ermine ever
lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Farewell then, lang
hale then,
An’ plenty be
your fa;
May losses and crosses
Ne’er at your
hallan ca’!
R. Burns
March, 1787
Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture^1
Whose is that noble,
dauntless brow?
And whose that eye of
fire?
And whose that generous
princely mien,
E’en rooted foes
admire?
Stranger! to justly
show that brow,
And mark that eye of
fire,
Would take His hand,
whose vernal tints
His other works admire.
Bright as a cloudless
summer sun,
With stately port he
moves;
His guardian Seraph
eyes with awe
The noble Ward he loves.
Among the illustrious
Scottish sons
That chief thou may’st
discern,
Mark Scotia’s
fond-returning eye,—
It dwells upon Glencairn.
Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787.
When, by a generous
Public’s kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is
granted—honest fame;
Waen here your favour
is the actor’s lot,
Nor even the man in
private life forgot;
What breast so dead
to heavenly Virtue’s glow,
But heaves impassion’d
with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to
please a barb’rous throng,
It needs no Siddons’
powers in Southern’s song;
But here an ancient
nation, fam’d afar,
For genius, learning
high, as great in war.
Hail, Caledonia, name
for ever dear!
Before whose sons I’m
honour’d to appear?
[Footnote 1: The Nobleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.]
Where every science,
every nobler art,
That can inform the
mind or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful
nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian
marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle
pedant dream,
Here holds her search
by heaven-taught Reason’s beam;
Here History paints
with elegance and force
The tide of Empire’s
fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild
Shakespeare into plan,
And Harley rouses all
the God in man.
When well-form’d
taste and sparkling wit unite
With manly lore, or
female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless
symmetry and grace
Can only charm us in
the second place),
Witness my heart, how
oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I’ve
met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience
taught to live,
Equal to judge—you’re
candid to forgive.
No hundred—headed
riot here we meet,
With decency and law
beneath his feet;
Nor Insolence assumes
fair Freedom’s name:
Like Caledonians, you
applaud or blame.
O Thou, dread Power!
whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch’d
to shield the honour’d land!
Strong may she glow
with all her ancient fire;
May every son be worthy
of his sire;
Firm may she rise, with
generous disdain
At Tyranny’s,
or direr Pleasure’s chain;
Still Self-dependent
in her native shore,
Bold may she brave grim
Danger’s loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain
drop on worlds to be no more.
The Bonie Moor-Hen
The heather was blooming,
the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting
ae day at the dawn,
O’er moors and
o’er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discover’d
a bonie moor-hen.
Chorus.—I
rede you, beware at the hunting, young men,
I rede you, beware at
the hunting, young men;
Take some on the wing,
and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on
a bonie moor-hen.
Sweet—brushing
the dew from the brown heather bells
Her colours betray’d
her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage outlustr’d
the pride o’ the spring
And O! as she wanton’d
sae gay on the wing.
I rede you, &c.
Auld Phoebus himself,
as he peep’d o’er the hill,
In spite at her plumage
he tried his skill;
He levell’d his
rays where she bask’d on the brae—
His rays were outshone,
and but mark’d where she lay.
I rede you,&c.
They hunted the valley,
they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads
wi’ the best o’ their skill;
But still as the fairest
she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was
over, a mile at a flight.
I rede you, &c.
Chorus.—My
lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden flowers sae
rare upon’t;
But Jenny’s jimps
and jirkinet,
My lord thinks meikle
mair upon’t.
My lord a-hunting he
is gone,
But hounds or hawks
wi’ him are nane;
By Colin’s cottage
lies his game,
If Colin’s Jenny
be at hame.
My lady’s gown,
&c.
My lady’s white,
my lady’s red,
And kith and kin o’
Cassillis’ blude;
But her ten-pund lands
o’ tocher gude;
Were a’ the charms
his lordship lo’ed.
My lady’s gown,
&c.
Out o’er yon muir,
out o’er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks thro’
the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin’s
bonie lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
My lady’s gown,
&c.
Sae sweetly move her
genty limbs,
Like music notes o’lovers’
hymns:
The diamond-dew in her
een sae blue,
Where laughing love
sae wanton swims.
My lady’s gown,
&c.
My lady’s dink,
my lady’s drest,
The flower and fancy
o’ the west;
But the lassie than
a man lo’es best,
O that’s the lass
to mak him blest.
My lady’s gown,
&c.
Epigram At Roslin Inn
My blessings on ye,
honest wife!
I ne’er was here
before;
Ye’ve wealth o’
gear for spoon and knife—
Heart could not wish
for more.
Heav’n keep you
clear o’ sturt and strife,
Till far ayont fourscore,
And while I toddle on
thro’ life,
I’ll ne’er
gae by your door!
Dear _____, I’ll gie ye some advice, You’ll tak it no uncivil: You shouldna paint at angels mair, But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel’s
kittle wark,
Wi’ Nick, there’s
little danger:
You’ll easy draw
a lang-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger.—R.
B.
The Book-Worms
Through and through
th’ inspir’d leaves,
Ye maggots, make your
windings;
But O respect his lordship’s
taste,
And spare his golden
bindings.
O Thou whom Poetry abhors,
Whom Prose has turned
out of doors,
Heard’st thou
yon groan?—proceed no further,
’Twas laurel’d
Martial calling murther.
Song—A Bottle And Friend
There’s nane that’s
blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and
the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.
Here’s a bottle
and an honest friend!
What wad ye 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 aye when
sought, man.
Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns
Cease, ye prudes, your
envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms—confess:
True it is, she had
one failing,
Had a woman ever less?
Ye maggots, feed on
Nicol’s brain,
For few sic feasts you’ve
gotten;
And fix your claws in
Nicol’s heart,
For deil a bit o’t’s
rotten.
Epitaph For Mr. William Michie
Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.
Here lie Willie Michie’s
banes;
O Satan, when ye tak
him,
Gie him the schulin
o’ your weans,
For clever deils he’ll
mak them!
Boat song—Hey, Ca’ Thro’
Up wi’ the carls
o’ Dysart,
And the lads o’
Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o’
Largo,
And the lasses o’
Leven.
Chorus.—Hey,
ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,
For we hae muckle ado.
Hey, ca’ thro’,
ca’ thro’,
For we hae muckle ado;
We hae tales to tell,
An’ we hae sangs
to sing;
We hae pennies tae spend,
An’ we hae pints
to bring.
Hey, ca’ thro’,
&c.
We’ll live a’
our days,
And them that comes
behin’,
Let them do the like,
An’ spend the
gear they win.
Hey, ca’ thro’,
&c.
With an Impression of the Author’s Portrait.
Revered defender of
beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once
respected;
A name, which to love
was the mark of a true heart,
But now ’tis despis’d
and neglected.
Tho’ something
like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me
disloyal;
A poor friendless wand’rer
may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand’rer
were royal.
My fathers that name
have rever’d on a throne:
My fathers have fallen
to right it;
Those fathers would
spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he
scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for
King George I most heartily join,
The Queen, and the rest
of the gentry:
Be they wise, be they
foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title’s
avow’d by my country.
But why of that epocha
make such a fuss,
That gave us th’
Electoral stem?
If bringing them over
was lucky for us,
I’m sure ’twas
as lucky for them.
But, loyalty, truce!
we’re on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions
may alter?
The doctrine, to-day,
that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring
us a halter!
I send you a trifle,
a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy
your care;
But accept it, good
Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint’s
dying prayer.
Now life’s chilly
evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long
dreary night:
But you, like the star
that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest
is bright.
Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church
Who was looking up the text during sermon.
Fair maid, you need
not take the hint,
Nor idle texts pursue:
’Twas guilty sinners
that he meant,
Not Angels such as you.
Auld chuckie Reekie’s^1
sair distrest,
Down droops her ance
weel burnish’d crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit
nest
Can yield ava,
Her darling bird that
she lo’es best—
Willie’s awa!
O Willie was a witty
wight,
And had o’ things
an unco’ sleight,
Auld Reekie aye he keepit
tight,
And trig an’ braw:
But now they’ll
busk her like a fright,—
Willie’s awa!
The stiffest o’
them a’ he bow’d,
The bauldest o’
them a’ he cow’d;
They durst nae mair
than he allow’d,
That was a law:
We’ve lost a birkie
weel worth gowd;
Willie’s awa!
Now gawkies, tawpies,
gowks and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding
schools,
May sprout like simmer
puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;
He wha could brush them
down to mools—
Willie’s awa!
[Footnote 1: Edinburgh.]
The brethren o’
the Commerce-chaumer
May mourn their loss
wi’ doolfu’ clamour;
He was a dictionar and
grammar
Among them a’;
I fear they’ll
now mak mony a stammer;
Willie’s awa!
Nae mair we see his
levee door
Philosophers and poets
pour,
And toothy critics by
the score,
In bloody raw!
The adjutant o’
a’ the core—
Willie’s awa!
Now worthy Gregory’s
Latin face,
Tytler’s and Greenfield’s
modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart,
such a brace
As Rome ne’er
saw;
They a’ maun meet
some ither place,
Willie’s awa!
Poor Burns ev’n
Scotch Drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some
bewilder’d chicken
Scar’d frae it’s
minnie and the cleckin,
By hoodie-craw;
Grieg’s gien his
heart an unco kickin,
Willie’s awa!
Now ev’ry sour-mou’d
girnin blellum,
And Calvin’s folk,
are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic
skellum
His quill may draw;
He wha could brawlie
ward their bellum—
Willie’s awa!
Up wimpling stately
Tweed I’ve sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal
Jed,
And Ettrick banks, now
roaring red,
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure’s
fled,
Willie’s awa!
May I be Slander’s
common speech;
A text for Infamy to
preach;
And lastly, streekit
out to bleach
In winter snaw;
When I forget thee,
Willie Creech,
Tho’ far awa!
May never wicked Fortune
touzle him!
May never wicked men
bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld’s
Methusalem
He canty claw!
Then to the blessed
new Jerusalem,
Fleet wing awa!
Note To Mr. Renton Of Lamerton
Your billet, Sir, I
grant receipt;
Wi’ you I’ll
canter ony gate,
Tho’ ‘twere
a trip to yon blue warl’,
Whare birkies march
on burning marl:
Then, Sir, God willing,
I’ll attend ye,
And to his goodness
I commend ye.
R. Burns
Elegy On “Stella”
The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of “The voice of Cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone’s language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.—R.B.
Strait is the spot and
green the sod
From whence my sorrows
flow;
And soundly sleeps the
ever dear
Inhabitant below.
Pardon my transport,
gentle shade,
While o’er the
turf I bow;
Thy earthy house is
circumscrib’d,
And solitary now.
Not one poor stone to
tell thy name,
Or make thy virtues
known:
But what avails to me—to
thee,
The sculpture of a stone?
I’ll sit me down
upon this turf,
And wipe the rising
tear:
The chill blast passes
swiftly by,
And flits around thy
bier.
Dark is the dwelling
of the Dead,
And sad their house
of rest:
Low lies the head, by
Death’s cold arms
In awful fold embrac’d.
I saw the grim Avenger
stand
Incessant by thy side;
Unseen by thee, his
deadly breath
Thy lingering frame
destroy’d.
Pale grew the roses
on thy cheek,
And wither’d was
thy bloom,
Till the slow poison
brought thy youth
Untimely to the tomb.
Thus wasted are the
ranks of men—
Youth, Health, and Beauty
fall;
The ruthless ruin spreads
around,
And overwhelms us all.
Behold where, round
thy narrow house,
The graves unnumber’d
lie;
The multitude that sleep
below
Existed but to die.
Some, with the tottering
steps of Age,
Trod down the darksome
way;
And some, in youth’s
lamented prime,
Like thee were torn
away:
Yet these, however hard
their fate,
Their native earth receives;
Amid their weeping friends
they died,
And fill their fathers’
graves.
From thy lov’d
friends, when first thy heart
Was taught by Heav’n
to glow,
Far, far remov’d,
the ruthless stroke
Surpris’d and
laid thee low.
At the last limits of
our isle,
Wash’d by the
western wave,
Touch’d by thy
face, a thoughtful bard
Sits lonely by thy grave.
Pensive he eyes, before
him spread
The deep, outstretch’d
and vast;
His mourning notes are
borne away
Along the rapid blast.
And while, amid the
silent Dead
Thy hapless fate he
mourns,
His own long sorrows
freshly bleed,
And all his grief returns:
Like thee, cut off in
early youth,
And flower of beauty’s
pride,
His friend, his first
and only joy,
His much lov’d
Stella, died.
Him, too, the stern
impulse of Fate
Resistless bears along;
And the same rapid tide
shall whelm
The Poet and the Song.
The tear of pity which
he sheds,
He asks not to receive;
Let but his poor remains
be laid
Obscurely in the grave.
His grief-worn heart,
with truest joy,
Shall meet he welcome
shock:
His airy harp shall
lie unstrung,
And silent on the rock.
O, my dear maid, my
Stella, when
Shall this sick period
close,
And lead the solitary
bard
To his belov’d
repose?
Whoe’er he be
that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he comes to wait
upon
The Lord their God,
His Grace.
There’s naething
here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and
hunger:
If Providence has sent
me here,
’Twas surely in
his anger.
Epigram To Miss Jean Scott
O had each Scot of ancient
times
Been, Jeanie Scott,
as thou art;
The bravest heart on
English ground
Had yielded like a coward.
On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq,
Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author’s.
Sad thy tale, thou idle
page,
And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother
of her love
From Isabella’s
arms.
Sweetly deckt with pearly
dew
The morning rose may
blow;
But cold successive
noontide blasts
May lay its beauties
low.
Fair on Isabella’s
morn
The sun propitious smil’d;
But, long ere noon,
succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil’d.
Fate oft tears the bosom
chords
That Nature finest strung;
So Isabella’s
heart was form’d,
And so that heart was
wrung.
Dread Omnipotence alone
Can heal the wound he
gave—
Can point the brimful
grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the
grave.
Virtue’s blossoms
there shall blow,
And fear no withering
blast;
There Isabella’s
spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.
The lamp of day, with—ill
presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath
the western wave;
Th’ inconstant
blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning
air,
And hollow whistled
in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander’d
by each cliff and dell,
Once the lov’d
haunts of Scotia’s royal train;^1
Or mus’d where
limpid streams, once hallow’d well,^2
Or mould’ring
ruins mark the sacred fane.^3
Th’ increasing
blast roar’d round the beetling rocks,
The clouds swift-wing’d
flew o’er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely
shed their locks,
And shooting meteors
caught the startled eye.
[Footnote 1: The King’s Park at Holyrood House.—R. B.]
[Footnote 2: St. Anthony’s well.—R. B.]
[Footnote 3: St. Anthony’s Chapel.—R. B.]
The paly moon rose in
the livid east.
And ’mong the
cliffs disclos’d a stately form
In weeds of woe, that
frantic beat her breast,
And mix’d her
wailings with the raving storm
Wild to my heart the
filial pulses glow,
’Twas Caledonia’s
trophied shield I view’d:
Her form majestic droop’d
in pensive woe,
The lightning of her
eye in tears imbued.
Revers’d that
spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclined that banner,
erst in fields unfurl’d,
That like a deathful
meteor gleam’d afar,
And brav’d the
mighty monarchs of the world.
“My patriot son
fills an untimely grave!”
With accents wild and
lifted arms she cried;
“Low lies the
hand oft was stretch’d to save,
Low lies the heart that
swell’d with honest pride.
“A weeping country
joins a widow’s tear;
The helpless poor mix
with the orphan’s cry;
The drooping arts surround
their patron’s bier;
And grateful science
heaves the heartfelt sigh!
“I saw my sons
resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom’s
blossoms richly blow:
But ah! how hope is
born but to expire!
Relentless fate has
laid their guardian low.
“My patriot falls:
but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness
saves a worthless name?
No; every muse shall
join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear
his growing fame.
“And I will join
a mother’s tender cares,
Thro’ future times
to make his virtues last;
That distant years may
boast of other Blairs!”—
She said, and vanish’d
with the sweeping blast.
Impromptu On Carron Iron Works
We cam na here to view
your warks,
In hopes to be mair
wise,
But only, lest we gang
to hell,
It may be nae surprise:
But when 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!
Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.
Nae heathen name shall
I prefix,
Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them
a’ to sticks,
For rhyme-inspiring
lasses.
Jove’s tunefu’
dochters three times three
Made Homer deep their
debtor;
But, gien the body half
an e’e,
Nine Ferriers wad done
better!
Last day my mind was
in a bog,
Down George’s
Street I stoited;
A creeping cauld prosaic
fog
My very sense doited.
Do what I dought to
set her free,
My saul lay in the mire;
Ye turned a neuk—I
saw your e’e—
She took the wing like
fire!
The mournfu’ sang
I here enclose,
In gratitude I send
you,
And pray, in rhyme as
weel as prose,
A’ gude things
may attend you!
Written By Somebody On The Window
Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.
Here Stuarts once in
glory reigned,
And laws for Scotland’s
weal ordained;
But now unroof’d
their palace stands,
Their sceptre’s
sway’d by other hands;
Fallen indeed, and to
the earth
Whence groveling reptiles
take their birth.
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.
My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton. In a Ms., where I met the answer, I wrote below:—
With Esop’s lion,
Burns says: Sore I feel
Each other’s scorn,
but damn that ass’ heel!
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!
Verses Written With A Pencil
Over the Chimney—piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.
Admiring Nature in her
wildest grace,
These northern scenes
with weary feet I trace;
O’er many a winding
dale and painful steep,
Th’ abodes of
covey’d grouse and timid sheep,
[Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.—Lang.]
My savage journey, curious,
I pursue,
Till fam’d Breadalbane
opens to my view.—
The meeting cliffs each
deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods wild scatter’d,
clothe their ample sides;
Th’ outstretching
lake, imbosomed ’mong the hills,
The eye with wonder
and amazement fills;
The Tay meand’ring
sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on
his verdant side,
The lawns wood-fring’d
in Nature’s native taste,
The hillocks dropt in
Nature’s careless haste,
The arches striding
o’er the new-born stream,
The village glittering
in the noontide beam—
Poetic ardours in my
bosom swell,
Lone wand’ring
by the hermit’s mossy cell;
The sweeping theatre
of hanging woods,
Th’ incessant
roar of headlong tumbling floods—
Here Poesy might wake
her heav’n-taught lyre,
And look through Nature
with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs
of Fate half reconcil’d,
Misfortunes lighten’d
steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment,
in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe
her bitter, rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief
might heav’nward stretch her scan,
And injur’d Worth
forget and pardon man.
Tune—“The Birks of Abergeldie.”
Chorus.—Bonie
lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye
go,
Bonie lassie, will ye
go
To the birks of Aberfeldy!
Now Simmer blinks on
flowery braes,
And o’er the crystal
streamlets plays;
Come let us spend the
lightsome days,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie, &c.
While o’er their
heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blythely
sing,
Or lightly flit on wanton
wing,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie, &c.
The braes ascend like
lofty wa’s,
The foaming stream deep-roaring
fa’s,
O’erhung wi’
fragrant spreading shaws—
The birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie, &c.
The hoary cliffs are
crown’d wi’ flowers,
White o’er the
linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi’
misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie, &c.
Let Fortune’s
gifts at randoe flee,
They ne’er shall
draw a wish frae me;
Supremely blest wi’
love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie, &c.
The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water
To the noble Duke of Athole.
My lord, I know your
noble ear
Woe ne’er assails
in vain;
Embolden’d thus,
I beg you’ll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus’
scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste
my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal
tide.^1
The lightly-jumping,
glowrin’ trouts,
That thro’ my
waters play,
If, in their random,
wanton spouts,
They near the margin
stray;
[Footnote 1: Bruar
Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque
and beautiful; but their
effect is much impaired by the want of
trees and shrubs.—R.B.]
If, hapless chance!
they linger lang,
I’m scorching
up so shallow,
They’re left the
whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to
wallow.
Last day I grat wi’
spite and teen,
As poet Burns came by.
That, to a bard, I should
be seen
Wi’ half my channel
dry;
A panegyric rhyme, I
ween,
Ev’n as I was,
he shor’d me;
But had I in my glory
been,
He, kneeling, wad ador’d
me.
Here, foaming down the
skelvy rocks,
In twisting strength
I rin;
There, high my boiling
torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o’er
a linn:
Enjoying each large
spring and well,
As Nature gave them
me,
I am, altho’ I
say’t mysel’,
Worth gaun a mile to
see.
Would then my noble
master please
To grant my highest
wishes,
He’ll shade my
banks wi’ tow’ring trees,
And bonie spreading
bushes.
Delighted doubly then,
my lord,
You’ll wander
on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful
bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober lav’rock,
warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Music’s
gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the
choir;
The blackbird strong,
the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn
cheer,
In all her locks of
yellow.
This, too, a covert
shall ensure,
To shield them from
the storm;
And coward maukin sleep
secure,
Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd
make his seat,
To weave his crown of
flow’rs;
Or find a shelt’ring,
safe retreat,
From prone-descending
show’rs.
And here, by sweet,
endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving
pair,
Despising worlds, with
all their wealth,
As empty idle care;
The flow’rs shall
vie in all their charms,
The hour of heav’n
to grace;
And birks extend their
fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal
dawn,
Some musing bard may
stray,
And eye the smoking,
dewy lawn,
And misty mountain grey;
Or, by the reaper’s
nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro’
the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing
stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the
breeze.
Let lofty firs, and
ashes cool,
My lowly banks o’erspread,
And view, deep-bending
in the pool,
Their shadow’s
wat’ry bed:
Let fragrant birks,
in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little
songster’s nest,
The close embow’ring
thorn.
So may old Scotia’s
darling hope,
Your little angel band
Spring, like their fathers,
up to prop
Their honour’d
native land!
So may, thro’
Albion’s farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be—“Athole’s
honest men,
And Athole’s bonie
lasses!
Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.
Written with a Pencil on the Spot.
Among the heathy hills
and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours
his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes
on the rocky mounds,
Where, thro’ a
shapeless breach, his stream resounds.
As high in air the bursting
torrents flow,
As deep recoiling surges
foam below,
Prone down the rock
the whitening sheet descends,
And viewles Echo’s
ear, astonished, rends.
Dim-seen, through rising
mists and ceaseless show’rs,
The hoary cavern, wide
surrounding lours:
Still thro’ the
gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the
horrid cauldron boils—
When Death’s dark
stream I ferry o’er,
A time that surely shall
come,
In Heav’n itself
I’ll ask no more,
Than just a Highland
welcome.
Strathallan’s Lament^1
Thickest night, o’erhang
my dwelling!
Howling tempests, o’er
me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry
swelling,
Roaring by my lonely
cave!
[Footnote 1: Burns confesses that his Jacobtism was merely sentimental “except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause,” and a tour through the country where Montrose, Claverhouse, and Prince Charles had fought, was cause enough. Strathallan fell gloriously at Culloden.—Lang.]
Crystal streamlets gently
flowing,
Busy haunts of base
mankind,
Western breezes softly
blowing,
Suit not my distracted
mind.
In the cause of Right
engaged,
Wrongs injurious to
redress,
Honour’s war we
strongly waged,
But the Heavens denied
success.
Ruin’s wheel has
driven o’er us,
Not a hope that dare
attend,
The wide world is all
before us—
But a world without
a friend.
Streams that glide in
orient plains,
Never bound by Winter’s
chains;
Glowing here on golden
sands,
There immix’d
with foulest stains
From Tyranny’s
empurpled hands;
These, their richly
gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and
their slaves;
Give me the stream that
sweetly laves
The banks by Castle
Gordon.
Spicy forests, ever
gray,
Shading from the burning
ray
Hapless wretches sold
to toil;
Or the ruthless native’s
way,
Bent on slaughter, blood,
and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant
wave,
I leave the tyrant and
the slave;
Give me the groves that
lofty brave
The storms by Castle
Gordon.
Wildly here, without
control,
Nature reigns and rules
the whole;
In that sober pensive
mood,
Dearest to the feeling
soul,
She plants the forest,
pours the flood:
Life’s poor day
I’ll musing rave
And find at night a
sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and
wild woods wave,
By bonie Castle Gordon.
Song—Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky
Tune—“The Ruffian’s Rant.”
A’ The lads o’
Thorniebank,
When they gae to the
shore o’ Bucky,
They’ll step in
an’ tak a pint
Wi’ Lady Onlie,
honest Lucky.
Chorus.—Lady
Onlie, honest Lucky,
Brews gude ale at shore
o’ Bucky;
I wish her sale for
her gude ale,
The best on a’
the shore o’ Bucky.
Her house sae bien,
her curch sae clean
I wat she is a daintie
chuckie;
And cheery blinks the
ingle-gleed
O’ Lady Onlie,
honest Lucky!
Lady Onlie, &c.
Air—“The Ruffian’s Rant,” or “Roy’s Wife.”
In comin by the brig
o’ Dye,
At Darlet we a blink
did tarry;
As day was dawnin in
the sky,
We drank a health to
bonie Mary.
Chorus.—Theniel
Menzies’ bonie Mary,
Theniel Menzies’
bonie Mary,
Charlie Grigor tint
his plaidie,
Kissin’ Theniel’s
bonie Mary.
Her een sae bright,
her brow sae white,
Her haffet locks as
brown’s a berry;
And aye they dimpl’t
wi’ a smile,
The rosy cheeks o’
bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzies’
bonie Mary, &c.
We lap a’ danc’d
the lee-lang day,
Till piper lads were
wae and weary;
But Charlie gat the
spring to pay
For kissin Theniel’s
bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzies’
bonie Mary, &c.
The Bonie Lass Of Albany^1
Tune—“Mary’s Dream.”
My heart is wae, and
unco wae,
To think upon the raging
sea,
That roars between her
gardens green
An’ the bonie
Lass of Albany.
This lovely maid’s
of royal blood
That ruled Albion’s
kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her
bonie face,
They’ve wrang’d
the Lass of Albany.
In the rolling tide
of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of
high degree,
And a town of fame whose
princely name
Should grace the Lass
of Albany.
But there’s a
youth, a witless youth,
That fills the place
where she should be;
We’ll send him
o’er to his native shore,
And bring our ain sweet
Albany.
Alas the day, and woe
the day,
A false usurper wan
the gree,
Who now commands the
towers and lands—
The royal right of Albany.
We’ll daily pray,
we’ll nightly pray,
On bended knees most
fervently,
The time may come, with
pipe an’ drum
We’ll welcome
hame fair Albany.
[Footnote 1: Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.]
A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.
“This was the production of a solitary forenoon’s walk from Oughtertyre House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world. ’Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come.” —R.B., Glenriddell MSS.
Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat’ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?— Common friend to you and me, yature’s gifts to all are free: Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow’s shock.
Conscious, blushing
for our race,
Soon, too soon, your
fears I trace,
Man, your proud, usurping
foe,
Would be lord of all
below:
Plumes himself in freedom’s
pride,
Tyrant stern to all
beside.
The eagle, from the
cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey
below,
In his breast no pity
dwells,
Strong necessity compels:
But Man, to whom alone
is giv’n
A ray direct from pitying
Heav’n,
Glories in his heart
humane—
And creatures for his
pleasure slain!
In these savage, liquid
plains,
Only known to wand’ring
swains,
Where the mossy riv’let
strays,
Far from human haunts
and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life’s poor
season peaceful spend.
Or, if man’s superior
might
Dare invade your native
right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow’rs
you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging
wings,
Other lakes and other
springs;
And the foe you cannot
brave,
Scorn at least to be
his slave.
Tune—“Andro and his Cutty Gun.”
Chorus.—Blythe,
blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and
ben;
Blythe by the banks
of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit
glen.
By Oughtertyre grows
the aik,
On Yarrow banks the
birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier
lass
Than braes o’
Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her looks were like
a flow’r in May,
Her smile was like a
simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks
o’ Earn,
As light’s a bird
upon a thorn.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her bonie face it was
as meek
As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was
ne’er sae sweet,
As was the blink o’
Phemie’s e’e.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
[Footnote 1: Written
at Oughtertyre. Phemie is Miss Euphemia
Murray, a cousin of
Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.—Lang.]
The Highland hills I’ve
wander’d wide,
And o’er the Lawlands
I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest
lass
That ever trod the dewy
green.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A Rose-bud by my early
walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed
bawk,
Sae gently bent its
thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades
o’ dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson
glory spread,
And drooping rich the
dewy head,
It scents the early
morning.
Within the bush her
covert nest
A little linnet fondly
prest;
The dew sat chilly on
her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her
tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure
o’ the wood,
Amang the fresh green
leaves bedew’d,
Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird,
young Jeany fair,
On trembling string
or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the
tender care
That tents thy early
morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud,
young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze
upon the day,
And bless the parent’s
evening ray
That watch’d thy
early morning.
Honest Will to Heaven’s
away
And mony shall lament
him;
His fau’ts they
a’ in Latin lay,
In English nane e’er
kent them.
Song—The Banks Of The Devon
Tune—“Bhanarach dhonn a’ chruidh.”
How pleasant the banks
of the clear winding Devon,
With green spreading
bushes and flow’rs blooming fair!
But the boniest flow’r
on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud
on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this
sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn,
as it bathes in the dew;
And gentle the fall
of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening
each leaf to renew!
O spare the dear blossom,
ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing
as ye usher the dawn;
And far be thou distant,
thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride
of the garden or lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in
his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant
display her proud rose:
A fairer than either
adorns the green valleys,
Where Devon, sweet Devon,
meandering flows.
Tune—“Neil Gow’s Lament for Abercairny.”
Where, braving angry
winter’s storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my
Peggy’s charms
First blest my wondering
eyes;
As one who by some savage
stream
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish’d, doubly
marks it beam
With art’s most
polish’d blaze.
[Footnote 1: Of the Edinburgh High School.]
Blest be the wild, sequester’d
shade,
And blest the day and
hour,
Where Peggy’s
charms I first survey’d,
When first I felt their
pow’r!
The tyrant Death, with
grim control,
May seize my fleeting
breath;
But tearing Peggy from
my soul
Must be a stronger death.
Song—My Peggy’s Charms
Tune—“Tha a’ chailleach ir mo dheigh.”
My Peggy’s face,
my Peggy’s form,
The frost of hermit
Age might warm;
My Peggy’s worth,
my Peggy’s mind,
Might charm the first
of human kind.
I love my Peggy’s
angel air,
Her face so truly heavenly
fair,
Her native grace, so
void of art,
But I adore my Peggy’s
heart.
The lily’s hue,
the rose’s dye,
The kindling lustre
of an eye;
Who but owns their magic
sway!
Who but knows they all
decay!
The tender thrill, the
pitying tear,
The generous purpose
nobly dear,
The gentle look that
rage disarms—
These are all Immortal
charms.
Tune—“Morag.”
Loud blaw the frosty
breezes,
The snaws the mountains
cover;
Like winter on me seizes,
Since my young Highland
rover
Far wanders nations
over.
Where’er he go,
where’er he stray,
May heaven be his warden;
Return him safe to fair
Strathspey,
And bonie Castle-Gordon!
The trees, now naked
groaning,
Shall soon wi’
leaves be hinging,
The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a’ be blythely
singing,
And every flower be
springing;
Sae I’ll rejoice
the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty Warden
My youth’s return’d
to fair Strathspey,
And bonie Castle-Gordon.
Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787^1
Afar the illustrious
Exile roams,
Whom kingdoms on this
day should hail;
An inmate in the casual
shed,
On transient pity’s
bounty fed,
Haunted by busy memory’s
bitter tale!
Beasts of the forest
have their savage homes,
But He, who should imperial
purple wear,
Owns not the lap of
earth where rests his royal head!
His wretched refuge,
dark despair,
While ravening wrongs
and woes pursue,
And distant far the
faithful few
Who would his sorrows
share.
False flatterer, Hope,
away!
Nor think to lure us
as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing
natal day,
To prove our loyal truth—we
can no more,
And owning Heaven’s
mysterious sway,
Submissive, low adore.
Ye honored, mighty Dead,
Who nobly perished in
the glorious cause,
Your King, your Country,
and her laws,
[Footnote 1: The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward.]
From great Dundee, who
smiling Victory led,
And fell a Martyr in
her arms,
(What breast of northern
ice but warms!)
To bold Balmerino’s
undying name,
Whose soul of fire,
lighted at Heaven’s high flame,
Deserves the proudest
wreath departed heroes claim:
Nor unrevenged your
fate shall lie,
It only lags, the fatal
hour,
Your blood shall, with
incessant cry,
Awake at last, th’
unsparing Power;
As from the cliff, with
thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes
along
With doubling speed
and gathering force,
Till deep it, crushing,
whelms the cottage in the vale;
So Vengeance’
arm, ensanguin’d, strong,
Shall with resistless
might assail,
Usurping Brunswick’s
pride shall lay,
And Stewart’s
wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay.
Perdition, baleful child
of night!
Rise and revenge the
injured right
Of Stewart’s royal
race:
Lead on the unmuzzled
hounds of hell,
Till all the frighted
echoes tell
The blood-notes of the
chase!
Full on the quarry point
their view,
Full on the base usurping
crew,
The tools of faction,
and the nation’s curse!
Hark how the cry grows
on the wind;
They leave the lagging
gale behind,
Their savage fury, pitiless,
they pour;
With murdering eyes
already they devour;
See Brunswick spent,
a wretched prey,
His life one poor despairing
day,
Where each avenging
hour still ushers in a worse!
Such havock, howling
all abroad,
Their utter ruin bring,
The base apostates to
their God,
Or rebels to their King.
On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston,
Late Lord President of the Court of Session.
Lone on the bleaky hills
the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms
among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets,
red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods
burst o’er the distant plains;
Beneath the blast the
leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return
a hollow moan.
Ye hills, ye plains,
ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and
wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by
human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic
glooms I fly;
Where, to the whistling
blast and water’s roar,
Pale Scotia’s
recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss, thy country
ill could bear!
A loss these evil days
can ne’er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent
of her God,
Her doubtful balance
eyed, and sway’d her rod:
Hearing the tidings
of the fatal blow,
She sank, abandon’d
to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from
many a darksome den,
Now, gay in hope, explore
the paths of men:
See from his cavern
grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty
his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless
victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the
feebly-bursting cry:
Mark Ruffian Violence,
distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these
degenerate times,
View unsuspecting Innocence
a prey,
As guileful Fraud points
out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation’s
pliant tongue
The life-blood equal
sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur’d
Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale,
And much-wrong’d
Mis’ry pours the unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills,
ye brown unsightly plains,
Congenial scenes, ye
soothe my mournful strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye
turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless
tenor of my soul.
Life’s social
haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and
lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my
country must endure—
That would degenerate
ages cannot cure.
Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the signature of “Clarinda” and entitled, On Burns saying he ’had nothing else to do.’
When dear Clarinda,
matchless fair,
First struck Sylvander’s
raptur’d view,
He gaz’d, he listened
to despair,
Alas! ’twas all
he dared to do.
Love, from Clarinda’s
heavenly eyes,
Transfixed his bosom
thro’ and thro’;
But still in Friendships’
guarded guise,
For more the demon fear’d
to do.
That heart, already
more than lost,
The imp beleaguer’d
all perdue;
For frowning Honour
kept his post—
To meet that frown,
he shrunk to do.
His pangs the Bard refused
to own,
Tho’ half he wish’d
Clarinda knew;
But Anguish wrung the
unweeting groan—
Who blames what frantic
Pain must do?
That heart, where motley
follies blend,
Was sternly still to
Honour true:
To prove Clarinda’s
fondest friend,
Was what a lover sure
might do.
[Footnote 1: A grass-widow, Mrs. M’Lehose.]
The Muse his ready quill
employed,
No nearer bliss he could
pursue;
That bliss Clarinda
cold deny’d—
“Send word by
Charles how you do!”
The chill behest disarm’d
his muse,
Till passion all impatient
grew:
He wrote, and hinted
for excuse,
’Twas, ’cause
“he’d nothing else to do.”
But by those hopes I
have above!
And by those faults
I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest
mark of love,
For thee that deed I
dare uo do!
O could the Fates but
name the price
Would bless me with
your charms and you!
With frantic joy I’d
pay it thrice,
If human art and power
could do!
Then take, Clarinda,
friendship’s hand,
(Friendship, at least,
I may avow;)
And lay no more your
chill command,—
I’ll write whatever
I’ve to do.
1788
Your friendship much
can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy!
Why urge the only, one
request
You know I will deny!
Your thought, if Love
must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my
bosom tear
The very friend I sought.
Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care
For thee is laughing
Nature gay,
For thee she pours the
vernal day;
For me in vain is Nature
drest,
While Joy’s a
stranger to my breast.
Clarinda, mistres of
my soul,
The measur’d time
is run!
The wretch beneath the
dreary pole
So marks his latest
sun.
To what dark cave of
frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander
hie;
Depriv’d of thee,
his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?
We part—but
by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely
eyes,
No other light shall
guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams
arise!
She, the fair sun of
all her sex,
Has blest my glorious
day;
And shall a glimmering
planet fix
My worship to its ray?
I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet
Chorus.—I’m
o’er young, I’m o’er young,
I’m o’er
young to marry yet;
I’m o’er
young, ’twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammy
yet.
I am my mammny’s
ae bairn,
Wi’ unco folk
I weary, sir;
And lying in a man’s
bed,
I’m fley’d
it mak me eerie, sir.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
My mammie coft me a
new gown,
The kirk maun hae the
gracing o’t;
Were I to lie wi’
you, kind Sir,
I’m feared ye’d
spoil the lacing o’t.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
Hallowmass is come and
gane,
The nights are lang
in winter, sir,
And you an’ I
in ae bed,
In trowth, I dare na
venture, sir.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
Fu’ loud an’
shill the frosty wind
Blaws thro’ the
leafless timmer, sir;
But if ye come this
gate again;
I’ll aulder be
gin simmer, sir.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
My heart was ance as
blithe and free
As simmer days were
lang;
But a bonie, westlin
weaver lad
Has gart me change my
sang.
Chorus.—To
the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weaver’s
gin ye go;
I rede you right, gang
ne’er at night,
To the weaver’s
gin ye go.
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.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
A bonie, westlin weaver
lad
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as
wi’ a net,
In every knot and thrum.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca’d
it roun’;
But every shot and evey
knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
The moon was sinking
in the west,
Wi’ visage pale
and wan,
As my bonie, westlin
weaver lad
Convoy’d me thro’
the glen.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
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
myself!
To the weaver’s,
&c.
M’Pherson’s Farewell
Tune—“M’Pherson’s Rant.”
Farewell, ye dungeons
dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie!
M’Pherson’s
time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.
Chorus.—Sae
rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed
he;
He play’d a spring,
and danc’d it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
O, what is death but
parting breath?
On many a bloody plain
I’ve dared his
face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
Sae rantingly, &c.
Untie these bands from
off my hands,
And bring me to my sword;
And there’s no
a man in all Scotland
But I’ll brave
him at a word.
Sae rantingly, &c.
I’ve liv’d
a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I
must depart,
And not avenged be.
Sae rantingly, &c.
Now farewell light,
thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the
sky!
May coward shame distain
his name,
The wretch that dares
not die!
Sae rantingly, &c.
Tune—“An gille dubh ciar-dhubh.”
Stay my charmer, can
you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive
me;
Well you know how much
you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you
go!
Cruel charmer, can you
go!
By my love so ill-requited,
By the faith you fondly
plighted,
By the pangs of lovers
slighted,
Do not, do not liave
me so!
Do not, do not leave
me so!
Song—My Hoggie
What will I do gin my
Hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my
Hoggie!
My only beast, I had
nae mae,
And vow but I was vogie!
The lee-lang night we
watch’d the fauld,
Me and my faithfu’
doggie;
We heard nocht but the
roaring linn,
Amang the braes sae
scroggie.
But the houlet cry’d
frau the castle wa’,
The blitter frae the
boggie;
The tod reply’d
upon the hill,
I trembled for my Hoggie.
When day did daw, and
cocks did craw,
The morning it was foggie;
An unco tyke, lap o’er
the dyke,
And maist has kill’d
my Hoggie!
Tune—“M’Grigor of Roro’s Lament.”
I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M’Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudoun, who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances.—R.B., 1971.
Raving winds around
her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands
strowing,
By a river hoarsely
roaring,
Isabella stray’d
deploring—
“Farewell, hours
that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy
and pleasure;
Hail, thou gloomy night
of sorrow,
Cheerless night that
knows no morrow!
“O’er the
past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future
pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood
freezes,
Fell despair my fancy
seizes.
“Life, thou soul
of every blessing,
Load to misery most
distressing,
Gladly how would I resign
thee,
And to dark oblivion
join thee!”
Cauld blaws the wind
frae east to west,
The drift is driving
sairly;
Sae loud and shill’s
I hear the blast—
I’m sure it’s
winter fairly.
Chorus.—Up
in the morning’s no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills
are covered wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s
winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering
in the thorn,
A’ day they fare
but sparely;
And lang’s the
night frae e’en to morn—
I’m sure it’s
winter fairly.
Up in the morning’s,
&c.
How Long And Dreary Is The Night
How long and dreary
is the night,
When I am frae my dearie!
I sleepless lie frae
e’en to morn,
Tho’ I were ne’er
so weary:
I sleepless lie frae
e’en to morn,
Tho’ I were ne’er
sae weary!
When I think on the
happy days
I spent wi’ you
my dearie:
And now what lands between
us lie,
How can I be but eerie!
And now what lands between
us lie,
How can I be but eerie!
How slow ye move, ye
heavy hours,
As ye were wae and weary!
It wasna sae ye glinted
by,
When I was wi’
my dearie!
It wasna sae ye glinted
by,
When I was wi’
my dearie!
Hey, The Dusty Miller
Hey, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty coat,
He will win a shilling,
Or he spend a groat:
Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour,
Dusty was the kiss
That I gat frae the
Miller.
Hey, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty sack;
Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck:
Fills the dusty peck,
Brings the dusty siller;
I wad gie my coatie
For the dusty Miller.
There was a lass, they
ca’d her Meg,
And she held o’er
the moors to spin;
There was a lad that
follow’d her,
They ca’d him
Duncan Davison.
The moor was dreigh,
and Meg was skeigh,
Her favour Duncan could
na win;
For wi’ the rock
she wad him knock,
And aye she shook the
temper-pin.
As o’er the moor
they lightly foor,
A burn was clear, a
glen was green,
Upon the banks they
eas’d their shanks,
And aye she set the
wheel between:
But Duncan swoor a haly
aith,
That Meg should be a
bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her
spinning-graith,
And flang them a’
out o’er the burn.
We will big a wee, wee
house,
And we will live like
king and queen;
Sae blythe and merry’s
we will be,
When ye set by the wheel
at e’en.
A man may drink, and
no be drunk;
A man may fight, and
no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonie
lass,
And aye be welcome back
again!
The Lad They Ca’Jumpin John
Her daddie forbad, her
minnie forbad
Forbidden she wadna
be:
She wadna trow’t
the browst she brew’d,
Wad taste sae bitterlie.
Chorus.—The
lang lad they ca’Jumpin John
Beguil’d the bonie
lassie,
The lang lad they ca’Jumpin
John
Beguil’d the bonie
lassie.
A cow and a cauf, a
yowe and a hauf,
And thretty gude shillin’s
and three;
A vera gude tocher,
a cotter-man’s dochter,
The lass wi’ the
bonie black e’e.
The lang lad, &c.
Musing on the roaring
ocean,
Which divides my love
and me;
Wearying heav’n
in warm devotion,
For his weal where’er
he be.
Hope and Fear’s
alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature’s
law,
Whispering spirits round
my pillow,
Talk of him that’s
far awa.
Ye whom sorrow never
wounded,
Ye who never shed a
tear,
Care—untroubled,
joy—surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is
dear.
Gentle night, do thou
befriend me,
Downy sleep, the curtain
draw;
Spirits kind, again
attend me,
Talk of him that’s
far awa!
To Daunton Me
The blude-red rose at
Yule may blaw,
The simmer lilies bloom
in snaw,
The frost may freeze
the deepest sea;
But an auld man shall
never daunton me.
Refrain.—To
daunton me, to daunton me,
And auld man shall never
daunton me.
To daunton me, and me
sae young,
Wi’ his fause
heart and flatt’ring tongue,
That is the thing you
shall never see,
For an auld man shall
never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
For a’ his meal
and a’ his maut,
For a’ his fresh
beef and his saut,
For a’ his gold
and white monie,
And auld men shall never
daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
His gear may buy him
kye and yowes,
His gear may buy him
glens and knowes;
But me he shall not
buy nor fee,
For an auld man shall
never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
He hirples twa fauld
as he dow,
Wi’ his teethless
gab and his auld beld pow,
And the rain rains down
frae his red blear’d e’e;
That auld man shall
never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
The winter it is past,
and the summer comes at last
And the small birds,
they sing on ev’ry tree;
Now ev’ry thing
is glad, while I am very sad,
Since my true love is
parted from me.
The rose upon the breer,
by the waters running clear,
May have charms for
the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are
blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is
parted from me.
The Bonie Lad That’s Far Awa
O how can I be blythe
and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk
and braw,
When the bonie lad that
I lo’e best
Is o’er the hills
and far awa!
It’s no the frosty
winter wind,
It’s no the driving
drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes
in my e’e,
To think on him that’s
far awa.
My father pat me frae
his door,
My friends they hae
disown’d me a’;
But I hae ane will tak
my part,
The bonie lad that’s
far awa.
A pair o’ glooves
he bought to me,
And silken snoods he
gae me twa;
And I will wear them
for his sake,
The bonie lad that’s
far awa.
O weary Winter soon
will pass,
And Spring will cleed
the birken shaw;
And my young babie will
be born,
And he’ll be hame
that’s far awa.
Sent with a Pair of Wine-Glasses.
Fair Empress of the
Poet’s soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this
little boon,
This humble pair of
glasses:
And fill them up with
generous juice,
As generous as your
mind;
And pledge them to the
generous toast,
“The whole of
human kind!”
“To those who
love us!” second fill;
But not to those whom
we love;
Lest we love those who
love not us—
A third—“To
thee and me, Love!”
The Chevalier’s Lament
Air—“Captain O’Kean.”
The small birds rejoice
in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet
winds clear thro’ the vale;
The primroses blow in
the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter’d
cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure,
or what can seem fair,
When the lingering moments
are numbered by care?
No birds sweetly singing,
nor flow’rs gaily springing,
Can soothe the sad bosom
of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared,
could it merit their malice?
A king and a father
to place on his throne!
His right are these
hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts
find shelter, tho’ I can find none!
But ’tis not my
suff’rings, thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends,
’tis your ruin I mourn;
Your faith proved so
loyal in hot bloody trial,—
Alas! I can make
it no better return!
In this strange land,
this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose
or rhyme;
Where words ne’er
cross’t the Muse’s heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic
shackles:
A land that Prose did
never view it,
Except when drunk he
stacher’t thro’ it;
Here, ambush’d
by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere
of reek,
I hear a wheel thrum
i’ the neuk,
I hear it—for
in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams,
a fiery kernel,
Enhusked by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted
rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins
by chapters;
For life and spunk like
ither Christians,
Robert Burns.
Of A’ The Airts The Wind Can Blaw^1
Tune—“Miss Admiral Gordon’s Strathspey.”
Of a’ the airts
the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie
lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e
best:
[Footnote 1: Written
during a separation from Mrs. Burns in their
honeymoon. Burns
was preparing a home at Ellisland; Mrs. Burns
was at Mossgiel.—Lang.]
There’s wild-woods
grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between:
But day and night my
fancys’ flight
Is ever wi’ my
Jean.
I see her in the dewy
flowers,
I see her sweet and
fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’
birds,
I hear her charm the
air:
There’s not a
bonie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or
green;
There’s not a
bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o’
my Jean.
I Hae a wife of my ain,
I’ll partake wi’
naebody;
I’ll take Cuckold
frae nane,
I’ll gie Cuckold
to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There—thanks
to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
I’ll borrow frae
naebody.
I am naebody’s
lord,
I’ll be slave
to naebody;
I hae a gude braid sword,
I’ll tak dunts
frae naebody.
I’ll be merry
and free,
I’ll be sad for
naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
Lines Written In Friars’-Carse Hermitage
Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788.
Thou whom chance may
hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet
weed,
Be thou deckt in silken
stole,
Grave these maxims on
thy soul.
Life is but a day at
most,
Sprung from night, in
darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every
hour,
Fear not clouds will
always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease
thy aim,
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame, an idle restless
dream;
Peace, the tend’rest
flow’r of spring;
Pleasures, insects on
the wing;
Those that sip the dew
alone—
Make the butterflies
thy own;
Those that would the
bloom devour—
Crush the locusts, save
the flower.
For the future be prepar’d,
Guard wherever thou
can’st guard;
But thy utmost duly
done,
Welcome what thou can’st
not shun.
Follies past, give thou
to air,
Make their consequence
thy care:
Keep the name of Man
in mind,
And dishonour not thy
kind.
Reverence with lowly
heart
Him, whose wondrous
work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still
in view,
Thy trust, and thy example,
too.
Stranger, go! Heaven
be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of
Nidside.
Ellisland, Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788.
My godlike friend—nay,
do not stare,
You think the phrase
is odd-like;
But God is love, the
saints declare,
Then surely thou art
god-like.
And is thy ardour still
the same?
And kindled still at
Anna?
Others may boast a partial
flame,
But thou art a volcano!
Ev’n Wedlock asks
not love beyond
Death’s tie-dissolving
portal;
But thou, omnipotently
fond,
May’st promise
love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing
powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend
them,
That last great antihectic
try—
Marriage perhaps may
mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air—a
grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms—but
who can trace
The process of bewitching?
Song.—Anna, Thy Charms
Anna, thy charms my
bosom fire,
And waste my soul with
care;
But ah! how bootless
to admire,
When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence,
lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiven;
For sure ’twere
impious to despair
So much in sight of
heaven.
Tune—“Killiecrankie.”
O Wha will to Saint
Stephen’s House,
To do our errands there,
man?
O wha will to Saint
Stephen’s House
O’ th’ merry
lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man
o’ law?
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o’er
Scotland a’
The meikle Ursa-Major?^1
Come, will ye court
a noble lord,
Or buy a score o’lairds,
man?
For worth and honour
pawn their word,
Their vote shall be
Glencaird’s,^2 man.
Ane gies them coin,
ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter:
Annbank,^3 wha guessed
the ladies’ taste,
He gies a Fete Champetre.
When Love and Beauty
heard the news,
The gay green woods
amang, man;
Where, gathering flowers,
and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird’s
sang, man:
A vow, they sealed it
with a kiss,
Sir Politics to fetter;
As their’s alone,
the patent bliss,
To hold a Fete Champetre.
Then mounted Mirth,
on gleesome wing
O’er hill and
dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk
crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she
knew, man:
She summon’d every
social sprite,
That sports by wood
or water,
On th’ bonie banks
of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fete Champetre.
Cauld Boreas, wi’
his boisterous crew,
Were bound to stakes
like kye, man,
And Cynthia’s
car, o’ silver fu’,
Clamb up the starry
sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell
in the streams,
Or down the current
shatter;
The western breeze steals
thro’the trees,
To view this Fete Champetre.
[Footnote 1: James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson.]
[Footnote 2: Sir
John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird
or “Glencaird.”]
[Footnote 3: William Cunninghame, Esq., of Annbank and Enterkin.]
How many a robe sae
gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels
glance, man!
To Harmony’s enchanting
notes,
As moves the mazy dance,
man.
The echoing wood, the
winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at
Adam’s yett,
To hold their Fete Champetre.
When Politics came there,
to mix
And make his ether-stane,
man!
He circled round the
magic ground,
But entrance found he
nane, man:
He blush’d for
shame, he quat his name,
Forswore it, every letter,
Wi’ humble prayer
to join and share
This festive Fete Champetre.
Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry
Requesting a Favour
When Nature her great
master-piece design’d,
And fram’d her
last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all
the mazy plan,
She form’d of
various parts the various Man.
Then first she calls
the useful many forth;
Plain plodding Industry,
and sober Worth:
Thence peasants, farmers,
native sons of earth,
And merchandise’
whole genus take their birth:
Each prudent cit a warm
existence finds,
And all mechanics’
many-apron’d kinds.
Some other rarer sorts
are wanted yet,
The lead and buoy are
needful to the net:
The caput mortuum of
grnss desires
Makes a material for
mere knights and squires;
The martial phosphorus
is taught to flow,
She kneads the lumpish
philosophic dough,
Then marks th’
unyielding mass with grave designs,
Law, physic, politics,
and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes th’
Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements
of female souls.
The order’d system
fair before her stood,
Nature, well pleas’d,
pronounc’d it very good;
But ere she gave creating
labour o’er,
Half-jest, she tried
one curious labour more.
Some spumy, fiery, ignis
fatuus matter,
Such as the slightest
breath of air might scatter;
With arch-alacrity and
conscious glee,
(Nature may have her
whim as well as we,
Her Hogarth-art perhaps
she meant to show it),
She forms the thing
and christens it—a Poet:
Creature, tho’
oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day, unmindful
of to-morrow;
A being form’d
t’ amuse his graver friends,
Admir’d and prais’d—and
there the homage ends;
A mortal quite unfit
for Fortune’s strife,
Yet oft the sport of
all the ills of life;
Prone to enjoy each
pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal
to live;
Longing to wipe each
tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded
in his own.
But honest Nature is
not quite a Turk,
She laugh’d at
first, then felt for her poor work:
Pitying the propless
climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard
tree to find;
And, to support his
helpless woodbine state,
Attach’d him to
the generous, truly great:
A title, and the only
one I claim,
To lay strong hold for
help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful Muses’
hapless train,
Weak, timid landsmen
on life’s stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish
stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives—tho’
humbly takes enough;
The little fate allows,
they share as soon,
Unlike sage proverb’d
Wisdom’s hard-wrung boon:
The world were blest
did bliss on them depend,
Ah, that “the
friendly e’er should want a friend!”
Let Prudence number
o’er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom
at one race begun,
Who feel by reason and
who give by rule,
(Instinct’s a
brute, and sentiment a fool!)
Who make poor “will
do” wait upon “I should”—
Tune—“Seventh of November.”
The day returns, my
bosom burns,
The blissful day we
twa did meet:
Tho’ winter wild
in tempest toil’d,
Ne’er summer-sun
was half sae sweet.
Than a’ the pride
that loads the tide,
And crosses o’er
the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than
crowns and globes,
Heav’n gave me
more—it made thee mine!
While day and night
can bring delight,
Or Nature aught of pleasure
give;
While joys above my
mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone,
I live.
When that grim foe of
life below
Comes in between to
make us part,
The iron hand that breaks
our band,
It breaks my bliss—it
breaks my heart!
Song.—O, Were I On Parnassus Hill
Tune—“My love is lost to me.”
O, were I on Parnassus
hill,
Or had o’ Helicon
my fill,
That I might catch poetic
skill,
To sing how dear I love
thee!
But Nith maun be my
Muse’s well,
My Muse maun be thy
bonie sel’,
On Corsincon I’ll
glowr and spell,
And write how dear I
love thee.
Then come, sweet Muse,
inspire my lay!
For a’ the lee-lang
simmer’s day
I couldna sing, I couldna
say,
How much, how dear,
I love thee,
I see thee dancing o’er
the green,
Thy waist sae jimp,
thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy
roguish een—
By Heaven and Earth
I love thee!
By night, by day, a-field,
at hame,
The thoughts o’
thee my breast inflame:
And aye I muse and sing
thy name—
I only live to love
thee.
Tho’ I were doom’d
to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond
the sun,
Till my last weary sand
was run;
Till then—and
then I love thee!
For the Death of Her Son.
Fate gave the word,
the arrow sped,
And pierc’d my
darling’s heart;
And with him all the
joys are fled
Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling
drops,
In dust dishonour’d
laid;
So fell the pride of
all my hopes,
My age’s future
shade.
The mother-linnet in
the brake
Bewails her ravish’d
young;
So I, for my lost darling’s
sake,
Lament the live-day
long.
Death, oft I’ve
feared thy fatal blow.
Now, fond, I bare my
breast;
O, do thou kindly lay
me low
With him I love, at
rest!
The Fall Of The Leaf
The lazy mist hangs
from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course
of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes,
late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter
resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless,
the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery
of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander,
apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying,
how keen Fate pursues!
How long I have liv’d—but
how much liv’d in vain,
How little of life’s
scanty span may remain,
What aspects old Time
in his progress has worn,
What ties cruel Fate,
in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse,
till our summit is gain’d!
And downward, how weaken’d,
how darken’d, how pain’d!
Life is not worth having
with all it can give—
For something beyond
it poor man sure must live.
Louis, what reck I by
thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvor, beggar louns
to me,
I reign in Jeanie’s
bosom!
Let her crown my love
her law,
And in her breast enthrone
me,
Kings and nations—swith
awa’!
Reif randies, I disown
ye!
It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonie Face
It is na, Jean, thy
bonie face,
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho’ thy beauty
and thy grace
Might weel awauk desire.
Something, in ilka part
o’ thee,
To praise, to love,
I find,
But dear as is thy form
to me,
Still dearer is thy
mind.
Nae mair ungenerous
wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna make
thee sae,
At least to see thee
blest.
Content am I, if heaven
shall give
But happiness, to thee;
And as wi’ thee
I’d wish to live,
For thee I’d bear
to die.
Auld Lang Syne
Should auld acquaintance
be forgot,
And never brought to
mind?
Should auld acquaintance
be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
Chorus.—For
auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup
o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll
be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll
be mine!
And we’ll tak
a cup o’kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
We twa hae run about
the braes,
And pou’d the
gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d
mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang
syne.
For auld, &c.
We twa hae paidl’d
in the burn,
Frae morning sun till
dine;
But seas between us
braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang
syne.
For auld, &c.
And there’s a
hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand
o’ thine!
And we’ll tak
a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
Go, fetch to me a pint
o’ wine,
And fill it in a silver
tassie;
That I may drink before
I go,
A service to my bonie
lassie.
The boat rocks at the
pier o’ Leith;
Fu’ loud the wind
blaws frae the Ferry;
The ship rides by the
Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my
bonie Mary.
The trumpets sound,
the banners fly,
The glittering spears
are ranked ready:
The shouts o’
war are heard afar,
The battle closes deep
and bloody;
It’s not the roar
o’ sea or shore,
Wad mak me langer wish
to tarry!
Nor shouts o’
war that’s heard afar—
It’s leaving thee,
my bonie Mary!
The Parting Kiss
Humid seal of soft affections,
Tenderest pledge of
future bliss,
Dearest tie of young
connections,
Love’s first snowdrop,
virgin kiss!
Speaking silence, dumb
confession,
Passion’s birth,
and infant’s play,
Dove-like fondness,
chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of future
day!
Sorrowing joy, Adieu’s
last action,
(Lingering lips must
now disjoin),
What words can ever
speak affection
So thrilling and sincere
as thine!
On Nithside
Thou whom chance may
hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet
weed,
Be thou deckt in silken
stole,
Grave these counsels
on thy soul.
Life is but a day at
most,
Sprung from night,—in
darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine ev’ry
hour,
Fear not clouds will
always lour.
As Youth and Love with
sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning
star advance,
Pleasure with her siren
air
May delude the thoughtless
pair;
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment’s
cup,
Then raptur’d
sip, and sip it up.
As thy day grows warm
and high,
Life’s meridian
flaming nigh,
Dost thou spurn the
humble vale?
Life’s proud summits
wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step,
elate,
Evils lurk in felon
wait:
Dangers, eagle-pinioned,
bold,
Soar around each cliffy
hold!
While cheerful Peace,
with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells
among.
As the shades of ev’ning
close,
Beck’ning thee
to long repose;
As life itself becomes
disease,
Seek the chimney-nook
of ease;
There ruminate with
sober thought,
On all thou’st
seen, and heard, and wrought,
And teach the sportive
younkers round,
Saws of experience,
sage and sound:
Say, man’s true,
genuine estimate,
The grand criterion
of his fate,
Is not,—Arth
thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb
or flow?
Did many talents gild
thy span?
Or frugal Nature grudge
thee one?
Tell them, and press
it on their mind,
As thou thyself must
shortly find,
The smile or frown of
awful Heav’n,
To virtue or to Vice
is giv’n,
Say, to be just, and
kind, and wise—
There solid self-enjoyment
lies;
That foolish, selfish,
faithless ways
Lead to be wretched,
vile, and base.
Thus resign’d
and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting
sleep,—
Sleep, whence thou shalt
ne’er awake,
Night, where dawn shall
never break,
Till future life, future
no more,
To light and joy the
good restore,
To light and joy unknown
before.
Stranger, go! Heav’n
be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of
Nithside.
The Poet’s Progress
A Poem In Embryo
Thou, Nature, partial
Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal
I complain.
The peopled fold thy
kindly care have found,
The horned bull, tremendous,
spurns the ground;
The lordly lion has
enough and more,
The forest trembles
at his very roar;
Thou giv’st the
ass his hide, the snail his shell,
The puny wasp, victorious,
guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings defend,
controul devour,
In all th’ omnipotence
of rule and power:
Foxes and statesmen
subtle wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat
stink, and are secure:
Toads with their poison,
doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog,
in their robes, are snug:
E’en silly women
have defensive arts,
Their eyes, their tongues—and
nameless other parts.
But O thou cruel stepmother
and hard,
To thy poor fenceless,
naked child, the Bard!
A thing unteachable
in worldly skill,
And half an idiot too,
more helpless still:
No heels to bear him
from the op’ning dun,
No claws to dig, his
hated sight to shun:
No horns, but those
by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not
Amalthea’s horn:
No nerves olfact’ry,
true to Mammon’s foot,
Or grunting, grub sagacious,
evil’s root:
The silly sheep that
wanders wild astray,
Is not more friendless,
is not more a prey;
Vampyre—booksellers
drain him to the heart,
And viper—critics
cureless venom dart.
Critics! appll’d
I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits
in the paths of fame,
Bloody dissectors, worse
than ten Monroes,
He hacks to teach, they
mangle to expose:
By blockhead’s
daring into madness stung,
His heart by wanton,
causeless malice wrung,
His well-won ways—than
life itself more dear—
By miscreants torn who
ne’er one sprig must wear;
Foil’d, bleeding,
tortur’d in th’ unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounces
on through life,
Till, fled each hope
that once his bosom fired,
And fled each Muse that
glorious once inspir’d,
Low-sunk in squalid,
unprotected age,
Dead even resentment
for his injur’d page,
He heeds no more the
ruthless critics’ rage.
So by some hedge the
generous steed deceas’d,
For half-starv’d,
snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and famine worn
to skin and bone,
Lies, senseless of each
tugging bitch’s son.
A little upright, pert,
tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious
self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart
shadow in the streets,
Better than e’er
the fairest she he meets;
Much specious lore,
but little understood,
(Veneering oft outshines
the solid wood),
His solid sense, by
inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning
by the Scottish ell!
A man of fashion too,
he made his tour,
* * * Crochallan came, The old cock’d hat, the brown surtout—the same; His grisly beard just bristling in its might— ’Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night; His uncomb’d, hoary 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.
O Dulness, portion of
the truly blest!
Calm, shelter’d
haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne’er
madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune’s polar
frost, or torrid beams;
If mantling high she
fills the golden cup,
With sober, selfish
ease they sip it up;
Conscious the bounteous
meed they well deserve,
They only wonder “some
folks” do not starve!
The grave, sage hern
thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard
a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment
snaps the thread of Hope,
When, thro’ disastrous
night, they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance
sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that
“fools are Fortune’s care:”
So, heavy, passive to
the tempest’s shocks,
Strong on the sign-post
stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses’
mad-cap train,
Not such the workings
of their moon-struck brain;
In equanimity they never
dwell,
By turns in soaring
heaven, or vaulted hell!
For lords or kings I
dinna mourn,
E’en let them
die—for that they’re born:
But oh! prodigious to
reflec’!
A Towmont, sirs, is
gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy
sma’ space,
What dire events hae
taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou
hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou
has left us!
The Spanish empire’s
tint a head,
And my auld teethless,
Bawtie’s dead:
The tulyie’s teugh
’tween Pitt and Fox,
And ’tween our
Maggie’s twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a
bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds
unco civil;
The tither’s something
dour o’ treadin,
But better stuff ne’er
claw’d a middin.
Ye ministers, come mount
the poupit,
An’ cry till ye
be hearse an’ roupit,
For Eighty-eight, he
wished you weel,
An’ gied ye a’
baith gear an’ meal;
E’en monc a plack,
and mony a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for
little feck!
Ye bonie lasses, dight
your e’en,
For some o’ you
hae tint a frien’;
In Eighty-eight, ye
ken, was taen,
What ye’ll ne’er
hae to gie again.
Observe the very nowt
an’ sheep,
How dowff an’
daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth
itsel’ does cry,
For E’nburgh wells
are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou’s
but a bairn,
An’ no owre auld,
I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy,
I pray tak care,
Thou now hast got thy
Daddy’s chair;
Nae handcuff’d,
mizl’d, hap-shackl’d Regent,
But, like himsel, a
full free agent,
Be sure ye follow out
the plan
Nae waur than he did,
honest man!
As muckle better as
you can.
January, 1, 1789.
The Henpecked Husband
Curs’d be the
man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal
to a tyrant wife!
Who has no will but
by her high permission,
Who has not sixpence
but in her possession;
Who must to he, his
dear friend’s secrets 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 bitch.
His face with smile
eternal drest,
Just like the Landlord’s
to his Guest’s,
High as they hang with
creaking din,
To index out the Country
Inn.
He looked just as your
sign-post Lions do,
With aspect fierce,
and quite as harmless too.
A head, pure, sinless
quite of brain and soul,
The very image of a
barber’s Poll;
It shews a human face,
and wears a wig,
And looks, when well
preserv’d, amazing big.
1789
Chorus.—Robin
shure in hairst,
I shure wi’ him.
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
I gaed up to Dunse,
To warp a wab o’
plaiden,
At his daddie’s
yett,
Wha met me but Robin:
Robin shure, &c.
Was na Robin bauld,
Tho’ I was a cotter,
Play’d me sic
a trick,
An’ me the El’er’s
dochter!
Robin shure, &c.
Robin promis’d
me
A’ my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but
three
Guse-feathers and a
whittle!
Robin shure, &c.
Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive
Dweller in yon dungeon
dark,
Hangman of creation!
mark,
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour’d
years,
Noosing with care a
bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly
curse?
Strophe
View the wither’d
Beldam’s face;
Can thy keen inspection
trace
Aught of Humanity’s
sweet, melting grace?
Note that eye, ’tis
rheum o’erflows;
Pity’s flood there
never rose,
See these hands ne’er
stretched to save,
Hands that took, but
never gave:
Keeper of Mammon’s
iron chest,
Lo, there she goes,
unpitied and unblest,
She goes, but not to
realms of everlasting rest!
Antistrophe
Plunderer of Armies!
lift thine eyes,
(A while forbear, ye
torturing fiends;)
Seest thou whose step,
unwilling, hither bends?
No fallen angel, hurl’d
from upper skies;
’Tis thy trusty
quondam Mate,
Doom’d to share
thy fiery fate;
She, tardy, hell-ward
plies.
Epode
And are they of no more
avail,
Ten thousand glittering
pounds a-year?
In other worlds can
Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is
here!
O, bitter mockery of
the pompous bier,
While down the wretched
Vital Part is driven!
The cave-lodged Beggar,with
a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown,
and goes to Heaven.
With Pegasus upon a
day,
Apollo, weary flying,
Through frosty hills
the journey lay,
On foot the way was
plying.
Poor slipshod giddy
Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo
goes,
To get a frosty caulker.
Obliging Vulcan fell
to work,
Threw by his coat and
bonnet,
And did Sol’s
business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a
sonnet.
Ye Vulcan’s sons
of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly
shod,
I’ll pay you like
my master.
Sappho Redivivus—A Fragment
By all I lov’d,
neglected and forgot,
No friendly face e’er
lights my squalid cot;
Shunn’d, hated,
wrong’d, unpitied, unredrest,
The mock’d quotation
of the scorner’s jest!
Ev’n the poor
support of my wretched life,
Snatched by the violence
of legal strife.
Oft grateful for my
very daily bread
To those my family’s
once large bounty fed;
A welcome inmate at
their homely fare,
My griefs, my woes,
my sighs, my tears they share:
(Their vulgar souls
unlike the souls refin’d,
The fashioned marble
of the polished mind).
In vain would Prudence,
with decorous sneer,
Point out a censuring
world, and bid me fear;
Above the world, on
wings of Love, I rise—
I know its worst, and
can that worst despise;
Let Prudence’
direst bodements on me fall,
M[ontgomer]y, rich reward,
o’erpays them all!
Mild zephyrs waft thee
to life’s farthest shore,
Nor think of me and
my distress more,—
Falsehood accurst!
No! still I beg a place,
Still near thy heart
some little, little trace:
For that dear trace
the world I would resign:
O let me live, and die,
and think it mine!
“I burn, I burn,
as when thro’ ripen’d corn
By driving winds the
crackling flames are borne;”
Now raving-wild, I curse
that fatal night,
Then bless the hour
that charm’d my guilty sight:
In vain the laws their
feeble force oppose,
Chain’d at Love’s
feet, they groan, his vanquish’d foes.
In vain Religion meets
my shrinking eye,
I dare not combat, but
I turn and fly:
Conscience in vain upbraids
th’ unhallow’d fire,
Love grasps her scorpions—stifled
they expire!
Reason drops headlong
from his sacred throne,
Your dear idea reigns,
and reigns alone;
Each thought intoxicated
homage yields,
And riots wanton in
forbidden fields.
By all on high adoring
mortals know!
By all the conscious
villain fears below!
By your dear self!—the
last great oath I swear,
Not life, nor soul,
were ever half so dear!
She’s fair and
fause that causes my smart,
I lo’ed her meikle
and lang;
She’s broken her
vow, she’s broken my heart,
And I may e’en
gae hang.
A coof cam in wi’
routh o’ gear,
And I hae tint my dearest
dear;
But Woman is but warld’s
gear,
Sae let the bonie lass
gang.
Whae’er ye be
that woman love,
To this be never blind;
Nae ferlie ‘tis
tho’ fickle she prove,
A woman has’t
by kind.
O Woman lovely, Woman
fair!
An angel form’s
faun to thy share,
’Twad been o’er
meikle to gi’en thee mair—
I mean an angel mind.
Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell
On Returning a Newspaper.
Your News and Review,
sir.
I’ve read through
and through, sir,
With little admiring
or blaming;
The Papers are barren
Of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes
worth the naming.
Our friends, the Reviewers,
Those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar
and stone, sir;
But of meet or unmeet,
In a fabric complete,
I’ll boldly pronounce
they are none, sir;
My goose-quill too rude
is
To tell all your goodness
Bestow’d on your
servant, the Poet;
Would to God I had one
Like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world,
sir, should know it!
Sent with some of the Author’s Poems.
O could I give thee
India’s wealth,
As I this trifle send;
Because thy joy in both
would be
To share them with a
friend.
But golden sands did
never grace
The Heliconian stream;
Then take what gold
could never buy—
An honest bard’s
esteem.
Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell
Dear, Sir, at ony time
or tide,
I’d rather sit
wi’ you than ride,
Though ‘twere
wi’ royal Geordie:
And trowth, your kindness,
soon and late,
Aft gars me to mysel’
look blate—
The Lord in Heav’n
reward ye!
R. Burns.
Ellisland.
Tune—“Caledonian Hunts’ Delight” of Mr. Gow.
There was once a day,
but old Time wasythen young,
That brave Caledonia,
the chief of her line,
From some of your northern
deities sprung,
(Who knows not that
brave Caledonia’s divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades
was her domain,
To hunt, or to pasture,
or do what she would:
Her heav’nly relations
there fixed her reign,
And pledg’d her
their godheads to warrant it good.
A lambkin in peace,
but a lion in war,
The pride of her kindred,
the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin,
triumphantly swore,—
“Whoe’er
shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue!”
With tillage or pasture
at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks
by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods
were her fav’rite resort,
Her darling amusement,
the hounds and the horn.
Long quiet she reigned;
till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles
from Adria’s strand:
Repeated, successive,
for many long years,
They darken’d
the air, and they plunder’d the land:
Their pounces were murder,
and terror their cry,
They’d conquer’d
and ruin’d a world beside;
She took to her hills,
and her arrows let fly,
The daring invaders
they fled or they died.
The Cameleon-Savage
disturb’d her repose,
With tumult, disquiet,
rebellion, and strife;
Provok’d beyond
bearing, at last she arose,
And robb’d him
at once of his hopes and his life:
The Anglian lion, the
terror of France,
Oft prowling, ensanguin’d
the Tweed’s silver flood;
But, taught by the bright
Caledonian lance,
He learned to fear in
his own native wood.
The fell Harpy-raven
took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas,
and the dread of the shore;
The wild Scandinavian
boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage
and wallow in gore:
O’er countries
and kingdoms their fury prevail’d,
No arts could appease
them, no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia
in vain they assail’d,
As Largs well can witness,
and Loncartie tell.
Thus bold, independent,
unconquer’d, and free,
Her bright course of
glory for ever shall run:
For brave Caledonia
immortal must be;
I’ll prove it
from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle—triangle,
the figure we’ll chuse:
The upright is Chance,
and old Time is the base;
But brave Caledonia’s
the hypothenuse;
Then, ergo, she’ll
match them, and match them always.
To Miss Cruickshank
A very Young Lady
Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by the Author.
Beauteous Rosebud, young
and gay,
Blooming in thy early
May,
Never may’st thou,
lovely flower,
Chilly shrink in sleety
shower!
Never Boreas’
hoary path,
Never Eurus’ pois’nous
breath,
Never baleful stellar
lights,
Taint thee with untimely
blights!
Never, never reptile
thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor even Sol too fiercely
view
Thy bosom blushing still
with dew!
May’st thou long,
sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native
stem;
Till some ev’ning,
sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing
balm,
While all around the
woodland rings,
And ev’ry bird
thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful
sound,
Shed thy dying honours
round,
And resign to parent
Earth
The loveliest form she
e’er gave birth.
Ye gallants bright,
I rede you right,
Beware o’ bonie
Ann;
Her comely face sae
fu’ o’ grace,
Your heart she will
trepan:
Her een sae bright,
like stars by night,
Her skin sae like the
swan;
Sae jimply lac’d
her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might
span.
Youth, Grace, and Love
attendant move,
And pleasure leads the
van:
In a’ their charms,
and conquering arms,
They wait on bonie Ann.
The captive bands may
chain the hands,
But love enslaves the
man:
Ye gallants braw, I
rede you a’,
Beware o’ bonie
Ann!
Ode On The Departed Regency Bill
(March, 1789)
Daughter of Chaos’
doting years,
Nurse of ten thousand
hopes and fears,
Whether thy airy, insubstantial
shade
(The rights of sepulture
now duly paid)
Spread abroad its hideous
form
On the roaring civil
storm,
Deafening din and warring
rage
Factions wild with factions
wage;
Or under-ground, deep-sunk,
profound,
Among the demons of
the earth,
With groans that make
the mountains shake,
Thou mourn thy ill-starr’d,
blighted birth;
Or in the uncreated
Void,
Where seeds of future
being fight,
With lessen’d
step thou wander wide,
Stare not on me, thou
ghastly Power!
Nor, grim with chained
defiance, lour:
No Babel-structure would
I build
Where, order exil’d
from his native sway,
Confusion may the regent-sceptre
wield,
While all would rule
and none obey:
Go, to the world of
man relate
The story of thy sad,
eventful fate;
And call presumptuous
Hope to hear
And bid him check his
blind career;
And tell the sore-prest
sons of Care,
Never, never to despair!
Paint Charles’
speed on wings of fire,
The object of his fond
desire,
Beyond his boldest hopes,
at hand:
Paint all the triumph
of the Portland Band;
Hark how they lift the
joy-elated voice!
And who are these that
equally rejoice?
Jews, Gentiles, what
a motley crew!
The iron tears their
flinty cheeks bedew;
See how unfurled the
parchment ensigns fly,
And Principal and Interest
all the cry!
And how their num’rous
creditors rejoice;
But just as hopes to
warm enjoyment rise,
Cry Convalescence! and
the vision flies.
Then next pourtray a
dark’ning twilight gloom,
Eclipsing sad a gay,
rejoicing morn,
While proud Ambition
to th’ untimely tomb
By gnashing, grim, despairing
fiends is borne:
Paint ruin, in the shape
of high D[undas]
Gaping with giddy terror
o’er the brow;
In vain he struggles,
the fates behind him press,
And clam’rous
hell yawns for her prey below:
How fallen That, whose
pride late scaled the skies!
And This, like Lucifer,
no more to rise!
Again pronounce the
powerful word;
See Day, triumphant
from the night, restored.
Then know this truth,
ye Sons of Men!
(Thus ends thy moral
tale,)
Your darkest terrors
may be vain,
Your brightest hopes
may fail.
Auld comrade dear, and
brither sinner,
How’s a’
the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blae
eastlin wind,
That’s like to
blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties
are frozen,
My dearest member nearly
dozen’d.
I’ve sent you
here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers
to glimpse on;
Smith, wi’ his
sympathetic feeling,
An’ Reid, to common
sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought
and wrangled,
An’ meikle Greek
an’ Latin mangled,
Till wi’ their
logic-jargon tir’d,
And in the depth of
science mir’d,
To common sense they
now appeal,
What wives and wabsters
see and feel.
But, hark ye, friend!
I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an’
return them quickly:
For now I’m grown
sae cursed douce
I pray and ponder butt
the house;
My shins, my lane, I
there sit roastin’,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown,
an’ Boston,
Till by an’ by,
if I haud on,
I’ll grunt a real
gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try
it,
To cast my e’en
up like a pyet,
When by the gun she
tumbles o’er
Flutt’ring an’
gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall
see me bright,
A burning an’
a shining light.
My heart-warm love to
guid auld Glen,
The ace an’ wale
of honest men:
When bending down wi’
auld grey hairs
Beneath the load of
years and cares,
May He who made him
still support him,
An’ views beyond
the grave comfort him;
His worthy fam’ly
far and near,
God bless them a’
wi’ grace and gear!
My auld schoolfellow,
Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason-billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish
him joy,
If he’s a parent,
lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg
the mither,
Just five-and-forty
years thegither!
And no forgetting wabster
Charlie,
I’m tauld he offers
very fairly.
An’ Lord, remember
singing Sannock,
Wi’ hale breeks,
saxpence, an’ a bannock!
And next, my auld acquaintance,
Nancy,
Since she is fitted
to her fancy,
An’ her kind stars
hae airted till her
gA guid chiel wi’
a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects,
I sen’ it,
To cousin Kate, an’
sister Janet:
Tell them, frae me,
wi’ chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they’ll
aiblins fin’ them fashious;
To grant a heart is
fairly civil,
But to grant a maidenhead’s
the devil.
An’ lastly, Jamie,
for yoursel,
May guardian angels
tak a spell,
An’ steer you
seven miles south o’ hell:
But first, before you
see heaven’s glory,
May ye get mony a merry
story,
Mony a laugh, and mony
a drink,
And aye eneugh o’
needfu’ clink.
Now fare ye weel, an’
joy be wi’ you:
For my sake, this I
beg it o’ you,
Assist poor Simson a’
ye can,
Ye’ll fin; him
just an honest man;
Sae I conclude, and
quat my chanter,
Your’s, saint
or sinner,
Rob the Ranter.
A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock
On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty’s Recovery.
O sing a new song to
the Lord,
Make, all and every
one,
A joyful noise, even
for the King
His restoration.
The sons of Belial in
the land
Did set their heads
together;
Come, let us sweep them
off, said they,
Like an o’erflowing
river.
They set their heads
together, I say,
They set their heads
together;
On right, on left, on
every hand,
We saw none to deliver.
Thou madest strong two
chosen ones
To quell the Wicked’s
pride;
That Young Man, great
in Issachar,
The burden-bearing tribe.
And him, among the Princes
chief
In our Jerusalem,
The judge that’s
mighty in thy law,
The man that fears thy
name.
Yet they, even they,
with all their strength,
Began to faint and fail:
Even as two howling,
ravenous wolves
To dogs do turn their
tail.
Th’ ungodly o’er
the just prevail’d,
For so thou hadst appointed;
That thou might’st
greater glory give
Unto thine own anointed.
And now thou hast restored
our State,
Pity our Kirk also;
For she by tribulations
Is now brought very
low.
Consume that high-place,
Patronage,
From off thy holy hill;
And in thy fury burn
the book—
Even of that man M’Gill.^1
Now hear our prayer,
accept our song,
And fight thy chosen’s
battle:
We seek but little,
Lord, from thee,
Thou kens we get as
little.
[Footnote 1: Dr. William M’Gill of Ayr, whose “Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ” led to a charge of heresy against him. Burns took up his cause in “The Kirk of Scotland’s Alarm” (p. 351).—Lang.]
Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.
How wisdom and Folly
meet, mix, and unite,
How Virtue and Vice
blend their black and their white,
How Genius, th’
illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law,
reconciles contradiction,
I sing: If these
mortals, the critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I—let
the Critics go whistle!
But now for a Patron
whose name and whose glory,
At once may illustrate
and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators,
first of our wits;
Yet whose parts and
acquirements seem just lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast,
and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half
of ’em e’er could go wrong;
With passions so potent,
and fancies so bright,
No man with the half
of ’em e’er could go right;
A sorry, poor, misbegot
son of the Muses,
For using thy name,
offers fifty excuses.
Good Lord, what is Man!
for as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop
his hooks and his crooks;
With his depths and
his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all he’s
a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion
Sir Pope hugely labours,
That, like th’
old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours:
Mankind are his show-box—a
friend, would you know him?
Pull the string, Ruling
Passion the picture will show him,
What pity, in rearing
so beauteous a system,
One trifling particular,
Truth, should have miss’d him;
For, spite of his fine
theoretic positions,
Mankind is a science
defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities
each to its tribe,
And think human nature
they truly describe;
Have you found this,
or t’other? There’s more in the wind;
As by one drunken fellow
his comrades you’ll find.
But such is the flaw,
or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that
wonderful creature called Man,
No two virtues, whatever
relation they claim.
Nor even two different
shades of the same,
Though like as was ever
twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall
imply you’ve the other.
But truce with abstraction,
and truce with a Muse
Whose rhymes you’ll
perhaps, Sir, ne’er deign to peruse:
Will you leave your
justings, your jars, and your quarrels,
Contending with Billy
for proud-nodding laurels?
My much-honour’d
Patron, believe your poor poet,
Your courage, much more
than your prudence, you show it:
In vain with Squire
Billy for laurels you struggle:
He’ll have them
by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle:
Not cabinets even of
kings would conceal ’em,
He’d up the back
stairs, and by God, he would steal ’em,
Then feats like Squire
Billy’s you ne’er can achieve ’em;
It is not, out-do him—the
task is, out-thieve him!
The Wounded Hare
Inhuman man! curse on
thy barb’rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming
eye;
May never pity soothe
thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad
thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wand’rer
of the wood and field!
The bitter little that
of life remains:
No more the thickening
brakes and verdant plains
To thee a home, or food,
or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch,
some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but
now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes
whistling o’er thy head,
The cold earth with
thy bloody bosom prest.
Perhaps a mother’s
anguish adds its woe;
The playful pair crowd
fondly by thy side;
Ah! helpless nurslings,
who will now provide
That life a mother only
can bestow!
Oft as by winding Nith
I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail
the cheerful dawn,
I’ll miss thee
sporting o’er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian’s
aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
“To the Editor of The Star.—Mr. Printer—If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from—Yours, &c., R. Burns.
Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.”
Fair the face of orient
day,
Fair the tints of op’ning
rose;
But fairer still my
Delia dawns,
More lovely far her
beauty shows.
Sweet the lark’s
wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill
to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful
still,
Steal thine accents
on mine ear.
The flower-enamour’d
busy bee
The rosy banquet loves
to sip;
Sweet the streamlet’s
limpid lapse
To the sun-brown’d
Arab’s lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy
lips
Let me, no vagrant insect,
rove;
O let me steal one liquid
kiss,
For Oh! my soul is parch’d
with love.
Tune—“The Gardener’s March.”
When rosy May comes
in wi’ flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading
bowers,
Then busy, busy are
his hours,
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
The crystal waters gently
fa’,
The merry bards are
lovers a’,
The scented breezes
round him blaw—
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
When purple morning
starts the hare
To steal upon her early
fare;
Then thro’ the
dews he maun repair—
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
When day, expiring in
the west,
The curtain draws o’
Nature’s rest,
He flies to her arms
he lo’es the best,
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
On A Bank Of Flowers
On a bank of flowers,
in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful, blooming
Nelly lay,
With love and sleep
opprest;
When Willie, wand’ring
thro’ the wood,
Who for her favour oft
had sued;
He gaz’d, he wish’d
He fear’d, he
blush’d,
And trembled where he
stood.
Her closed eyes, like
weapons sheath’d,
Were seal’d in
soft repose;
Her lip, still as she
fragrant breath’d,
It richer dyed the rose;
The springing lilies,
sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kissed her
rival breast;
He gaz’d, he wish’d,
He mear’d, he
blush’d,
His bosom ill at rest.
Her robes, light-waving
in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her
native ease,
All harmony and grace;
Tumultuous tides his
pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent
kiss he stole;
He gaz’d, he wish’d,
He fear’d, he
blush’d,
And sigh’d his
very soul.
As flies the partridge
from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting,
half-awake,
Away affrighted springs;
But Willie follow’d—as
he should,
He overtook her in the
wood;
He vow’d, he pray’d,
He found the maid
Forgiving all, and good.
Young Jockie was the
blythest lad,
In a’ our town
or here awa;
Fu’ blythe he
whistled at the gaud,
Fu’ lightly danc’d
he in the ha’.
He roos’d my een
sae bonie blue,
He roos’d my waist
sae genty sma’;
An’ aye my heart
cam to my mou’,
When ne’er a body
heard or saw.
My Jockie toils upon
the plain,
Thro’ wind and
weet, thro’ frost and snaw:
And o’er the lea
I leuk fu’ fain,
When Jockie’s
owsen hameward ca’.
An’ aye the night
comes round again,
When in his arms he
taks me a’;
An’ aye he vows
he’ll be my ain,
As lang’s he has
a breath to draw.
The Banks Of Nith
The Thames flows proudly
to the sea,
Where royal cities stately
stand;
But sweeter flows the
Nith to me,
Where Comyns ance had
high command.
When shall I see that
honour’d land,
That winding stream
I love so dear!
Must wayward Fortune’s
adverse hand
For ever, ever keep
me here!
How lovely, Nith, thy
fruitful vales,
Where bounding hawthorns
gaily bloom;
And sweetly spread thy
sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton
through the broom.
Tho’ wandering
now must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks
and braes,
May there my latest
hours consume,
Amang the friends of
early days!
Chorus.—Jamie,
come try me,
Jamie, come try me,
If thou would win my
love,
Jamie, come try me.
If thou should ask my
love,
Could I deny thee?
If thou would win my
love,
Jamie, come try me!
Jamie, come try me,
&c.
If thou should kiss
me, love,
Wha could espy thee?
If thou wad be my love,
Jamie, come try me!
Jamie, come try me,
&c.
I Love My Love In Secret
My Sandy gied to me
a ring,
Was a’ beset wi’
diamonds fine;
But I gied him a far
better thing,
I gied my heart in pledge
o’ his ring.
Chorus.—My
Sandy O, my Sandy O,
My bonie, bonie Sandy
O;
Tho’ the love
that I owe
To thee I dare na show,
Yet I love my love in
secret, my Sandy O.
My Sandy brak a piece
o’ gowd,
While down his cheeks
the saut tears row’d;
He took a hauf, and
gied it to me,
And I’ll keep
it till the hour I die.
My Sand O, &c.
O wilt thou go wi’
me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi’
me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a
horse, or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side,
O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I care na thy daddie,
his lands and his money,
I care na thy kin, sae
high and sae lordly;
But sae that thou’lt
hae me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie,
sweet Tibbie Dunbar.
The Captain’s Lady
Chorus.—O
mount and go, mount and make you ready,
O mount and go, and
be the Captain’s lady.
When the drums do beat,
and the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state,
and see thy love in battle:
When the drums do beat,
and the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state,
and see thy love in battle.
O mount and go, &c.
When the vanquish’d
foe sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we’ll
go, and in love enjoy it:
When the vanquish’d
foe sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we’ll
go, and in love enjoy it.
O mount and go, &c.
John Anderson, my jo,
John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like
the raven,
Your bonie brow was
brent;
But now your brow is
beld, John,
Your locks are like
the snaw;
But blessings on your
frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo,
John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day,
John,
We’ve had wi’
ane anither:
Now we maun totter down,
John,
And hand in hand we’ll
go,
And sleep thegither
at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
My Love, She’s But A Lassie Yet
My love, she’s
but a lassie yet,
My love, she’s
but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her
stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half
sae saucy yet;
I rue the day I sought
her, O!
I rue the day I sought
her, O!
Wha gets her needs na
say she’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s
bought her, O.
Come, draw a drap o’
the best o’t yet,
Come, draw a drap o’
the best o’t yet,
Gae seek for pleasure
whare you will,
But here I never miss’d
it yet,
We’re a’
dry wi’ drinkin o’t,
We’re a’
dry wi’ drinkin o’t;
The minister kiss’d
the fiddler’s wife;
He could na preach for
thinkin o’t.
My heart is a-breaking,
dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me
come len’,
To anger them a’
is a pity,
But what will I do wi’
Tam Glen?
I’m thinking,
wi’ sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might
mak a fen;
What care I in riches
to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam
Glen!
There’s Lowrie
the Laird o’ Dumeller—
“Gude day to you,
brute!” he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws
o’ his siller,
But when will he dance
like Tam Glen!
My minnie does constantly
deave me,
And bids me beware o’
young men;
They flatter, she says,
to deceive me,
But wha can think sae
o’ Tam Glen!
My daddie says, gin
I’ll forsake him,
He’d gie me gude
hunder marks ten;
But, if it’s ordain’d
I maun take him,
O wha will I get but
Tam Glen!
Yestreen at the Valentine’s
dealing,
My heart to my mou’
gied a sten’;
For thrice I drew ane
without failing,
And thrice it was written
“Tam Glen”!
The last Halloween I
was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve,
as ye ken,
His likeness came up
the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks
o’ Tam Glen!
Come, counsel, dear
Tittie, don’t tarry;
I’ll gie ye my
bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me
to marry
The lad I lo’e
dearly, Tam Glen.
Carle, An The King Come
Chorus.—Carle,
an the King come,
Carle, an the King come,
Thou shalt dance and
I will sing,
Carle, an the King come.
An somebody were come
again,
Then somebody maun cross
the main,
And every man shall
hae his ain,
Carle, an the King come.
Carle, an the King come,
&c.
I trow we swapped for
the worse,
We gae the boot and
better horse;
And that we’ll
tell them at the cross,
Carle, an the King come.
Carle, an the King come,
&c.
Coggie, an the King
come,
Coggie, an the King
come,
I’se be fou, and
thou’se be toom
Coggie, an the King
come.
Coggie, an the King
come, &c.
The Laddie’s Dear Sel’
There’s a youth
in this city, it were a great pity
That he from our lassies
should wander awa’;
For he’s bonie
and braw, weel-favor’d witha’,
An’ his hair has
a natural buckle an’ a’.
His coat is the hue
o’ his bonnet sae blue,
His fecket is white
as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae,
and his shoon like the slae,
And his clear siller
buckles, they dazzle us a’.
For beauty and fortune
the laddie’s been courtin;
Weel-featur’d,
weel-tocher’d, weel-mounted an’ braw;
But chiefly the siller
that gars him gang till her,
The penny’s the
jewel that beautifies a’.
There’s Meg wi’
the mailen that fain wad a haen him,
And Susie, wha’s
daddie was laird o’ the Ha’;
There’s lang-tocher’d
Nancy maist fetters his fancy,
—But the
laddie’s dear sel’, he loes dearest of
a’.
First when Maggie was
my care,
Heav’n, I thought,
was in her air,
Now we’re married—speir
nae mair,
But whistle o’er
the lave o’t!
Meg was meek, and Meg
was mild,
Sweet and harmless as
a child—
Wiser men than me’s
beguil’d;
Whistle o’er the
lave o’t!
How we live, my Meg
and me,
How we love, and how
we gree,
I care na by how few
may see—
Whistle o’er the
lave o’t!
Wha I wish were maggot’s
meat,
Dish’d up in her
winding-sheet,
I could write—but
Meg maun see’t—
Whistle o’er the
lave o’t!
My Eppie Adair
Chorus.—An’
O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie,
Wha wad na be happy
wi’ Eppie Adair?
By love, and by beauty,
by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to
my Eppie Adair!
By love, and by beauty,
by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to
my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.
A’ pleasure exile
me, dishonour defile me,
If e’er I beguile
ye, my Eppie Adair!
A’ pleasure exile
me, dishonour defile me,
If e’er I beguile
thee, my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.
Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom
Hear, Land o’
Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie
Groat’s;—
If there’s a hole
in a’ your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chield’s amang
you takin notes,
And, faith, he’ll
prent it:
If in your bounds ye
chance to light
Upon a fine, fat fodgel
wight,
O’ stature short,
but genius bright,
That’s he, mark
weel;
And wow! he has an unco
sleight
O’ cauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted
biggin,
Or kirk deserted by
its riggin,
It’s ten to ane
ye’ll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,
Wi’ deils, they
say, Lord save’s! colleaguin
At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts
auld ha’ or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal
in glamour,
And you, deep-read in
hell’s black grammar,
Warlocks and witches,
Ye’ll quake at
his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight bitches.
It’s tauld he
was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa’n
than fled;
But now he’s quat
the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And taen the—Antiquarian
trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o’
auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and
jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians
three in tackets,
A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and
auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
Of Eve’s first
fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain’s
fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished
the gender
O’ Balaam’s
ass:
A broomstick o’
the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi’
brass.
Forbye, he’ll
shape you aff fu’ gleg
The cut of Adam’s
philibeg;
The knife that nickit
Abel’s craig
He’ll prove you
fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in
his glee,
For meikle glee and
fun has he,
Then set him down, and
twa or three
Gude fellows wi’
him:
And port, O port! shine
thou a wee,
And Then ye’ll
see him!
Now, by the Pow’rs
o’ verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield,
O Grose!—
Whae’er o’
thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca’
thee;
I’d take the rascal
by the nose,
Wad say, “Shame
fa’ thee!”
Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary
The Devil got notice
that Grose was a-dying
So whip! at the summons,
old Satan came flying;
But when he approached
where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post
with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonish’d, confounded,
cries Satan—“By God,
I’ll want him,
ere I take such a damnable load!”
A Ballad.
Tune—“Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!”
Orthodox! orthodox,
who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm
to your conscience:
A heretic blast has
been blown in the West,
“That what is
no sense must be nonsense,”
Orthodox! That
what is no sense must be nonsense.
Doctor Mac! Doctor
Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers
wi’ terror:
To join Faith and Sense,
upon any pretence,
Was heretic, damnable
error,
Doctor Mac!^1 ’Twas
heretic, damnable error.
Town of Ayr! town of
Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi’
mischief a-brewing,^2
Provost John^3 is still
deaf to the Church’s relief,
And Orator Bob^4 is
its ruin,
Town of Ayr! Yes,
Orator Bob is its ruin.
D’rymple mild!
D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s
like a child,
And your life like the
new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save
you, auld Satan must have you,
For preaching that three’s
ane an’ twa,
D’rymple mild!^5
For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.
Rumble John! rumble
John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with
heresy cramm’d;
Then out wi’ your
ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev’ry
note of the damn’d.
Rumble John!^6 And roar
ev’ry note of the damn’d.
[Footnote 1: Dr. M’Gill, Ayr.—R.B,]
[Footnote 2: See the advertisement.—R.B.]
[Footnote 3: John Ballantine,—R.B.]
[Footnote 4: Robert Aiken.—R.B.]
[Footnote 5: Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.—R.B.]
[Footnote 6: John Russell, Kilmarnock.—R.B.]
Simper James! simper
James, leave your fair Killie dames,
There’s a holier
chase in your view:
I’ll lay on your
head, that the pack you’ll soon lead,
For puppies like you
there’s but few,
Simper James!^7 For
puppies like you there’s but few.
Singet Sawnie! singet
Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what evils
await?
With a jump, yell, and
howl, alarm ev’ry soul,
For the foul thief is
just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie!^8 For
the foul thief is just at your gate.
Poet Willie! poet Willie,
gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi’ your “Liberty’s
Chain” and your wit;
O’er Pegasus’
side ye ne’er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the
place where he sh—t.
Poet Willie!^9 Ye but
smelt man, the place where he sh—t.
Barr Steenie! Barr
Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mair
wi’ the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
to havins and sense,
Wi’ people that
ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie!^10 Wi’people
that ken ye nae better.
Jamie Goose! Jamie
Goose, ye made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked
Lieutenant;
But the Doctor’s
your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark,
He has cooper’d
an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t,
Jamie Goose!^11 He has
cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t.
Davie Bluster!
Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice
o’ recruits;
[Footnote 7: James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.—R.B.]
[Footnote 8: Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.—R.B.]
[Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the “Centenary of the Revolution,” in which was the line: “And bound in Liberty’s endering chain.”—R.B.]
[Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr.—R.B.]
[Footnote 11: James
Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been
foiled in an ecclesiastical
prosecution against a Lieutenant
Mitchel—R.B.]
Yet to worth let’s
be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the
king o’ the brutes,
Davie Bluster!^12 If
the Ass were the king o’ the brutes.
Irvine Side! Irvine
Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma’
is your share:
Ye’ve the figure,
’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow,
And your friends they
dare grant you nae mair,
Irvine Side!^13 And
your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock! muirland
Jock, when the Lord makes a rock,
To crush common-sense
for her sins;
If ill-manners were
wit, there’s no mortal so fit
To confound the poor
Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock!^14 To
confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Andro Gowk! Andro
Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An’ the Book nought
the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho’ ye’re
rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’
wig,
An’ ye’ll
hae a calf’s—had o’ sma’
value,
Andro Gowk!^15 Ye’ll
hae a calf’s head o’ sma value.
Daddy Auld! daddy Auld,
there’a a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than
the clerk;
Tho’ ye do little
skaith, ye’ll be in at the death,
For gif ye canna bite,
ye may bark,
Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye
canna bite, ye may bark.
Holy Will! holy Will,
there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer’d
the alms o’ the poor;
The timmer is scant
when ye’re taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in
a rape for an hour,
Holy Will!^17 Ye should
swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin’s sons!
Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never
can need;
[Footnote 12: David Grant, Ochiltree.—R.B.]
[Footnote 13: George Smith, Galston.—R.B.]
[Footnote 14: John Shepherd Muirkirk.—R.B.]
[Footnote 15: Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.—R.B.]
[Footnote 16: William
Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see
“Holy Willie"s
prayer.—R.B.]
[Footnote 17: Vide the “Prayer” of this saint.—R.B.]
Your hearts are the
stuff will be powder enough,
And your skulls are
a storehouse o’ lead,
Calvin’s sons!
Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead.
Poet Burns! poet Burns,
wi’ your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld
native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy,
yet were she e’en tipsy,
She could ca’us
nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She
could ca’us nae waur than we are.
Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents
Factor John! Factor
John, whom the Lord made alone,
And ne’er made
anither, thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the
Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this
token sincere,
Factor John! He
presents thee this token sincere.
Afton’s Laird!
Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared,
A copy of this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score
as I mention’d before,
To that trusty auld
worthy, Clackleith,
Afton’s Laird!
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.
10 Aug., 1979.
Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry.
I call no Goddess to
inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit
a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my
ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute
of my heart returns,
For boons accorded,
goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer,
as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou
other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling
stars of night!
If aught that giver
from my mind efface,
If I that giver’s
bounty e’er disgrace,
Then roll to me along
your wand’rig spheres,
Only to number out a
villain’s years!
I lay my hand upon my
swelling breast,
And grateful would,
but cannot speak the rest.
Extemporaneous Effusion
On being appointed to an Excise division.
Searching auld wives’
barrels,
Ochon the day!
That clarty barm should
stain my laurels:
But—what’ll
ye say?
These movin’ things
ca’d wives an’ weans,
Wad move the very hearts
o’ stanes!
O Willie brew’d
a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allen cam
to see;
Three blyther hearts,
that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.
Chorus.—We
are na fou, we’re nae that fou,
But just a drappie in
our ee;
The cock may craw, the
day may daw
And aye we’ll
taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three
merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow
are we;
And mony a night we’ve
merry been,
And mony mae we hope
to be!
We are na fou, &c.
It is the moon, I ken
her horn,
That’s blinkin’
in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright
to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she’ll
wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.
Wha first shall rise
to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun
is he!
Wha first beside his
chair shall fa’,
He is the King amang
us three.
We are na fou, &c.
[Footnote 1: Willie
is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing—
master. The scene
is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of
the Lowes. Date,
August—September, 1789.—Lang.]
Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes
Chorus.—Ca’
the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where
the heather grows,
Ca’ them where
the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd
lad:
He row’d me sweetly
in his plaid,
And he ca’d me
his dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Will ye gang down the
water-side,
And see the waves sae
sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading
wide,
The moon it shines fu’
clearly.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Ye sall get gowns and
ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon
your feet,
And in my arms ye’se
lie and sleep,
An’ ye sall be
my dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
If ye’ll but stand
to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’
thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in
your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
While waters wimple
to the sea,
While day blinks in
the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death
sall blin’ my e’e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
I gaed a waefu’
gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I’ll
dearly rue;
I gat my death frae
twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o’bonie
blue.
’Twas not her
golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses
wat wi’ dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white—
It was her een sae bonie
blue.
She talk’d, she
smil’d, my heart she wyl’d;
She charm’d my
soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound,
the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een so
bonie blue.
But “spare to
speak, and spare to speed;”
She’ll aiblins
listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I’ll
lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie
blue.
Highland Harry Back Again
My Harry was a gallant
gay,
Fu’ stately strade
he on the plain;
But now he’s banish’d
far away,
I’ll never see
him back again.
Chorus.—O
for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s
land
For Highland Harry back
again.
When a’ the lave
gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the
glen;
I set me down and greet
my fill,
And aye I wish him back
again.
O for him, &c.
O were some villains
hangit high,
And ilka body had their
ain!
Then I might see the
joyfu’ sight,
My Highland Harry back
again.
O for him, &c.
Tune—“The Cameronian Rant.”
“O cam ye here
the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi’
me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see,
man?”
I saw the battle, sair
and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony
a sheugh;
My heart, for fear,
gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and
see the cluds
O’ clans frae
woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum’d at
kingdoms three, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The red-coat lads, wi’
black cockauds,
To meet them were na
slaw, man;
They rush’d and
push’d, and blude outgush’d
And mony a bouk did
fa’, man:
The great Argyle led
on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty
miles;
They hough’d the
clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack’d and
hash’d, while braid-swords, clash’d,
And thro’ they
dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d,
Till fey men died awa,
man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
But had ye seen the
philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews,
man;
When in the teeth they
dar’d our Whigs,
And covenant True-blues,
man:
In lines extended lang
and large,
When baiginets o’erpower’d
the targe,
And thousands hasten’d
to the charge;
Wi’ Highland wrath
they frae the sheath
Drew blades o’
death, till, out o’ breath,
They fled like frighted
dows, man!
La, la, la, la, &c.
“O how deil, Tam,
can that be true?
The chase gaed frae
the north, man;
I saw mysel, they did
pursue,
The horsemen back to
Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in
my ain sight,
They took the brig wi’
a’ their might,
And straught to Stirling
wing’d their flight;
But, cursed lot! the
gates were shut;
And mony a huntit poor
red-coat,
For fear amaist did
swarf, man!”
La, la, la, la, &c.
My sister Kate cam up
the gate
Wi’ crowdie unto
me, man;
She swoor she saw some
rebels run
To Perth unto Dundee,
man;
Their left-hand general
had nae skill;
The Angus lads had nae
gude will
That day their neibors’
blude to spill;
For fear, for foes,
that they should lose
Their cogs o’
brose; they scar’d at blows,
And hameward fast did
flee, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
They’ve lost some
gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans,
man!
I fear my Lord Panmure
is slain,
Or fallen in Whiggish
hands, man,
Now wad ye sing this
double fight,
Some fell for wrang,
and some for right;
But mony bade the world
gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how
pell and mell,
By red claymores, and
muskets knell,
Wi’ dying yell,
the Tories fell,
And Whigs to hell did
flee, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The Braes O’ Killiecrankie
Where hae ye been sae
braw, lad?
Whare hae ye been sae
brankie, O?
Whare hae ye been sae
braw, lad?
Cam ye by Killiecrankie,
O?
Chorus.—An
ye had been whare I hae been,
Ye wad na been sae cantie,
O;
An ye had seen what
I hae seen,
I’ the Braes o’
Killiecrankie, O.
I faught at land, I
faught at sea,
At hame I faught my
Auntie, O;
But I met the devil
an’ Dundee,
On the Braes o’
Killiecrankie, O.
An ye had been, &c.
The bauld Pitcur fell
in a furr,
An’ Clavers gat
a clankie, O;
Or I had fed an Athole
gled,
On the Braes o’
Killiecrankie, O.
An ye had been, &c.
Awa’ Whigs, Awa’
Chorus.—Awa’
Whigs, awa’!
Awa’ Whigs, awa’!
Ye’re but a pack
o’ traitor louns,
Ye’ll do nae gude
at a’.
Our thrissles flourish’d
fresh and fair,
And bonie bloom’d
our roses;
But Whigs cam’
like a frost in June,
An’ wither’d
a’ our posies.
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Our ancient crown’s
fa’en in the dust—
Deil blin’ them
wi’ the stoure o’t!
An’ write their
names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the
power o’t.
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Our sad decay in church
and state
Surpasses my descriving:
The Whigs cam’
o’er us for a curse,
An’ we hae done
wi’ thriving.
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Grim vengeance lang
has taen a nap,
But we may see him wauken:
Gude help the day when
royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Whare are you gaun,
my bonie lass,
Whare are you gaun,
my hinnie?
She answered me right
saucilie,
“An errand for
my minnie.”
O whare live ye, my
bonie lass,
O whare live ye, my
hinnie?
“By yon burnside,
gin ye maun ken,
In a wee house wi’
my minnie.”
But I foor up the glen
at e’en.
To see my bonie lassie;
And lang before the
grey morn cam,
She was na hauf sae
saucie.
O weary fa’ the
waukrife cock,
And the foumart lay
his crawin!
He wauken’d the
auld wife frae her sleep,
A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat
she raise,
And o’er the bed
she brocht her;
And wi’ a meikle
hazel rung
She made her a weel-pay’d
dochter.
O fare thee weel, my
bonie lass,
O fare thee well, my
hinnie!
Thou art a gay an’
a bonnie lass,
But thou has a waukrife
minnie.
The Captive Ribband
Tune—“Robaidh dona gorach.”
Dear Myra, the captive
ribband’s mine,
’Twas all my faithful
love could gain;
And would you ask me
to resign
The sole reward that
crowns my pain?
Go, bid the hero who
has run
Thro’ fields of
death to gather fame,
Go, bid him lay his
laurels down,
And all his well-earn’d
praise disclaim.
The ribband shall its
freedom lose—
Lose all the bliss it
had with you,
And share the fate I
would impose
On thee, wert thou my
captive too.
It shall upon my bosom
live,
Or clasp me in a close
embrace;
And at its fortune if
you grieve,
Retrieve its doom, and
take its place.
Tune—“Failte na Miosg.”
Farewell to the Highlands,
farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour,
the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever
I rove,
The hills of the Highlands
for ever I love.
Chorus.—My
heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in
the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer,
and following the roe,
My heart’s in
the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains,
high-cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths
and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests
and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents
and loud-pouring floods.
My heart’s in
the Highlands, &c.
The Whistle—A Ballad
I sing of a Whistle,
a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle,
the pride of the North.
Was brought to the court
of our good Scottish King,
And long with this Whistle
all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda, still rueing
the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle
sends down from his hall—
“The Whistle’s
your challenge, to Scotland get o’er,
And drink them to hell,
Sir! or ne’er see me more!”
Old poets have sung,
and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur’d,
what champions fell:
The son of great Loda
was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle
their requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord
of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch’d at the
bottle, unconquer’d in war,
He drank his poor god-ship
as deep as the sea;
No tide of the Baltic
e’er drunker than he.
Thus Robert, victorious,
the trophy has gain’d;
Which now in his house
has for ages remain’d;
Till three noble chieftains,
and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again
have renew’d.
Three joyous good fellows,
with hearts clear of flaw
Craigdarroch, so famous
for with, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel,
so skill’d in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert,
deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began,
with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Downrightly
to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster
the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret,
try which was the man.
“By the gods of
the ancients!” Downrightly replies,
“Before I surrender
so glorious a prize,
I’ll conjure the
ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn
with him twenty times o’er.”
Sir Robert, a soldier,
no speech would pretend,
But he ne’er turn’d
his back on his foe, or his friend;
Said, “Toss down
the Whistle, the prize of the field,”
And, knee-deep in claret,
he’d die ere he’d yield.
To the board of Glenriddel
our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning
of sorrow and care;
But, for wine and for
welcome, not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit,
and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.
A bard was selected
to witness the fray,
And tell future ages
the feats of the day;
A Bard who detested
all sadness and spleen,
And wish’d that
Parnassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over,
the claret they ply,
And ev’ry new
cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old
friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the
tighter the more they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot
as bumpers ran o’er:
Bright Phoebus ne’er
witness’d so joyous a core,
And vow’d that
to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted
he’d see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece
had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert,
to finish the fight,
Turn’d o’er
in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore ’twas
the way that their ancestor did.
Then worthy Glenriddel,
so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare
ungodly would wage;
A high Ruling Elder
to wallow in wine;
He left the foul business
to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert
fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate
and quart bumpers contend!
Though Fate said, a
hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus—and
down fell the knight.
Next uprose our Bard,
like a prophet in drink:—
“Craigdarroch,
thou’lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish
immortal in rhyme,
Come—one
bottle more—and have at the sublime!
“Thy line, that
have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots
ever produce:
So thine be the laurel,
and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast
won, by yon bright god of day!”
Thou ling’ring
star, with lessening ray,
That lov’st to
greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st
in the day
My Mary from my soul
was torn.
O Mary! dear departed
shade!
Where is thy place of
blissful rest?
See’st thou thy
lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the
groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can
I forget,
Can I forget the hallow’d
grove,
Where, by the winding
Ayr, we met,
To live one day of parting
love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of
transports past,
Thy image at our last
embrace,
Ah! little thought we
’twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d
his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with
wild-woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and
hawthorn hoar,
’Twin’d
amorous round the raptur’d scene:
The flowers sprang wanton
to be prest,
The birds sang love
on every spray;
Till too, too soon,
the glowing west,
Proclaim’d the
speed of winged day.
Still o’er these
scenes my mem’ry wakes,
And fondly broods with
miser-care;
Time but th’ impression
stronger makes,
As streams their channels
deeper wear,
My Mary! dear departed
shade!
Where is thy blissful
place of rest?
See’st thou thy
lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the
groans that rend his breast?
Epistle To Dr. Blacklock
Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789.
Wow, but your letter
made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and
weel and cantie?
I ken’d it still,
your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you aye as
weel’s I want ye!
And then ye’ll
do.
The ill-thief blaw the
Heron south!
And never drink be near
his drouth!
He tauld myself by word
o’ mouth,
He’d tak my letter;
I lippen’d to
the chiel in trouth,
And bade nae better.
But aiblins, honest
Master Heron
Had, at the time, some
dainty fair one
To ware this theologic
care on,
And holy study;
And tired o’ sauls
to waste his lear on,
E’en tried the
body.
But what d’ye
think, my trusty fere,
I’m turned a gauger—Peace
be here!
Parnassian queans, I
fear, I fear,
Ye’ll now disdain
me!
And then my fifty pounds
a year
Will little gain me.
Ye glaikit, gleesome,
dainty damies,
Wha, by Castalia’s
wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave
your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity
supreme is
‘Mang sons o’
men.
I hae a wife and twa
wee laddies;
They maun hae brose
and brats o’ duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart
right proud is—
I need na vaunt
But I’ll sned
besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.
Lord help me thro’
this warld o’ care!
I’m weary sick
o’t late and air!
Not but I hae a richer
share
Than mony ithers;
But why should ae man
better fare,
And a’ men brithers?
Come, Firm Resolve,
take thou the van,
Thou stalk o’
carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint
heart ne’er wan
A lady fair:
Wha does the utmost
that he can,
Will whiles do mair.
But to conclude my silly
rhyme
(I’m scant o’
verse and scant o’ time),
To make a happy fireside
clime
To weans and wife,
That’s the true
pathos and sublime
Of human life.
My compliments to sister
Beckie,
And eke the same to
honest Lucky;
I wat she is a daintie
chuckie,
As e’er tread
clay;
And gratefully, my gude
auld cockie,
I’m yours for
aye.
Robert Burns.
An Election Ballad.
Tune—“Chevy Chase.”
There was five Carlins
in the South,
They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to London
town,
To bring them tidings
hame.
Nor only bring them
tidings hame,
But do their errands
there,
And aiblins gowd and
honor baith
Might be that laddie’s
share.
There was Maggy by the
banks o’ Nith,
A dame wi’ pride
eneugh;
And Marjory o’
the mony Lochs,
A Carlin auld and teugh.
And blinkin Bess of
Annandale,
That dwelt near Solway-side;
And whisky Jean, that
took her gill,
In Galloway sae wide.
And auld black Joan
frae Crichton Peel,^1
O’ gipsy kith
an’ kin;
Five wighter Carlins
were na found
The South countrie within.
To send a lad to London
town,
They met upon a day;
And mony a knight, and
mony a laird,
This errand fain wad
gae.
O mony a knight, and
mony a laird,
This errand fain wad
gae;
But nae ane could their
fancy please,
O ne’er a ane
but twae.
The first ane was a
belted Knight,
Bred of a Border band;^2
And he wad gae to London
town,
Might nae man him withstand.
And he wad do their
errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the
court
Wad bid to him gude-day.
[Footnote 1: Sanquhar.]
[Footnote 2: Sir James Johnston of Westerhall.]
The neist cam in a Soger
youth,^3
Who spak wi’ modest
grace,
And he wad gae to London
town,
If sae their pleasure
was.
He wad na hecht them
courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an
honest heart,
Wad ne’er desert
his friend.
Now, wham to chuse,
and wham refuse,
At strife thir Carlins
fell;
For some had Gentlefolks
to please,
And some wad please
themsel’.
Then out spak mim-mou’d
Meg o’ Nith,
And she spak up wi’
pride,
And she wad send the
Soger youth,
Whatever might betide.
For the auld Gudeman
o’ London court^4
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the
Soger youth,
To greet his eldest
son.^5
Then up sprang Bess
o’ Annandale,
And a deadly aith she’s
ta’en,
That she wad vote the
Border Knight,
Though she should vote
her lane.
“For far-off fowls
hae feathers fair,
And fools o’ change
are fain;
But I hae tried the
Border Knight,
And I’ll try him
yet again.”
Says black Joan frae
Crichton Peel,
A Carlin stoor and grim.
“The auld Gudeman
or young Gudeman,
For me may sink or swim;
[Footnote 3: Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton.]
[Footnote 4: The King.]
[Footnote 5: The Prince of Wales.]
For fools will prate
o’ right or wrang,
While knaves laugh them
to scorn;
But the Soger’s
friends hae blawn the best,
So he shall bear the
horn.”
Then whisky Jean spak
owre her drink,
“Ye weel ken,
kimmers a’,
The auld gudeman o’
London court,
His back’s been
at the wa’;
“And mony a friend
that kiss’d his caup
Is now a fremit wight;
But it’s ne’er
be said o’ whisky Jean—
We’ll send the
Border Knight.”
Then slow raise Marjory
o’ the Lochs,
And wrinkled was her
brow,
Her ancient weed was
russet gray,
Her auld Scots bluid
was true;
“There’s
some great folk set light by me,
I set as light by them;
But I will send to London
town
Wham I like best at
hame.”
Sae how this mighty
plea may end,
Nae mortal wight can
tell;
God grant the King and
ilka man
May look weel to himsel.
Election Ballad For Westerha’
Tune—“Up and waur them a’, Willie.”
The Laddies by the banks
o’ Nith
Wad trust his Grace^1
wi a’, Jamie;
But he’ll sair
them, as he sair’d the King—
Turn tail and rin awa’,
Jamie.
[Footnote 1: The
fourth Duke of Queensberry, who supported the
proposal that, during
George III’s illness, the Prince of Wales
should assume the Government
with full prerogative.]
Chorus.—Up
and waur them a’, Jamie,
Up and waur them a’;
The Johnstones hae the
guidin o’t,
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa’!
The day he stude his
country’s friend,
Or gied her faes a claw,
Jamie,
Or frae puir man a blessin
wan,
That day the Duke ne’er
saw, Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
But wha is he, his country’s
boast?
Like him there is na
twa, Jamie;
There’s no a callent
tents the kye,
But kens o’ Westerha’,
Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
To end the wark, here’s
Whistlebirk,
Lang may his whistle
blaw, Jamie;
And Maxwell true, o’
sterling blue;
And we’ll be Johnstones
a’, Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
On New Year’s Day Evening, 1790.
No song nor dance I
bring from yon great city,
That queens it o’er
our taste—the more’s the pity:
Tho’ by the bye,
abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste
are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric
I appear,
I come to wish you all
a good New Year!
Old Father Time deputes
me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but
tell his simple story:
The sage, grave Ancient
cough’d, and bade me say,
“You’re
one year older this important day,”
If wiser too—he
hinted some suggestion,
But ’twould be
rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be
roguish leer and wink,
Said—“Sutherland,
in one word, bid them Think!”
Ye sprightly youths,
quite flush with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the
world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has
a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious,
proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid
your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow
is ever half the battle;
That tho’ some
by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the foreclock
is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing,
suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles
by persevering.
Last, tho’ not
least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high
Heaven’s peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate
smoothes his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you’ll
mind the important—Now!
To crown your happiness
he asks your leave,
And offers, bliss to
give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho’
haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride
we own your many favours;
And howsoe’er
our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing
bosoms truly feel it.
1790
Sketch—New Year’s Day [1790]
To Mrs. Dunlop.
This day, Time winds
th’ exhausted chain;
To run the twelvemonth’s
length again:
I see, the old bald-pated
fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion
sallow,
Adjust the unimpair’d
machine,
To wheel the equal,
dull routine.
The absent lover, minor
heir,
In vain assail him with
their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he
sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one
moment less,
Will you (the Major’s
with the hounds,
The happy tenants share
his rounds;
Coila’s fair Rachel’s
care to-day,
And blooming Keith’s
engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares
a minute borrow,
(That grandchild’s
cap will do to-morrow,)
And join with me a-moralizing;
This day’s propitious
to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight
deliver?
“Another year
has gone for ever.”
And what is this day’s
strong suggestion?
“The passing moment’s
all we rest on!”
Since then, my honour’d
first of friends,
On this poor being all
depends,
Let us th’ important
now employ,
And live as those who
never die.
Tho’ you, with
days and honours crown’d,
Witness that filial
circle round,
(A sight life’s
sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to
convulse),
Others now claim your
chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your
bright reward.
On his Benefit-Night, at the Theatre, Dumfries.
What needs this din
about the town o’ Lon’on,
How this new play an’
that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff
sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend,
like brandy, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning
keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs
and plays at hame?
For Comedy abroad he
need to toil,
A fool and knave are
plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as
far as Rome or Greece,
To gather matter for
a serious piece;
There’s themes
enow in Caledonian story,
Would shew the Tragic
Muse in a’ her glory.—
Is there no daring Bard
will rise and tell
How glorious Wallace
stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses
fled that could produce
A drama worthy o’
the name o’ Bruce?
How here, even here,
he first unsheath’d the sword
’Gainst mighty
England and her guilty Lord;
And after mony a bloody,
deathless doing,
Wrench’d his dear
country from the jaws of Ruin!
O for a Shakespeare,
or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely,
hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th’ omnipotence
of female charms
’Gainst headlong,
ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms:
She fell, but fell with
spirit truly Roman,
To glut that direst
foe—a vengeful woman;
A woman, (tho’
the phrase may seem uncivil,)
As able and as wicked
as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in
Home’s immortal page,
But Douglasses were
heroes every age:
And tho’ your
fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to
the martial strife,
Perhaps, if bowls row
right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where
a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done,
if a’ the land
Would take the Muses’
servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize,
befriend them,
And where he justly
can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they
winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say The
folks hae done their best!
Would a’ the land
do this, then I’ll be caition,
Ye’ll soon hae
Poets o’ the Scottish nation
Will gar Fame blaw until
her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time, an’
lay him on his back!
For us and for our Stage,
should ony spier,
“Whase aught thae
chiels maks a’ this bustle here?”
My best leg foremost,
I’ll set up my brow—
We have the honour to
belong to you!
We’re your ain
bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers
shore before ye strike;
And gratefu’ still,
I trust ye’ll ever find us,
For gen’rous patronage,
and meikle kindness
We’ve got frae
a’ professions, sets and ranks:
God help us! we’re
but poor—ye’se get but thanks.
Lines To A Gentleman,
Who had sent the Poet
a Newspaper, and offered
to continue it free
of Expense.
Kind Sir, I’ve
read your paper through,
And faith, to me, ’twas
really new!
How guessed ye, Sir,
what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I’ve
grain’d and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief
was brewin;
Or what the drumlie
Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper,
Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got
his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie
works
Atween the Russians
and the Turks,
Or if the Swede, before
he halt,
Would play anither Charles
the twalt;
If Denmark, any body
spak o’t;
Or Poland, wha had now
the tack o’t:
How cut-throat Prussian
blades were hingin;
How libbet Italy was
singin;
If Spaniard, Portuguese,
or Swiss,
Were sayin’ or
takin’ aught amiss;
Or how our merry lads
at hame,
In Britain’s court
kept up the game;
How royal George, the
Lord leuk o’er him!
Was managing St. Stephen’s
quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will
was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got
his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the
plea was cookin,
If Warren Hasting’s
neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents,
and fees were rax’d.
Or if bare arses yet
were tax’d;
The news o’ princes,
dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds,
and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie,
Geordie Wales,
Was threshing still
at hizzies’ tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins
douser,
And no a perfect kintra
cooser:
A’ this and mair
I never heard of;
And, but for you, I
might despair’d of.
So, gratefu’,
back your news I send you,
And pray a’ gude
things may attend you.
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
As ever trod on airn;
But now she’s
floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o’
Cairn.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
An’ rode thro’
thick and thin;
But now she’s
floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the
skin.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
And ance she bore a
priest;
But now she’s
floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
An’ the priest
he rode her sair;
And much oppress’d
and bruis’d she was,
As priest-rid cattle
are,—&c. &c.
The Gowden Locks Of Anna
Yestreen I had a pint
o’ wine,
A place where body saw
na;
Yestreen lay on this
breast o’ mine
The gowden locks of
Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing o’er
his manna,
Was naething to my hinny
bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye monarchs, take the
East and West
Frae Indus to Savannah;
Gie me, within my straining
grasp,
The melting form of
Anna:
There I’ll despise
Imperial charms,
An Empress or Sultana,
While dying raptures
in her arms
I give and take wi’
Anna!
Awa, thou flaunting
God of Day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk Star, gae hide thy
twinkling ray,
When I’m to meet
my Anna!
Come, in thy raven plumage,
Night,
(Sun, Moon, and Stars,
withdrawn a’;)
And bring an angel-pen
to write
My transports with my
Anna!
The Kirk an’ State
may join an’ tell,
To do sic things I maunna:
The Kirk an’ State
may gae to hell,
And I’ll gae to
my Anna.
She is the sunshine
o’ my e’e,
To live but her I canna;
Had I on earth but wishes
three,
The first should be
my Anna.
Song—I Murder Hate
I murder hate by flood
or field,
Tho’ glory’s
name may screen us;
In wars at home I’ll
spend my blood—
Life-giving wars of
Venus.
The deities that I adore
Are social Peace and
Plenty;
I’m better pleas’d
to make one more,
Than be the death of
twenty.
I would not die like
Socrates,
For all the fuss of
Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,
Nor yet would I with
Cato:
The zealots of the Church
and State
Shall ne’er my
mortal foes be;
But let me have bold
Zimri’s fate,
Within the arms of Cozbi!
Gane is the day, and
mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er
stray for faut o’ light;
Gude ale and bratdy’s
stars and moon,
And blue-red wine’s
the risin’ sun.
Chorus.—Then
gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then gudewife, count
the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth
and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun
fecht and fen’;
But here we’re
a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s
drunk’s a lord.
Then gudewife, &c.
My coggie is a haly
pool
That heals the wounds
o’ care and dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton
trout,
An ye drink it a’,
ye’ll find him out.
Then gudewife, &c.
Election Ballad
At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790.
Addressed to R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry.
Fintry, my stay in wordly
strife,
Friend o’ my muse,
friend o’ my life,
Are ye as idle’s
I am?
Come then, wi’
uncouth kintra fleg,
O’er Pegasus I’ll
fling my leg,
And ye shall see me
try him.
But where shall I go
rin a ride,
That I may splatter
nane beside?
I wad na be uncivil:
In manhood’s various
paths and ways
There’s aye some
doytin’ body strays,
And I ride like the
devil.
Thus I break aff wi’
a’ my birr,
And down yon dark, deep
alley spur,
Where Theologics daunder:
Alas! curst wi’
eternal fogs,
And damn’d in
everlasting bogs,
As sure’s the
creed I’ll blunder!
I’ll stain a band,
or jaup a gown,
Or rin my reckless,
guilty crown
Against the haly door:
Sair do I rue my luckless
fate,
When, as the Muse an’
Deil wad hae’t,
I rade that road before.
Suppose I take a spurt,
and mix
Amang the wilds o’
Politics—
Electors and elected,
Where dogs at Court
(sad sons of bitches!)
Septennially a madness
touches,
Till all the land’s
infected.
All hail! Drumlanrig’s
haughty Grace,
Discarded remnant of
a race
Once godlike—great
in story;
Thy forbears’
virtues all contrasted,
The very name of Douglas
blasted,
Thine that inverted
glory!
Hate, envy, oft the
Douglas bore,
But thou hast superadded
more,
And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have
stain’d the name,
But, Queensberry, thine
the virgin claim,
From aught that’s
good exempt!
I’ll sing the
zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important
cares
Of princes, and their
darlings:
And, bent on winning
borough touns,
Came shaking hands wi’
wabster-loons,
And kissing barefit
carlins.
Combustion thro’
our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring
pack abroad
Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry blue
and buff unfurl’d,
And Westerha’
and Hopetoun hurled
To every Whig defiance.
But cautious Queensberry
left the war,
Th’ unmanner’d
dust might soil his star,
Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him
heroes bright,
Heroes in Caesarean
fight,
Or Ciceronian pleading.
O for a throat like
huge Mons-Meg,
To muster o’er
each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig’s
banners;
Heroes and heroines
commix,
All in the field of
politics,
To win immortal honours.
M’Murdo and his
lovely spouse,
(Th’ enamour’d
laurels kiss her brows!)
Led on the Loves and
Graces:
She won each gaping
burgess’ heart,
While he, sub rosa,
played his part
Amang their wives and
lasses.
Craigdarroch led a light-arm’d
core,
Tropes, metaphors, and
figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming
thunder:
Glenriddel, skill’d
in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory’s
dark designs,
And bared the treason
under.
In either wing two champions
fought;
Redoubted Staig, who
set at nought
The wildest savage Tory;
And Welsh who ne’er
yet flinch’d his ground,
High-wav’d his
magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.
Miller brought up th’
artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of
the Banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that
baron bold,
’Mid Lawson’s
port entrench’d his hold,
And threaten’d
worse damnation.
To these what Tory hosts
oppos’d
With these what Tory
warriors clos’d
Surpasses my descriving;
Squadrons, extended
long and large,
With furious speed rush
to the charge,
Like furious devils
driving.
What verse can sing,
what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of
bloody Fate,
Amid this mighty tulyie!
Grim Horror girn’d,
pale Terror roar’d,
As Murder at his thrapple
shor’d,
And Hell mix’d
in the brulyie.
As Highland craigs by
thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire
the stormy lift,
Hurl down with crashing
rattle;
As flames among a hundred
woods,
As headlong foam from
a hundred floods,
Such is the rage of
Battle.
The stubborn Tories
dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks
would fly
Before th’ approaching
fellers:
The Whigs come on like
Ocean’s roar,
When all his wintry
billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.
Lo, from the shades
of Death’s deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy
the fight,
And think on former
daring:
The muffled murtherer
of Charles
The Magna Charter flag
unfurls,
All deadly gules its
bearing.
Nor wanting ghosts of
Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour follows
gallant Graham;
Auld Covenanters shiver—
Forgive! forgive! much-wrong’d
Montrose!
Now Death and Hell engulph
thy foes,
Thou liv’st on
high for ever.
Still o’er the
field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give
way by turns;
But Fate the word has
spoken:
For woman’s wit
and strength o’man,
Alas! can do but what
they can;
The Tory ranks are broken.
O that my een were flowing
burns!
My voice, a lioness
that mourns
Her darling cubs’
undoing!
That I might greet,
that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while
Tories fly,
And furious Whigs pursuing!
What Whig but melts
for good Sir James,
Dear to his country,
by the names,
Friend, Patron, Benefactor!
Not Pulteney’s
wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopetoun falls,
the generous, brave;
And Stewart, bold as
Hector.
Thou, Pitt, shalt rue
this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a
curse of woe,
And Melville melt in
wailing:
Now Fox and Sheridan
rejoice,
And Burke shall sing,
“O Prince, arise!
Thy power is all-prevailing!”
For your poor friend,
the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees
the war,
A cool spectator purely!
So, when the storm the
forest rends,
The robin in the hedge
descends,
And sober chirps securely.
Now, for my friends’
and brethren’s sakes,
And for my dear-lov’d
Land o’ Cakes,
I pray with holy fire:
Lord, send a rough-shod
troop o’ Hell
O’er a’
wad Scotland buy or sell,
To grind them in the
mire!
A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately
from
Almighty God.
Should the poor be flattered?—Shakespeare.
O Death! thou tyrant
fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi’
a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his
black smiddie,
O’er hurcheon
hides,
And like stock-fish
come o’er his studdie
Wi’ thy auld sides!
He’s gane, he’s
gane! he’s frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e’er
was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s
sel’ shall mourn,
By wood and wild,
Where haply, Pity strays
forlorn,
Frae man exil’d.
Ye hills, near neighbours
o’ the starns,
That proudly cock your
cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts
of sailing earns,
Where Echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature’s
sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the
cushat kens!
Ye haz’ly shaws
and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’
down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming, strang,
wi’ hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.
Mourn, little harebells
o’er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves,
fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging
bonilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny
tree,
The first o’ flow’rs.
At dawn, when ev’ry
grassy blade
Droops with a diamond
at his head,
At ev’n, when
beans their fragrance shed,
I’ th’ rustling
gale,
Ye maukins, whiddin
thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters
o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crap
the heather bud;
Ye curlews, calling
thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, we whirring
paitrick brood;
He’s gane for
ever!
Mourn, sooty coots,
and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching
eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi’
airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the
quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clam’ring
craiks at close o’ day,
‘Mang fields o’
flow’ring clover gay;
And when ye wing your
annual way
Frae our claud shore,
Tell thae far warlds
wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your
ivy bow’r
In some auld tree, or
eldritch tow’r,
What time the moon,
wi’ silent glow’r,
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro’ the
dreary midnight hour,
Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills,
and plains!
Oft have ye heard my
canty strains;
But now, what else for
me remains
But tales of woe;
And frae my een the
drapping rains
Maun ever flow.
Mourn, Spring, thou
darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall
kep a tear:
Thou, Simmer, while
each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay, green, flow’ry
tresses shear,
For him that’s
dead!
Thou, Autumn, wi’
thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow
mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling
thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the
naked world declare
The worth we’ve
lost!
Mourn him, thou Sun,
great source of light!
Mourn, Empress of the
silent night!
And you, ye twinkling
starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs
he’s ta’en his flight,
Ne’er to return.
O Henderson! the man!
the brother!
And art thou gone, and
gone for ever!
And hast thou crost
that unknown river,
Life’s dreary
bound!
Like thee, where shall
I find another,
The world around!
Go to your sculptur’d
tombs, ye Great,
In a’ the tinsel
trash o’ state!
But by thy honest turf
I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best
fellow’s fate
E’er lay in earth.
Stop, passenger! my
story’s brief,
And truth I shall relate,
man;
I tell nae common tale
o’ grief,
For Matthew was a great
man.
If thou uncommon merit
hast,
Yet spurn’d at
Fortune’s door, man;
A look of pity hither
cast,
For Matthew was a poor
man.
If thou a noble sodger
art,
That passest by this
grave, man;
There moulders here
a gallant heart,
For Matthew was a brave
man.
If thou on men, their
works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon
light, man;
Here lies wha weel had
won thy praise,
For Matthew was a bright
man.
If thou, at Friendship’s
sacred ca’,
Wad life itself resign,
man:
Thy sympathetic tear
maun fa’,
For Matthew was a kind
man.
If thou art staunch,
without a stain,
Like the unchanging
blue, man;
This was a kinsman o’
thy ain,
For Matthew was a true
man.
If thou hast wit, and
fun, and fire,
And ne’er guid
wine did fear, man;
This was thy billie,
dam, and sire,
For Matthew was a queer
man.
If ony whiggish, whingin’
sot,
To blame poor Matthew
dare, man;
May dool and sorrow
be his lot,
For Matthew was a rare
man.
But now, his radiant
course is run,
For Matthew’s
was a bright one!
His soul was like the
glorious sun,
A matchless, Heavenly
light, man.
Verses On Captain Grose
Written on an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Him.
Ken ye aught o’
Captain Grose?—Igo, and ago,
If he’s amang
his friends or foes?—Iram, coram, dago.
Is he to Abra’m’s
bosom gane?—Igo, and ago,
Or haudin Sarah by the
wame?—Iram, coram dago.
Is he south or is he
north?—Igo, and ago,
Or drowned in the river
Forth?—Iram, coram dago.
Is he slain by Hielan’
bodies?—Igo, and ago,
And eaten like a wether
haggis?—Iram, coram, dago.
Where’er he be,
the Lord be near him!—Igo, and ago,
As for the deil, he
daur na steer him.—Iram, coram, dago.
But please transmit
th’ enclosed letter,—Igo, and ago,
Which will oblige your
humble debtor.—Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye hae auld stanes
in store,—Igo, and ago,
The very stanes that
Adam bore.—Iram, coram, dago,
So may ye get in glad
possession,—Igo, and ago,
The coins o’ Satan’s
coronation!—Iram coram dago.
A Tale.
“Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.”
Gawin Douglas.
When chapman billies
leave the street,
And drouthy neibors,
neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing
late,
And folk begin to tak
the gate,
While we sit bousing
at the nappy,
An’ getting fou
and unco happy,
We think na on the lang
Scots miles,
The mosses, waters,
slaps and stiles,
That lie between us
and our hame,
Where sits our sulky,
sullen dame,
Gathering her brows
like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to
keep it warm.
This truth fand honest
Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night
did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er
a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie
lasses).
O Tam! had’st
thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife
Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel
thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering,
drunken blellum;
That frae November till
October,
Ae market-day thou was
na sober;
That ilka melder wi’
the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as
thou had siller;
That ev’ry naig
was ca’d a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat
roarin’ fou on;
That at the Lord’s
house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’
Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that
late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep
drown’d in Doon,
Or catch’d wi’
warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld,
haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it
gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels
sweet,
How mony lengthen’d,
sage advices,
The husband frae the
wife despises!
But to our tale:
Ae market night,
Tam had got planted
unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing
finely,
Wi reaming saats, that
drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter
Johnie,
His ancient, trusty,
drougthy crony:
Tam lo’ed him
like a very brither;
They had been fou for
weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’
sangs an’ clatter;
And aye the ale was
growing better:
The Landlady and Tam
grew gracious,
Wi’ favours secret,
sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his
queerest stories;
The Landlord’s
laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might
rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the
storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man
sae happy,
E’en drown’d
himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi’
lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d
their way wi’ pleasure:
Kings may be blest,
but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’
the ills o’ life victorious!
But pleasures are like
poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r,
its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls
in the river,
A moment white—then
melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis
race,
That flit ere you can
point their place;
The wind blew as ’twad
blawn its last;
The rattling showers
rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the
darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, and lang,
the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child
might understand,
The deil had business
on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his
grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted
leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’
dub and mire,
Despising wind, and
rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast
his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o’er
some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow’rin
round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him
unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing
nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets
nightly cry.
By this time he was
cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the
chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and
meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie
brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the
whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the
murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn,
aboon the well,
Where Mungo’s
mither hang’d hersel’.
Before him Doon pours
all his floods,
The doubling storm roars
thro’ the woods,
The lightnings flash
from pole to pole,
Near and more near the
thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro’
the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d
in a bleeze,
Thro’ ilka bore
the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth
and dancing.
Inspiring bold John
Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst
make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny,
we fear nae evil;
Wi’ usquabae,
we’ll face the devil!
The swats sae ream’d
in Tammie’s noddle,
Fair play, he car’d
na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right
sair astonish’d,
Till, by the heel and
hand admonish’d,
She ventur’d forward
on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw
an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches
in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent
new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs,
strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle
in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in
the east,
There sat auld Nick,
in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black,
grim, and large,
To gie them music was
his charge:
He screw’d the
pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters
a’ did dirl.—
Coffins stood round,
like open presses,
That shaw’d the
Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish
cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand
As Tammie glowr’d,
amaz’d, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew
fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder
blew,
The dancers quick and
quicker flew,
The reel’d, they
set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat
and reekit,
And coost her duddies
to the wark,
And linkit at it in
her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had
they been queans,
A’ plump and strapping
in their teens!
Their sarks, instead
o’ creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen
hunder linen!—
Thir breeks o’
mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush
o’ guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them
off my hurdies,
For ae blink o’
the bonie burdies!
But wither’d beldams,
auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean
a foal,
Louping an’ flinging
on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn
thy stomach.
But Tam kent what was
what fu’ brawlie:
There was ae winsome
wench and waulie
That night enlisted
in the core,
Lang after ken’d
on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to
dead she shot,
And perish’d mony
a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle
corn and bear,
And kept the country-side
in fear);
Her cutty sark, o’
Paisley harn,
That while a lassie
she had worn,
In longitude tho’
sorely scanty,
It was her best, and
she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken’d
thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for
her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots (’twas
a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d
a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her
wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far
beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap
and flang,
(A souple jade she was
and strang),
And how Tam stood, like
ane bewithc’d,
And thought his very
een enrich’d:
Even Satan glowr’d,
and fidg’d fu’ fain,
And hotch’d and
blew wi’ might and main:
Till first ae caper,
syne anither,
Tam tint his reason
a thegither,
And roars out, “Weel
done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all
was dark:
And scarcely had he
Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish
legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi’
angry fyke,
When plundering herds
assail their byke;
As open pussie’s
mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts
before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “Catch the
thief!” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the
witches follow,
Wi’ mony an eldritch
skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam!
thou’ll get thy fairin!
In hell, they’ll
roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits
thy comin!
Kate soon will be a
woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost,
Meg,
And win the key-stone
o’ the brig;^1
There, at them thou
thy tail may toss,
A running stream they
dare na cross.
But ere the keystane
she could make,
The fient a tail she
had to shake!
For Nannie, far before
the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie
prest,
And flew at Tam wi’
furious ettle;
But little wist she
Maggie’s mettle!
Ae spring brought off
her master hale,
But left behind her
ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her
by the rump,
And left poor Maggie
scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o’
truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother’s
son, take heed:
Whene’er to Drink
you are inclin’d,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in
your mind,
Think ye may buy the
joys o’er dear;
Remember Tam o’
Shanter’s mare.
On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child
Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.
Sweet flow’ret,
pledge o’ meikle love,
And ward o’ mony
a prayer,
What heart o’
stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet,
and fair?
November hirples o’er
the lea,
Chil, on thy lovely
form:
And gane, alas! the
shelt’ring tree,
Should shield thee frae
the storm.
[Footnote 1: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.—R.B.]
May He who gives the
rain to pour,
And wings the blast
to blaw,
Protect thee frae the
driving show’r,
The bitter frost and
snaw.
May He, the friend o’
Woe and Want,
Who heals life’s
various stounds,
Protect and guard the
mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.
But late she flourish’d,
rooted fast,
Fair in the summer morn,
Now feebly bends she
in the blast,
Unshelter’d and
forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom,
thou lovely gem,
Unscath’d by ruffian
hand!
And from thee many a
parent stem
Arise to deck our land!
Life ne’er exulted
in so rich a prize,
As Burnet, lovely from
her native skies;
Nor envious death so
triumph’d in a blow,
As that which laid th’
accomplish’d Burnet low.
Thy form and mind, sweet
maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest
jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven
above was truest shown,
As by His noblest work
the Godhead best is known.
In vain ye flaunt in
summer’s pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet
with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that
chaunt your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm; Eliza
is no more.
Ye healthy wastes, immix’d
with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with
sedge and rushes stor’d:
Ye rugged cliffs, o’erhanging
dreary glens,
To you I fly—ye
with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumb’rous
pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their
pompous exit hail,
And thou, sweet Excellence!
forsake our earth,
And not a Muse with
honest grief bewail?
We saw thee shine in
youth and beauty’s pride,
And Virtue’s light,
that beams beyond the spheres;
But, like the sun eclips’d
at morning tide,
Thou left us darkling
in a world of tears.
The parent’s heart
that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk,
a prey to grief and care;
So deckt the woodbine
sweet yon aged tree;
So, from it ravish’d,
leaves it bleak and bare.
1791
Now Nature hangs her
mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets
o’ daisies white
Out o’er the grassy
lea;
Now Phoebus cheers the
crystal streams,
And glads the azure
skies;
But nought can glad
the weary wight
That fast in durance
lies.
Now laverocks wake the
merry morn
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide
bow’r,
Makes woodland echoes
ring;
The mavis wild wi’
mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to
rest:
In love and freedom
they rejoice,
Wi’ care nor thrall
opprest.
Now blooms the lily
by the bank,
The primrose down the
brae;
The hawthorn’s
budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the
slae:
The meanest hind in
fair Scotland
May rove their sweets
amang;
But I, the Queen of
a’ Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the Queen o’
bonie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu’ lightly raise
I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at
e’en:
And I’m the sov’reign
of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign
bands,
And never-ending care.
But as for thee, thou
false woman,
My sister and my fae,
Grim Vengeance yet shall
whet a sword
That thro’ thy
soul shall gae;
The weeping blood in
woman’s breast
Was never known to thee;
Nor th’ balm that
draps on wounds of woe
Frae woman’s pitying
e’e.
My son! my son! may
kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures
gild thy reign,
That ne’er wad
blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy
mother’s faes,
Or turn their hearts
to thee:
And where thou meet’st
thy mother’s friend,
Remember him for me!
O! soon, to me, may
Summer suns
Nae mair light up the
morn!
Nae mair to me the Autumn
winds
Wave o’er the
yellow corn?
And, in the narrow house
of death,
Let Winter round me
rave;
And the next flow’rs
that deck the Spring,
Bloom on my peaceful
grave!
There’ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame
By yon Castle wa’,
at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing,
tho’ his head it was grey:
And as he was singing,
the tears doon came,—
There’ll never
be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The Church is in ruins,
the State is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions,
and murderous wars,
We dare na weel say’t,
but we ken wha’s to blame,—
There’ll never
be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for
Jamie drew sword,
But now I greet round
their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart
o’ my faithful and dame,—
There’ll never
be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden
that bows me down,
Sin’ I tint my
bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments
my words are the same,—
There’ll never
be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Out over the Forth,
I look to the North;
But what is the north
and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east
gie ease to my breast,
The far foreign land,
or the wide rolling sea.
But I look to the west
when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreams
and my slumbers may be;
For far in the west
lives he I loe best,
The man that is dear
to my babie and me.
The Banks O’ Doon—First Version
Sweet are the banks—the
banks o’ Doon,
The spreading flowers
are fair,
And everything is blythe
and glad,
But I am fu’ o’
care.
Thou’ll break
my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the
bough;
Thou minds me o’
the happy days
When my fause Luve was
true:
Thou’ll break
my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy
mate;
For sae I sat, and sae
I sang,
And wist na o’
my fate.
Aft hae I rov’d
by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine
twine;
And ilka birds sang
o’ its Luve,
And sae did I o’
mine:
Wi’ lightsome
heart I pu’d a rose,
Upon its thorny tree;
But my fause Luver staw
my rose
And left the thorn wi’
me:
Wi’ lightsome
heart I pu’d a rose,
Upon a morn in June;
And sae I flourished
on the morn,
And sae was pu’d
or noon!
Ye flowery banks o’
bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae
fair?
How can ye chant, ye
little birds,
And I sae fu’
o care!
Thou’ll break
my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the
bough!
Thou minds me o’
the happy days
When my fause Luve was
true.
Thou’ll break
my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy
mate;
For sae I sat, and sae
I sang,
And wist na o’
my fate.
Aft hae I rov’d
by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine
twine;
And ilka bird sang o’
its Luve,
And sae did I o’
mine.
Wi’ lightsome
heart I pu’d a rose,
Upon its thorny tree;
But my fause Luver staw
my rose,
And left the thorn wi’
me.
Wi’ lightsome
heart I pu’d a rose,
Upon a morn in June;
And sae I flourished
on the morn,
And sae was pu’d
or noon.
The Banks O’ Doon—Third Version
Ye banks and braes o’
bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae
fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye
little birds,
And I sae weary fu’
o’ care!
Thou’ll break
my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’
the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o’
departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov’d
by Bonie Doon,
To see the rose and
woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o’
its Luve,
And fondly sae did I
o’ mine;
Wi’ lightsome
heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon
its thorny tree!
And may fause Luver
staw my rose,
But ah! he left the
thorn wi’ me.
The wind blew hollow
frae the hills,
By fits the sun’s
departing beam
Look’d on the
fading yellow woods,
That wav’d o’er
Lugar’s winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep,
a Bard,
Laden with years and
meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail’d
his lord,
Whom Death had all untimely
ta’en.
He lean’d him
to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould’ring
down with years;
His locks were bleached
white with time,
His hoary cheek was
wet wi’ tears!
And as he touch’d
his trembling harp,
And as he tun’d
his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting
thro’ their caves,
To Echo bore the notes
alang.
“Ye scatter’d
birds that faintly sing,
The reliques o’
the vernal queir!
Ye woods that shed on
a’ the winds
The honours of the aged
year!
A few short months,
and glad and gay,
Again ye’ll charm
the ear and e’e;
But nocht in all-revolving
time
Can gladness bring again
to me.
“I am a bending
aged tree,
That long has stood
the wind and rain;
But now has come a cruel
blast,
And my last hald of
earth is gane;
Nae leaf o’ mine
shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt
my bloom;
But I maun lie before
the storm,
And ithers plant them
in my room.
“I’ve seen sae mony changefu’ years, On earth I am a stranger grown: I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing, and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, I bear alane my lade o’ care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a’ hat would my sorrows share.
“And last, (the
sum of a’ my griefs!)
My noble master lies
in clay;
The flow’r amang
our barons bold,
His country’s
pride, his country’s stay:
In weary being now I
pine,
For a’ the life
of life is dead,
And hope has left may
aged ken,
On forward wing for
ever fled.
“Awake thy last
sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and
wild despair!
Awake, resound thy latest
lay,
Then sleep in silence
evermair!
And thou, my last, best,
only, friend,
That fillest an untimely
tomb,
Accept this tribute
from the Bard
Thou brought from Fortune’s
mirkest gloom.
“In Poverty’s
low barren vale,
Thick mists obscure
involv’d me round;
Though oft I turn’d
the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was
to be found:
Thou found’st
me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs
in limpid air,
The friendless bard
and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering
care.
“O! why has worth
so short a date,
While villains ripen
grey with time?
Must thou, the noble,
gen’rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood’s
hardy prim
Why did I live to see
that day—
A day to me so full
of woe?
O! had I met the mortal
shaft
That laid my benefactor
low!
“The bridegroom
may forget the bride
Was made his wedded
wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget
the crown
That on his head an
hour has been;
The mother may forget
the child
That smiles sae sweetly
on her knee;
But I’ll remember
thee, Glencairn,
And a’ that thou
hast done for me!”
Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart
With The Lament On The Death Of the Earl Of Glencairn
Thou, who thy honour
as thy God rever’st,
Who, save thy mind’s
reproach, nought earthly fear’st,
To thee this votive
offering I impart,
The tearful tribute
of a broken heart.
The Friend thou valued’st,
I, the Patron lov’d;
His worth, his honour,
all the world approved:
We’ll mourn till
we too go as he has gone,
And tread the shadowy
path to that dark world unknown.
Sweet closes the ev’ning
on Craigieburn Wood,
And blythely awaukens
the morrow;
But the pride o’
the spring in the Craigieburn Wood
Can yield to me nothing
but sorrow.
Chorus.—Beyond
thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond
thee!
O sweetly, soundly,
weel may he sleep
That’s laid in
the bed beyond thee!
I see the spreading
leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds
singing;
But pleasure they hae
nane for me,
While care my heart
is wringing.
Beyond thee, &c.
I can na tell, I maun
na tell,
I daur na for your anger;
But secret love will
break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
Beyond thee, &c.
I see thee gracefu’,
straight and tall,
I see thee sweet and
bonie;
But oh, what will my
torment be,
If thou refuse thy Johnie!
Beyond thee, &c.
To see thee in another’s
arms,
In love to lie and languish,
’Twad be my dead,
that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi’
anguish.
Beyond thee, &c.
But Jeanie, say thou
wilt be mine,
Say thou lo’es
nane before me;
And a’ may days
o’ life to come
I’l gratefully
adore thee,
Beyond thee, &c.
The Bonie Wee Thing
Chorus.—Bonie
wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert
thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my
bosom,
Lest my jewel it should
tine.
Wishfully I look and
languish
In that bonie face o’
thine,
And my heart it stounds
wi’ anguish,
Lest my wee thing be
na mine.
Bonie wee thing, &c.
Wit, and Grace, and
Love, and Beauty,
In ae constellation
shine;
To adore thee is my
duty,
Goddess o’ this
soul o’ mine!
Bonie wee thing, &c.
Epigram On Miss Davies
On being asked why she had been formed so little, and Mrs. A—so big.
Ask why God made the
gem so small?
And why so huge the
granite?—
Because God meant mankind
should set
That higher value on
it.
Tune—“Miss Muir.”
O how shall I, unskilfu’,
try
The poet’s occupation?
The tunefu’ powers,
in happy hours,
That whisper inspiration;
Even they maun dare
an effort mair
Than aught they ever
gave us,
Ere they rehearse, in
equal verse,
The charms o’
lovely Davies.
Each eye it cheers when
she appears,
Like Phoebus in the
morning,
When past the shower,
and every flower
The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks
o’er Siberia’s shore,
When winter-bound the
wave is;
Sae droops our heart,
when we maun part
Frae charming, lovely
Davies.
Her smile’s a
gift frae ’boon the lift,
That maks us mair than
princes;
A sceptred hand, a king’s
command,
Is in her darting glances;
The man in arms ’gainst
female charms
Even he her willing
slave is,
He hugs his chain, and
owns the reign
Of conquering, lovely
Davies.
My Muse, to dream of
such a theme,
Her feeble powers surrender:
The eagle’s gaze
alone surveys
The sun’s meridian
splendour.
I wad in vain essay
the strain,
The deed too daring
brave is;
I’ll drap the
lyre, and mute admire
The charms o’
lovely Davies.
What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi’ An Auld Man
What can a young lassie,
what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie
do wi’ an auld man?
Bad luck on the penny
that tempted my minnie
To sell her puir Jenny
for siller an’ lan’.
Bad luck on the penny
that tempted my minnie
To sell her puir Jenny
for siller an’ lan’!
He’s always compleenin’
frae mornin’ to e’enin’,
He hoasts and he hirples
the weary day lang;
He’s doylt and
he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen,—
O, dreary’s the
night wi’ a crazy auld man!
He’s doylt and
he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen,
O, dreary’s the
night wi’ a crazy auld man.
He hums and he hankers,
he frets and he cankers,
I never can please him
do a’ that I can;
He’s peevish an’
jealous o’ a’ the young fellows,—
O, dool on the day I
met wi’ an auld man!
He’s peevish an’
jealous o’ a’ the young fellows,
O, dool on the day I
met wi’ an auld man.
My auld auntie Katie
upon me taks pity,
I’ll do my endeavour
to follow her plan;
I’ll cross him
an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him
And then his auld brass
will buy me a new pan,
I’ll cross him
an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him,
And then his auld brass
will buy me a new pan.
O luve will venture
in where it daur na weel be seen,
O luve will venture
in where wisdom ance has been;
But I will doun yon
river rove, amang the wood sae green,
And a’ to pu’
a Posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will
pu’, the firstling o’ the year,
And I will pu’
the pink, the emblem o’ my dear;
For she’s the
pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer,
And a’ to be a
Posie to my ain dear May.
I’ll pu’
the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it’s like
a baumy kiss o’ her sweet, bonie mou;
The hyacinth’s
for constancy wi’ its unchanging blue,
And a’ to be a
Posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure,
and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom
I’ll place the lily there;
The daisy’s for
simplicity and unaffected air,
And a’ to be a
Posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will
pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller gray,
Where, like an aged
man, it stands at break o’ day;
But the songster’s
nest within the bush I winna tak away
And a’ to be a
Posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will
pu’, when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond draps
o’ dew shall be her een sae clear;
The violet’s for
modesty, which weel she fa’s to wear,
And a’ to be a
Posie to my ain dear May.
I’ll tie the Posie
round wi’ the silken band o’ luve,
And I’ll place
it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’
above,
That to my latest draught
o’ life the band shall ne’er remove,
And this will be a Posie
to my ain dear May.
On Glenriddell’s Fox Breaking His Chain
A Fragment, 1791.
Thou, Liberty, thou
art my theme;
Not such as idle poets
dream,
Who trick thee up a
heathen goddess
That a fantastic cap
and rod has;
Such stale conceits
are poor and silly;
I paint thee out, a
Highland filly,
A sturdy, stubborn,
handsome dapple,
As sleek’s a mouse,
as round’s an apple,
That when thou pleasest
canst do wonders;
But when thy luckless
rider blunders,
Or if thy fancy should
demur there,
Wilt break thy neck
ere thou go further.
These things premised,
I sing a Fox,
Was caught among his
native rocks,
And to a dirty kennel
chained,
How he his liberty regained.
Glenriddell! Whig
without a stain,
A Whig in principle
and grain,
Could’st thou
enslave a free-born creature,
A native denizen of
Nature?
How could’st thou,
with a heart so good,
(A better ne’er
was sluiced with blood!)
Nail a poor devil to
a tree,
That ne’er did
harm to thine or thee?
The staunchest Whig
Glenriddell was,
Quite frantic in his
country’s cause;
And oft was Reynard’s
prison passing,
And with his brother-Whigs
canvassing
The Rights of Men, the
Powers of Women,
With all the dignity
of Freemen.
Sir Reynard daily heard
debates
Of Princes’, Kings’,
and Nations’ fates,
With many rueful, bloody
stories
Of Tyrants, Jacobites,
and Tories:
From liberty how angels
fell,
That now are galley-slaves
in hell;
How Nimrod first the
trade began
Of binding Slavery’s
chains on Man;
How fell Semiramis—God
damn her!
Did first, with sacrilegious
hammer,
(All ills till then
were trivial matters)
For Man dethron’d
forge hen-peck fetters;
How Xerxes, that abandoned
Tory,
Thought cutting throats
was reaping glory,
Until the stubborn Whigs
of Sparta
Taught him great Nature’s
Magna Charta;
How mighty Rome her
fiat hurl’d
Resistless o’er
a bowing world,
And, kinder than they
did desire,
Polish’d mankind
with sword and fire;
With much, too tedious
to relate,
Of ancient and of modern
date,
But ending still, how
Billy Pitt
(Unlucky boy!) with
wicked wit,
Has gagg’d old
Britain, drain’d her coffer,
As butchers bind and
bleed a heifer,
Thus wily Reynard by
degrees,
In kennel listening
at his ease,
Suck’d in a mighty
stock of knowledge,
As much as some folks
at a College;
Knew Britain’s
rights and constitution,
Her aggrandisement,
diminution,
How fortune wrought
us good from evil;
Let no man, then, despise
the Devil,
As who should say, ‘I
never can need him,’
Since we to scoundrels
owe our freedom.
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 Shakespeare 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’
myrtle twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes
sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!
In gowany glens thy
burnie strays,
Where bonie 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.
Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near Drumlanrig
As on the banks o’
wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer morn
I stray’d,
And traced its bonie
howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and
lammies play’d,
I sat me down upon a
craig,
And drank my fill o’
fancy’s dream,
When from the eddying
deep below,
Up rose the genius of
the stream.
Dark, like the frowning
rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his
wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the
boding wind
Amang his caves, the
sigh he gave—
“And come ye here,
my son,” he cried,
“To wander in
my birken shade?
To muse some favourite
Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite
Scottish maid?
“There was a time,
it’s nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me
in my pride,
When a’ my banks
sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures
in my tide;
When hanging beech and
spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae
clear and cool:
And stately oaks their
twisted arms
Threw broad and dark
across the pool;
“When, glinting
thro’ the trees, appear’d
The wee white cot aboon
the mill,
And peacefu’ rose
its ingle reek,
That, slowly curling,
clamb the hill.
But now the cot is bare
and cauld,
Its leafy bield for
ever gane,
And scarce a stinted
birk is left
To shiver in the blast
its lane.”
“Alas!”
quoth I, “what ruefu’ chance
Has twin’d ye
o’ your stately trees?
Has laid your rocky
bosom bare—
Has stripped the cleeding
o’ your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern
blast,
That scatters blight
in early spring?
Or was’t the wil’fire
scorch’d their boughs,
Or canker-worm wi’
secret sting?”
“Nae eastlin blast,”
the sprite replied;
“It blaws na here
sae fierce and fell,
And on my dry and halesome
banks
Nae canker-worms get
leave to dwell:
Man! cruel man!”
the genius sighed—
As through the cliffs
he sank him down—
“The worm that
gnaw’d my bonie trees,
That reptile wears a
ducal crown."^1
Where Cart rins rowin’
to the sea,
By mony a flower and
spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the
lad for me,
He is a gallant Weaver.
O, I had wooers aught
or nine,
They gied me rings and
ribbons fine;
And I was fear’d
my heart wad tine,
And I gied it to the
Weaver.
My daddie sign’d
my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that
has the land,
But to my heart I’ll
add my hand,
And give it to the Weaver.
While birds rejoice
in leafy bowers,
While bees delight in
opening flowers,
While corn grows green
in summer showers,
I love my gallant Weaver.
[Footnote 1: The Duke of Queensberry.]
Epigram At Brownhill Inn^1
At Brownhill we always
get dainty good cheer,
And plenty of bacon
each day in the year;
We’ve a’
thing that’s nice, and mostly in season,
But why always Bacon—come,
tell me a reason?
You’re Welcome, Willie Stewart
Chorus.—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 tappet hen, gae
bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart,
You’re welcome,
Willie Stewart, &c.
May foes be strang,
and friends be slack
Ilk action, may he rue
it,
May woman on him turn
her back
That wrangs thee, Willie
Stewart,
You’re welcome,
Willie Stewart, &c.
Chorus.—O
lovely Polly Stewart,
O charming Polly Stewart,
There’s ne’er
a flower that blooms in May,
That’s half so
fair as thou art!
The flower it blaws,
it fades, it fa’s,
And art can ne’er
renew it;
But worth and truth,
eternal youth
Will gie to Polly Stewart,
O lovely Polly Stewart,
&c.
[Footnote 1: Bacon
was the name of a presumably intrusive host.
The lines are said to
have “afforded much amusement.”—Lang]
May he whase arms shall
fauld thy charms
Possess a leal and true
heart!
To him be given to ken
the heaven
He grasps in Polly Stewart!
O lovely Polly Stewart,
&c.
Fragment,—Damon And Sylvia
Tune—“The Tither Morn.”
Yon wandering rill that
marks the hill,
And glances o’er
the brae, Sir,
Slides by a bower, where
mony a flower
Sheds fragrance on the
day, Sir;
There Damon lay, with
Sylvia gay,
To love they thought
no crime, Sir,
The wild birds sang,
the echoes rang,
While Damon’s
heart beat time, Sir.
When first my brave
Johnie lad came to this town,
He had a blue bonnet
that wanted the crown;
But now he has gotten
a hat and a feather,
Hey, brave Johnie lad,
cock up your beaver!
Cock up your beaver,
and cock it fu’ sprush,
We’ll over the
border, and gie them a brush;
There’s somebody
there we’ll teach better behaviour,
Hey, brave Johnie lad,
cock up your beaver!
My Eppie Macnab
O saw ye my dearie,
my Eppie Macnab?
O saw ye my dearie,
my Eppie Macnab?
She’s down in
the yard, she’s kissin the laird,
She winna come hame
to her ain Jock Rab.
O come thy ways to me,
my Eppie Macnab;
O come thy ways to me,
my Eppie Macnab;
Whate’er thou
hast dune, be it late, be it sune,
Thou’s welcome
again to thy ain Jock Rab.
What says she, my dearie,
my Eppie Macnab?
What says she, my dearie,
my Eppie Macnab?
She let’s thee
to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns
thee, her ain Jock Rab.
O had I ne’er
seen thee, my Eppie Macnab!
O had I ne’er
seen thee, my Eppie Macnab!
As light as the air,
and as fause as thou’s fair,
Thou’s broken
the heart o’ thy ain Jock Rab.
Altho’ he has
left me for greed o’ the siller,
I dinna envy him the
gains he can win;
I rather wad bear a’
the lade o’ my sorrow,
Than ever hae acted
sae faithless to him.
My Tocher’s The Jewel
O Meikle thinks my luve
o’ my beauty,
And meikle thinks my
luve o’ my kin;
But little thinks my
luve I ken brawlie
My tocher’s the
jewel has charms for him.
It’s a’
for the apple he’ll nourish the tree,
It’s a’
for the hinny he’ll cherish the bee,
My laddie’s sae
meikle in luve wi’ the siller,
He canna hae luve to
spare for me.
Your proffer o’
luve’s an airle-penny,
My tocher’s the
bargain ye wad buy;
But an ye be crafty,
I am cunnin’,
Sae ye wi anither your
fortune may try.
Ye’re like to
the timmer o’ yon rotten wood,
Ye’re like to
the bark o’ yon rotten tree,
Ye’ll slip frae
me like a knotless thread,
And ye’ll crack
your credit wi’ mae nor me.
Chorus.—An’
O for ane an’ twenty, Tam!
And hey, sweet ane an’
twenty, Tam!
I’ll learn my
kin a rattlin’ sang,
An’ I saw ane
an’ twenty, Tam.
They snool me sair,
and haud me down,
An’ gar me look
like bluntie, Tam;
But three short years
will soon wheel roun’,
An’ then comes
ane an’ twenty, Tam.
An’ O for, &c.
A glieb o’ lan’,
a claut o’ gear,
Was left me by my auntie,
Tam;
At kith or kin I need
na spier,
An I saw ane an’
twenty, Tam.
An’ O for, &c.
They’ll hae me
wed a wealthy coof,
Tho’ I mysel’
hae plenty, Tam;
But, hear’st thou
laddie! there’s my loof,
I’m thine at ane
an’ twenty, Tam!
An’ O for, &c.
Thou Fair Eliza
Turn again, thou fair
Eliza!
Ae kind blink before
we part;
Rue on thy despairing
lover,
Can’st thou break
his faithfu’ heart?
Turn again, thou fair
Eliza!
If to love thy heart
denies,
Oh, in pity hide the
sentence
Under friendship’s
kind disguise!
Thee, sweet maid, hae
I offended?
My offence is loving
thee;
Can’st thou wreck
his peace for ever,
Wha for thine would
gladly die?
While the life beats
in my bosom,
Thou shalt mix in ilka
throe:
Turn again, thou lovely
maiden,
Ae sweet smile on me
bestow.
Not the bee upon the
blossom,
In the pride o’
sinny noon;
Not the little sporting
fairy,
All beneath the simmer
moon;
Not the Minstrel in
the moment
Fancy lightens in his
e’e,
Kens the pleasure, feels
the rapture,
That thy presence gies
to me.
The smiling Spring comes
in rejoicing,
And surly Winter grimly
flies;
Now crystal clear are
the falling waters,
And bonie blue are the
sunny skies.
Fresh o’er the
mountains breaks forth the morning,
The ev’ning gilds
the ocean’s swell;
All creatures joy in
the sun’s returning,
And I rejoice in my
bonie Bell.
The flowery Spring leads
sunny Summer,
The yellow Autumn presses
near;
Then in his turn comes
gloomy Winter,
Till smiling Spring
again appear:
Thus seasons dancing,
life advancing,
Old Time and Nature
their changes tell;
But never ranging, still
unchanging,
I adore my bonie Bell.
Sweet Afton
Flow gently, sweet Afton!
amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll
sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep
by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton,
disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose
echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds
in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing
thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb
not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton,
thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with
the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander
as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s
sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks
and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands,
the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev’ning
weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk
shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream,
Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot
where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters
her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet
flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton,
amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river,
the theme of my lays;
My Mary’s asleep
by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton,
disturb not her dream.
On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays.
While virgin Spring
by Eden’s flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle
green,
Or pranks the sod in
frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains
between.
While Summer, with a
matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh’s
cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted,
stops to trace
The progress of the
spiky blade.
While Autumn, benefactor
kind,
By Tweed erects his
aged head,
And sees, with self-approving
mind,
Each creature on his
bounty fed.
While maniac Winter
rages o’er
The hills whence classic
Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent’s
roar,
Or sweeping, wild, a
waste of snows.
So long, sweet Poet
of the year!
Shall bloom that wreath
thou well hast won;
While Scotia, with exulting
tear,
Proclaims that Thomson
was her son.
The noble Maxwells and
their powers
Are coming o’er
the border,
And they’ll gae
big Terreagles’ towers
And set them a’
in order.
And they declare Terreagles
fair,
For their abode they
choose it;
There’s no a heart
in a’ the land
But’s lighter
at the news o’t.
Tho’ stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather: The weary night o’ care and grief May hae a joyfu’ morrow; so dawning day has brought relief, Fareweel our night o’ sorrow.
Frae The Friends And Land I Love
Tune—“Carron Side.”
Frae the friends and
land I love,
Driv’n by Fortune’s
felly spite;
Frae my best belov’d
I rove,
Never mair to taste
delight:
Never mair maun hope
to find
Ease frae toil, relief
frae care;
When Remembrance wracks
the mind,
Pleasures but unveil
despair.
Brightest climes shall
mirk appear,
Desert ilka blooming
shore,
Till the Fates, nae
mair severe,
Friendship, love, and
peace restore,
Till Revenge, wi’
laurel’d head,
Bring our banished hame
again;
And ilk loyal, bonie
lad
Cross the seas, and
win his ain.
Fareweel to a’
our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient
glory;
Fareweel ev’n
to the Scottish name,
Sae fam’d in martial
story.
Now Sark rins over Solway
sands,
An’ Tweed rins
to the ocean,
To mark where England’s
province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues
in a nation!
What force or guile
could not subdue,
Thro’ many warlike
ages,
Is wrought now by a
coward few,
For hireling traitor’s
wages.
The English stell we
could disdain,
Secure in valour’s
station;
But English gold has
been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues
in a nation!
O would, or I had seen
the day
That Treason thus could
sell us,
My auld grey head had
lien in clay,
Wi’ Bruce and
loyal Wallace!
But pith and power,
till my last hour,
I’ll mak this
declaration;
We’re bought and
sold for English gold—
Such a parcel of rogues
in a nation!
Ye Jacobites By Name
Ye Jacobites by name,
give an ear, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name,
give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun
blame, you shall hear.
What is Right, and What
is Wrang, by the law, by the law?
What is Right and what
is Wrang by the law?
What is Right, and what
is Wrang?
A short sword, and a
lang,
A weak arm and a strang,
for to draw.
What makes heroic strife,
famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife
famed afar?
What makes heroic strife?
To whet th’ assassin’s
knife,
Or hunt a Parent’s
life, wi’ bluidy war?
Then let your schemes
alone, in the state, in the state,
Then let your schemes
alone in the state.
Then let your schemes
alone,
Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man undone,
to his fate.
I Hae been at Crookieden,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie,
Viewing Willie and his
men,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie.
There our foes that
burnt and slew,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie,
There, at last, they
gat their due,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie.
Satan sits in his black
neuk,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie,
Breaking sticks to roast
the Duke,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie,
The bloody monster gae
a yell,
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie.
And loud the laugh gied
round a’ hell
My bonie laddie, Highland
laddie.
O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie
O Kenmure’s on
and awa, Willie,
O Kenmure’s on
and awa:
An’ Kenmure’s
lord’s the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.
Success to Kenmure’s
band, Willie!
Success to Kenmure’s
band!
There’s no a heart
that fears a Whig,
That rides by kenmure’s
hand.
Here’s Kenmure’s
health in wine, Willie!
Here’s Kenmure’s
health in wine!
There’s ne’er
a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude,
Nor yet o’ Gordon’s
line.
O Kenmure’s lads
are men, Willie,
O Kenmure’s lads
are men;
Their hearts and swords
are metal true,
And that their foes
shall ken.
They’ll live or
die wi’ fame, Willie;
They’ll live or
die wi’ fame;
But sune, wi’
sounding victorie,
May Kenmure’s
lord come hame!
Here’s him that’s
far awa, Willie!
Here’s him that’s
far awa!
And here’s the
flower that I loe best,
The rose that’s
like the snaw.
On His Birthday.
Health to the Maxwell’s
veteran Chief!
Health, aye unsour’d
by care or grief:
Inspir’d, I turn’d
Fate’s sibyl leaf,
This natal morn,
I see thy life is stuff
o’ prief,
Scarce quite half-worn.
This day thou metes
threescore eleven,
And I can tell that
bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye
ken, is given
To ilka Poet)
On thee a tack o’
seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.
If envious buckies view
wi’ sorrow
Thy lengthen’d
days on this blest morrow,
May Desolation’s
lang-teeth’d harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom
and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stour.
But for thy friends,
and they are mony,
Baith honest men, and
lassies bonie,
May couthie Fortune,
kind and cannie,
In social glee,
Wi’ mornings blythe,
and e’enings funny,
Bless them and thee!
Fareweel, auld birkie!
Lord be near ye,
And then the deil, he
daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love,
your faes aye fear ye;
For me, shame fa’
me,
If neist my heart I
dinna wear ye,
While Burns they ca’
me.
Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of Fintry
5th October 1791.
Late crippl’d
of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass
for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teas’d,
dejected, and deprest
(Nature is adverse to
a cripple’s rest);
Will generous Graham
list to his Poet’s wail?
(It soothes poor Misery,
hearkening to her tale)
And hear him curse the
light he first survey’d,
And doubly curse the
luckless rhyming trade?
Thou, Nature! partial
Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal
I complain;
The lion and the bull
thy care have found,
One shakes the forests,
and one spurns the ground;
Thou giv’st the
ass his hide, the snail his shell;
Th’ envenom’d
wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
Thy minions kings defend,
control, devour,
In all th’ omnipotence
of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen
subtile wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat
stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison,
doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog
in their robes, are snug;
Ev’n silly woman
has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes—her
dreaded spear and darts.
But Oh! thou bitter
step-mother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless,
naked child—the Bard!
A thing unteachable
in world’s skill,
And half an idiot too,
more helpless still:
No heels to bear him
from the op’ning dun;
No claws to dig, his
hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those
by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not,
Amalthea’s horn:
No nerves olfact’ry,
Mammon’s trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulness’
comfortable fur;
In naked feeling, and
in aching pride,
He bears th’ unbroken
blast from ev’ry side:
Vampyre booksellers
drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics
cureless venom dart.
Critics—appall’d,
I venture on the name;
Those cut-throat bandits
in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse
than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they
mangle to expose:
His heart by causeless
wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads’
daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than
life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn,
who ne’er one sprig must wear;
Foil’d, bleeding,
tortur’d in th’ unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounders
on thro’ life:
Till, fled each hope
that once his bosom fir’d,
And fled each muse that
glorious once inspir’d,
Low sunk in squalid,
unprotected age,
Dead even resentment
for his injur’d page,
He heeds or feels no
more the ruthless critic’s rage!
So, by some hedge, the
gen’rous steed deceas’d,
For half-starv’d
snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and famine wore
to skin and bone,
Lies, senseless of each
tugging bitch’s son.
O Dulness! portion of
the truly blest!
Calm shelter’d
haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne’er
madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune’s polar
frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she
fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease
they sip it up;
Conscious the bounteous
meed they well deserve,
They only wonder “some
folks” do not starve.
The grave sage hern
thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard
a sad worthless dog.
When disappointments
snaps the clue of hope,
And thro’ disastrous
night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance
sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that
“fools are fortune’s care.”
So, heavy, passive to
the tempest’s shocks,
Strong on the sign-post
stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses’
mad-cap train,
Not such the workings
of their moon-struck brain;
In equanimity they never
dwell,
By turns in soaring
heav’n, or vaulted hell.
I dread thee, Fate,
relentless and severe,
With all a poet’s,
husband’s, father’s fear!
Already one strong hold
of hope is lost—
Glencairn, the truly
noble, lies in dust
(Fled, like the sun
eclips’d as noon appears,
And left us darkling
in a world of tears);
O! hear my ardent, grateful,
selfish pray’r!
Fintry, my other stay,
long bless and spare!
Thro’ a long life
his hopes and wishes crown,
And bright in cloudless
skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth
his private path;
Give energy to life;
and soothe his latest breath,
With many a filial tear
circling the bed of death!
Tune—“Oran an aoig.”
Scene—A Field
of Battle. Time of the day—evening.
The wounded
and dying of the victorious
army are supposed to join in the
following song.
Farewell, thou fair
day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the broad
setting sun;
Farewell, loves and
friendships, ye dear tender ties,
Our race of existence
is run!
Thou grim King of Terrors;
thou Life’s gloomy foe!
Go, frighten the coward
and slave;
Go, teach them to tremble,
fell tyrant! but know
No terrors hast thou
to the brave!
Thou strik’st
the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e’en
the wreck of a name;
Thou strik’st
the young hero—a glorious mark;
He falls in the blaze
of his fame!
In the field of proud
honour—our swords in our hands,
Our King and our country
to save;
While victory shines
on Life’s last ebbing sands,—
O! who would not die
with the brave!
Poem On Sensibility
Sensibility, how charming,
Dearest Nancy, thou
canst tell;
But distress, with horrors
arming,
Thou alas! hast known
too well!
Fairest flower, behold
the lily
Blooming in the sunny
ray:
Let the blast sweep
o’er the valley,
See it prostrate in
the clay.
Hear the wood lark charm
the forest,
Telling o’er his
little joys;
But alas! a prey the
surest
To each pirate of the
skies.
Dearly bought the hidden
treasure
Finer feelings can bestow:
Chords that vibrate
sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes
of woe.
Of Lordly acquaintance
you boast,
And the Dukes that you
dined wi’ yestreen,
Yet an insect’s
an insect at most,
Tho’ it crawl
on the curl of a Queen!
Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington
As cauld a wind as ever
blew,
A cauld kirk, an in’t
but few:
As cauld a minister’s
e’er spak;
Ye’se a’
be het e’er I come back.
How daur ye ca’
me howlet-face,
Ye blear-e’ed,
withered spectre?
Ye only spied the keekin’-glass,
An’ there ye saw
your picture.
A Grace Before Dinner, Extempore
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!
O thou, in whom we live
and move—
Who made 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.
Amen!
O May, Thy Morn
O may, thy morn was
ne’er so sweet
As the mirk night o’
December!
For sparkling was the
rosy wine,
And private was the
chamber:
And dear was she I dare
na name,
But I will aye remember:
And dear was she I dare
na name,
But I will aye remember.
And here’s to
them that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum!
And here’s to
them that wish us weel,
May a’ that’s
guid watch o’er ’em!
And here’s to
them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o’
the quorum!
And here’s to
them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o’
the quorum.
Tune—“Rory Dall’s Port.”
Ae fond kiss, and then
we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for
ever!
Deep in heart-wrung
tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans
I’ll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune
grieves him,
While the star of hope
she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle
lights me;
Dark despair around
benights me.
I’ll ne’er
blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist
my Nancy:
But to see her was to
love her;
Love but her, and love
for ever.
Had we never lov’d
sae kindly,
Had we never lov’d
sae blindly,
Never met—or
never parted,
We had ne’er been
broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou
first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou
best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and
treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love
and Pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then
we sever!
Ae fareweeli alas, for
ever!
Deep in heart-wrung
tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans
I’ll wage thee.
Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive
Behold the hour, the
boat, arrive!
My dearest Nancy, O
fareweel!
Severed frae thee, can
I survive,
Frae thee whom I hae
lov’d sae weel?
Endless and deep shall
be my grief;
LNae ray of comfort
shall I see,
But this most precious,
dear belief,
That thou wilt still
remember me!
Alang the solitary shore
Where flitting sea-fowl
round me cry,
Across the rolling,
dashing roar,
I’ll westward
turn my wishful eye.
“Happy thou Indian
grove,” I’ll say,
“Where now my
Nancy’s path shall be!
While thro’ your
sweets she holds her way,
O tell me, does she
muse on me?”
Ance mair I hail thee,
thou gloomy December!
Ance mair I hail thee
wi’ sorrow and care;
Sad was the parting
thou makes me remember—
Parting wi’ Nancy,
oh, ne’er to meet mair!
Fond lovers’ parting
is sweet, painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on
the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling,
O farewell for ever!
Is anguish unmingled,
and agony pure!
Wild as the winter now
tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf o’
the summer is flown;
Such is the tempest
has shaken my bosom,
Till my last hope and
last comfort is gone.
Still as I hail thee,
thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee
wi’ sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting
thou makes me remember,
Parting wi’ Nancy,
oh, ne’er to meet mair.
My Native Land Sae Far Awa
O sad and heavy, should
I part,
But for her sake, sae
far awa;
Unknowing what my way
may thwart,
My native land sae far
awa.
Thou that of a’
things Maker art,
That formed this Fair
sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then
I’ll ne’er start
At this my way sae far
awa.
How true is love to
pure desert!
Like mine for her sae
far awa;
And nocht can heal my
bosom’s smart,
While, oh, she is sae
far awa!
Nane other love, nane
other dart,
I feel but her’s
sae far awa;
But fairer never touch’d
a heart
Than her’s, the
Fair, sae far awa.
1792
Alteration of an Old Poem.
I Do confess thou art
sae fair,
I was been o’er
the lugs in luve,
Had I na found the slightest
prayer
That lips could speak
thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet,
but find
Thou art so thriftless
o’ thy sweets,
Thy favours are the
silly wind
That kisses ilka thing
it meets.
See yonder rosebud,
rich in dew,
Amang its native briers
sae coy;
How sune it tines its
scent and hue,
When pu’d and
worn a common toy.
Sic fate ere lang shall
thee betide,
Tho’ thou may
gaily bloom awhile;
And sune thou shalt
be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed
and vile.
Lines On Fergusson, The Poet
Ill-fated genius!
Heaven-taught Fergusson!
What heart that feels
and will not yield a tear,
To think Life’s
sun did set e’er well begun
To shed its influence
on thy bright career.
O why should truest
Worth and Genius pine
Beneath the iron grasp
of Want and Woe,
While titled knaves
and idiot—Greatness shine
In all the splendour
Fortune can bestow?
Chorus.—The
weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o’
tow;
I think my wife will
end her life,
Before she spin her
tow.
I bought my wife a stane
o’ lint,
As gude as e’er
did grow,
And a’ that she
has made o’ that
Is ae puir pund o’
tow.
The weary pund, &c.
There sat a bottle in
a bole,
Beyont the ingle low;
And aye she took the
tither souk,
To drouk the stourie
tow.
The weary pund, &c.
Quoth I, For shame,
ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o’
tow!
She took the rock, and
wi’ a knock,
She brak it o’er
my pow.
The weary pund, &c.
At last her feet—I
sang to see’t!
Gaed foremost o’er
the knowe,
And or I wad anither
jad,
I’ll wallop in
a tow.
The weary pund, &c.
When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed
O when she cam’
ben she bobbed fu’ law,
O when she cam’
ben she bobbed fu’ law,
And when she cam’
ben, she kiss’d Cockpen,
And syne denied she
did it at a’.
And was na Cockpen right
saucy witha’?
And was na Cockpen right
saucy witha’?
In leaving the daughter
of a lord,
And kissin’ a
collier lassie an’ a’!
O never look down, my
lassie, at a’,
O never look down, my
lassie, at a’,
Thy lips are as sweet,
and thy figure complete,
As the finest dame in
castle or ha’.
Tho’ thou has
nae silk, and holland sae sma’,
Tho’ thou has
nae silk, and holland sae sma’,
Thy coat and thy sark
are thy ain handiwark,
And lady Jean was never
sae braw.
There was a wife wonn’d
in Cockpen, Scroggam;
She brew’d gude
ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye
down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie,
ruffum.
The gudewife’s
dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam;
The priest o’
the parish he fell in anither;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye
down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie,
ruffum.
They laid the twa i’
the bed thegither, Scroggam;
That the heat o’
the tane might cool the tither;
Sing auld Cowl, lay
ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie,
ruffum.
My Collier Laddie
“Whare live ye,
my bonie lass?
And tell me what they
ca’ ye;”
“My name,”
she says, “is mistress Jean,
And I follow the Collier
laddie.”
“My name, she
says, &c.
“See you not yon
hills and dales
The sun shines on sae
brawlie;
They a’ are mine,
and they shall be thine,
Gin ye’ll leave
your Collier laddie.
“They a’
are mine, &c.
“Ye shall gang
in gay attire,
Weel buskit up sae gaudy;
And ane to wait on every
hand,
Gin ye’ll leave
your Collier laddie.”
“And ane to wait,
&c.
“Tho’ ye
had a’ the sun shines on,
And the earth conceals
sae lowly,
I wad turn my back on
you and it a’,
And embrace my Collier
laddie.
“I wad turn my
back, &c.
“I can win my
five pennies in a day,
An’ spen’t
at night fu’ brawlie:
And make my bed in the
collier’s neuk,
And lie down wi’
my Collier laddie.
“And make my bed,
&c.
“Love for love is the bargain for me, Tho’ the wee cot-house should haud me; and the warld before me to win my bread, And fair fa’ my Collier laddie!” “And the warld before me, &c.
Willie Wastle dwalt
on Tweed,
The spot they ca’d
it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster
gude,
Could stown a clue wi’
ony body:
He had a wife was dour
and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was
her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wad na gie a button
for her!
She has an e’e,
she has but ane,
The cat has twa the
very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye
a stump,
A clapper tongue wad
deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about
her mou’,
Her nose and chin they
threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wadna gie a button
for her!
She’s bow-hough’d,
she’s hein-shin’d,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed
shorter;
She’s twisted
right, she’s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka
quarter:
She has a lump upon
her breast,
The twin o’ that
upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wadna gie a button
for her!
Auld baudrons by the
ingle sits,
An’ wi’
her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie’s wife
is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie
wi’ a hushion;
Her walie nieves like
midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the
Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wadna gie a button
for her!
Lady Mary Ann
O lady Mary Ann looks
o’er the Castle wa’,
She saw three bonie
boys playing at the ba’,
The youngest he was
the flower amang them a’,
My bonie laddie’s
young, but he’s growin’ yet.
O father, O father,
an ye think it fit,
We’ll send him
a year to the college yet,
We’ll sew a green
ribbon round about his hat,
And that will let them
ken he’s to marry yet.
Lady Mary Ann was a
flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell
and bonie was its hue,
And the longer it blossom’d
the sweeter it grew,
For the lily in the
bud will be bonier yet.
Young Charlie Cochran
was the sprout of an aik,
Bonie and bloomin’
and straught was its make,
The sun took delight
to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag
o’ the forest yet.
The simmer is gane when
the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa’
that we hae seen,
But far better days
I trust will come again;
For my bonie laddie’s
young, but he’s growin’ yet.
There lived a carl in
Kellyburn Braes,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
And he had a wife was
the plague of his days,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Ae day as the carl gaed
up the lang glen,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
He met with the Devil,
says, “How do you fen?”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
I’ve got a bad
wife, sir, that’s a’ my complaint,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“For, savin your
presence, to her ye’re a saint,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
It’s neither your
stot nor your staig I shall crave,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“But gie me your
wife, man, for her I must have,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
“O welcome most
kindly!” the blythe carl said,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“But if ye can
match her ye’re waur than ye’re ca’d,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil has got the
auld wife on his back,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
And, like a poor pedlar,
he’s carried his pack,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
He’s carried her
hame to his ain hallan door,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
Syne bade her gae in,
for a bitch, and a whore,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Then straight he makes
fifty, the pick o’ his band,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme:
Turn out on her guard
in the clap o’ a hand,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The carlin gaed thro’
them like ony wud bear,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
Whae’er she gat
hands on cam near her nae mair,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
A reekit wee deevil
looks over the wa’,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“O help, maister,
help, or she’ll ruin us a’!”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by
the edge o’ his knife,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
He pitied the man that
was tied to a wife,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by
the kirk and the bell,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
He was not in wedlock,
thank Heav’n, but in hell,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travell’d
again wi’ his pack,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
And to her auld husband
he’s carried her back,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
I hae been a Devil the
feck o’ my life,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“But ne’er
was in hell till I met wi’ a wife,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Slave’s Lament
It was in sweet Senegal
that my foes did me enthral,
For the lands of Virginia,—ginia,
O:
Torn from that lovely
shore, and must never see it more;
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
Torn from that lovely
shore, and must never see it more;
And alas! I am
weary, weary O.
All on that charming
coast is no bitter snow and frost,
Like the lands of Virginia,—ginia,
O:
There streams for ever
flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
There streams for ever
flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
The burden I must bear,
while the cruel scourge I fear,
In the lands of Virginia,—ginia,
O;
And I think on friends
most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
And I think on friends
most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
O Can Ye Labour Lea?
Chorus—O
can ye labour lea, young man,
O can ye labour lea?
It fee nor bountith
shall us twine
Gin ye can labour lea.
I fee’d a man
at Michaelmas,
Wi’ airle pennies
three;
But a’ the faut
I had to him,
He could na labour lea,
O can ye labour lea,
&c.
O clappin’s gude
in Febarwar,
An’ kissin’s
sweet in May;
But my delight’s
the ploughman lad,
That weel can labour
lea,
O can ye labour lea,
&c.
O kissin is the key
o’ luve,
And clappin’ is
the lock;
An’ makin’
o’s the best thing yet,
That e’er a young
thing gat.
O can ye labour lea,
&c.
The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout, The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O! The fien-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin’ body, O! He paidles out, and he paidles in, rn’ he paidles late and early, O! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O.
O haud your tongue,
my feirrie auld wife,
O haud your tongue,
now Nansie, O:
I’ve seen the
day, and sae hae ye,
Ye wad na ben sae donsie,
O.
I’ve seen the
day ye butter’d my brose,
And cuddl’d me
late and early, O;
But downa-do’s
come o’er me now,
And oh, I find it sairly,
O!
The Deil’s Awa Wi’ The Exciseman
The deil cam fiddlin’
thro’ the town,
And danc’d awa
wi’ th’ Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries,
“Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o’
the prize, man.”
Chorus—The
deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,
The deil’s awa
wi’ the Exciseman,
He’s danc’d
awa, he’s danc’d awa,
He’s danc’d
awa wi’ the Exciseman.
We’ll mak our
maut, and we’ll brew our drink,
We’ll laugh, sing,
and rejoice, man,
And mony braw thanks
to the meikle black deil,
That danc’d awa
wi’ th’ Exciseman.
The deil’s awa,
&c.
There’s threesome
reels, there’s foursome reels,
There’s hornpipes
and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance
ere came to the land
Was—the deil’s
awa wi’ the Exciseman.
The deil’s awa,
&c.
In simmer, when the
hay was mawn,
And corn wav’d
green in ilka field,
While claver blooms
white o’er the lea
And roses blaw in ilka
beild!
Blythe Bessie in the
milking shiel,
Says—“I’ll
be wed, come o’t what will”:
Out spake a dame in
wrinkled eild;
“O’ gude
advisement comes nae ill.
“It’s ye
hae wooers mony ane,
And lassie, ye’re
but young ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and
cannie wale
A routhie butt, a routhie
ben;
There’s Johnie
o’ the Buskie-glen,
Fu’ is his barn,
fu’ is his byre;
Take this frae me, my
bonie hen,
It’s plenty beets
the luver’s fire.”
“For Johnie o’
the Buskie-glen,
I dinna care a single
flie;
He lo’es sae weel
his craps and kye,
He has nae love to spare
for me;
But blythe’s the
blink o’ Robie’s e’e,
And weel I wat he lo’es
me dear:
Ae blink o’ him
I wad na gie
For Buskie-glen and
a’ his gear.”
“O thoughtless
lassie, life’s a faught;
The canniest gate, the
strife is sair;
But aye fu’—han’t
is fechtin’ best,
A hungry care’s
an unco care:
But some will spend
and some will spare,
An’ wilfu’
folk maun hae their will;
Syne as ye brew, my
maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun
drink the yill.”
“O gear will buy
me rigs o’ land,
And gear will buy me
sheep and kye;
But the tender heart
o’ leesome love,
The gowd and siller
canna buy;
We may be poor—Robie
and I—
Light is the burden
love lays on;
Content and love brings
peace and joy—
What mair hae Queens
upon a throne?”
Bessy And Her Spinnin’ Wheel
O Leeze me on my spinnin’
wheel,
And leeze me on my rock
and reel;
Frae tap to tae that
cleeds me bien,
And haps me biel and
warm at e’en;
I’ll set me down
and sing and spin,
While laigh descends
the simmer sun,
Blest wi’ content,
and milk and meal,
O leeze me on my spinnin’
wheel.
On ilka hand the burnies
trot,
And meet below my theekit
cot;
The scented birk and
hawthorn white,
Across the pool their
arms unite,
Alike to screen the
birdie’s nest,
And little fishes’
caller rest;
The sun blinks kindly
in the beil’,
Where blythe I turn
my spinnin’ wheel.
On lofty aiks the cushats
wail,
And Echo cons the doolfu’
tale;
The lintwhites in the
hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither’s
lays;
The craik amang the
claver hay,
The pairtrick whirring
o’er the ley,
The swallow jinkin’
round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinnin’
wheel.
Wi’ sma’
to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below
envy,
O wha wad leave this
humble state,
For a’ the pride
of a’ the great?
Amid their flairing,
idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous,
dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and
pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinnin’
wheel?
Ithers seek they ken
na what,
Features, carriage,
and a’ that;
Gie me love in her I
court,
Love to love maks a’
the sport.
Let love sparkle in
her e’e;
Let her lo’e nae
man but me;
That’s the tocher-gude
I prize,
There the luver’s
treasure lies.
Saw Ye Bonie Lesley
O saw ye bonie Lesley,
As she gaed o’er
the Border?
She’s gane, like
Alexander,
To spread her conquests
farther.
To see her is to love
her,
And love but her for
ever;
For Nature made her
what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair
Lesley,
Thy subjects, we before
thee;
Thou art divine, fair
Lesley,
The hearts o’
men adore thee.
The deil he could na
scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang
thee;
He’d look into
thy bonie face,
And say—“I
canna wrang thee!”
The Powers aboon will
tent thee,
Misfortune sha’na
steer thee;
Thou’rt like themselves
sae lovely,
That ill they’ll
ne’er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we
hae a lass
There’s nane again
sae bonie.
No cold approach, no
altered mien,
Just what would make
suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes
between,
He made me blest—and
broke my heart.
I’ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig
When o’er the
hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin time is
near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow’d
field
Return sae dowf and
weary O;
Down by the burn, where
birken buds
Wi’ dew are hangin
clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee
on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
At midnight hour, in
mirkest glen,
I’d rove, and
ne’er be eerie, O,
If thro’ that
glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O;
Altho’ the night
were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er
sae weary O,
I’ll meet thee
on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
The hunter lo’es
the morning sun;
To rouse the mountain
deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks
the glen
Adown the burn to steer,
my jo:
Gie me the hour o’
gloamin’ grey,
It maks my heart sae
cheery O,
To meet thee on the
lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
Air—“My Wife’s a Wanton Wee Thing.”
Chorus.—She
is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee
thing,
She is a lo’esome
wee thing,
This dear wee wife o’
mine.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed
a dearer,
And neist my heart I’ll
wear her,
For fear my jewel tine,
She is a winsome, &c.
The warld’s wrack
we share o’t;
The warstle and the
care o’t;
Wi’ her I’ll
blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
She is a winsome, &c.
Highland Mary
Tune—“Katherine Ogie.”
Ye banks, and braes,
and streams around
The castle o’
Montgomery!
Green be your woods,
and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie:
There Simmer first unfauld
her robes,
And there the langest
tarry;
For there I took the
last Farewell
O’ my sweet Highland
Mary.
How sweetly bloom’d
the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s
blossom,
As underneath their
fragrant shade,
I clasp’d her
to my bosom!
The golden Hours on
angel wings,
Flew o’er me and
my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light
and life,
Was my sweet Highland
Mary.
Wi’ mony a vow,
and lock’d embrace,
Our parting was fu’
tender;
And, pledging aft to
meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death’s
untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower
sae early!
Now green’s the
sod, and cauld’s the clay
That wraps my Highland
Mary!
O pale, pale now, those
rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss’d
sae fondly!
And clos’d for
aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae
kindly!
And mouldering now in
silent dust,
That heart that lo’ed
me dearly!
But still within my
bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland
Mary.
There’s Auld Rob
Morris that wons in yon glen,
He’s the King
o’ gude fellows, and wale o’ auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers,
he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lass, his
dautie and mine.
She’s fresh as
the morning, the fairest in May;
She’s sweet as
the ev’ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless
as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart
as the light to my e’e.
But oh! she’s
an Heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,
And my daddie has nought
but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna
hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide
that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me,
but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me,
but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like
a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart
it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of
a lower degree,
I then might hae hop’d
she wad smil’d upon me!
O how past descriving
had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction
nae words can express.
The Rights Of Woman
An Occasional Address.
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.
While Europe’s
eye is fix’d on mighty things,
The fate of Empires
and the fall of Kings;
While quacks of State
must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp
the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss
just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman
merit some attention.
First, in the Sexes’
intermix’d connection,
One sacred Right of
Woman is, protection.—
The tender flower that
lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall
before the blasts of Fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac’d
its lovely form,
Unless your shelter
ward th’ impending storm.
Our second Right—but
needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate’s
the fashion;
Each man of sense has
it so full before him,
He’d die before
he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.—
There was, indeed, in
far less polish’d days,
A time, when rough rude
man had naughty ways,
Would swagger, swear,
get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade
a Lady’s quiet.
Now, thank our stars!
those Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men—and
you are all well-bred—
Most justly think (and
we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither
spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third,
our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering
female hearts the nearest;
Which even the Rights
of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own—’tis
dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere
alone we live and move;
There taste that life
of life—immortal love.
Smiles, glances, sighs,
tears, fits, flirtations, airs;
’Gainst such an
host what flinty savage dares,
When awful Beauty joins
with all her charms—
Who is so rash as rise
in rebel arms?
But truce with kings,
and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments
and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first
attention summon,
Ah! ca ira! The
Majesty Of Woman!
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’d’st
act a part.
Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson
Dost thou not rise,
indignant shade,
And smile wi’
spurning scorn,
When they wha wad hae
starved thy life,
Thy senseless turf adorn?
Helpless, alane, thou
clamb the brae,
Wi’ meikle honest
toil,
And claught th’
unfading garland there—
Thy sair-worn, rightful
spoil.
And wear it thou! and
call aloud
This axiom undoubted—
Would thou hae Nobles’
patronage?
First learn to live
without it!
To whom hae much, more
shall be given,
Is every Great man’s
faith;
But he, the helpless,
needful wretch,
Shall lose the mite
he hath.
Duncan Gray cam’
here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule-night
when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head
fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent
and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand
abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan fleech’d
and Duncan pray’d;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa
Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Duncan sigh’d
baith out and in,
Grat his e’en
baith blear’t an’ blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin
o’er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Time and Chance are
but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Slighted love is sair
to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Shall I like a fool,
quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie
die?
She may gae to—France
for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
How it comes let doctors
tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Meg grew sick, as he
grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom
wrings,
For relief a sigh she
brings:
And oh! her een they
spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan was a lad o’
grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Maggie’s was a
piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Duncan could na be her
death,
Swelling Pity smoor’d
his wrath;
Now they’re crouse
and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Here’s A Health To Them That’s Awa
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa;
And wha winna wish gude
luck to our cause,
May never gude luck
be their fa’!
It’s gude to be
merry and wise,
It’s gude to be
honest and true;
It’s gude to support
Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the buff
and the blue.
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to Charlie^1 the chief o’ the clan,
Altho’ that his
band be but sma’!
May Liberty meet wi’
success!
May Prudence protect
her frae evil!
May tyrants and tyranny
tine i’ the mist,
And wander their way
to the devil!
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa;
Here’s a health
to Tammie,^2 the Norlan’ laddie,
That lives at the lug
o’ the law!
Here’s freedom
to them that wad read,
Here’s freedom
to them that wad write,
[Footnote 1: Charles James Fox.]
[Footnote 2: Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.]
There’s nane ever
fear’d that the truth should be heard,
But they whom the truth
would indite.
Here’s a Health
to them that’s awa,
An’ here’s
to them that’s awa!
Here’s to Maitland
and Wycombe, let wha doesna like ’em
Be built in a hole in
the wa’;
Here’s timmer
that’s red at the heart
Here’s fruit that
is sound at the core;
And may he be that wad
turn the buff and blue coat
Be turn’d to the
back o’ the door.
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa;
Here’s chieftain
M’Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho’ bred amang
mountains o’ snaw;
Here’s friends
on baith sides o’ the firth,
And friends on baith
sides o’ the Tweed;
And wha wad betray old
Albion’s right,
May they never eat of
her bread!
On the Duke of Brunswick’s Breaking up his Camp,
and the defeat of the
Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792.
When Princes and Prelates,
And hot-headed zealots,
A’Europe had set
in a low, a low,
The poor man lies down,
Nor envies a crown,
And comforts himself
as he dow, as he dow,
And comforts himself
as he dow.
The black-headed eagle,
As keen as a beagle,
He hunted o’er
height and o’er howe,
In the braes o’
Gemappe,
He fell in a trap,
E’en let him come
out as he dow, dow, dow,
E’en let him come
out as he dow.
But truce with commotions,
And new-fangled notions,
A bumper, I trust you’ll
allow;
Here’s George
our good king,
And Charlotte his queen,
And lang may they ring
as they dow, dow, dow,
And lang may they ring
as they dow.
1793
Tune—“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.”
O poortith cauld, and
restless love,
Ye wrack my peace between
ye;
Yet poortith a’
I could forgive,
An ’twere na for
my Jeanie.
Chorus—O
why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest
bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower
as love
Depend on Fortune’s
shining?
The warld’s wealth,
when I think on,
It’s pride and
a’ the lave o’t;
O fie on silly coward
man,
That he should be the
slave o’t!
O why, &c.
Her e’en, sae
bonie blue, betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her
o’erword aye,
She talks o’ rank
and fashion.
O why, &c.
O wha can prudence think
upon,
And sic a lassie by
him?
O wha can prudence think
upon,
And sae in love as I
am?
O why, &c.
How blest the simple
cotter’s fate!
He woos his artless
dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth
and state,
Can never make him eerie,
O why, &c.
On Politics
In Politics if thou
would’st mix,
And mean thy fortunes
be;
Bear this in mind,—be
deaf and blind,
Let great folk hear
and see.
Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes,
They rove amang the
blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor
Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o’
Galla Water.
But there is ane, a
secret ane,
Aboon them a’
I loe him better;
And I’ll be his,
and he’ll be mine,
The bonie lad o’
Galla Water.
Altho’ his daddie
was nae laird,
And tho’ I hae
nae meikle tocher,
Yet rich in kindest,
truest love,
We’ll tent our
flocks by Galla Water.
It ne’er was wealth,
it ne’er was wealth,
That coft contentment,
peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss
o’ mutual love,
O that’s the chiefest
warld’s treasure.
Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday,
On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.
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 furrowed 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
ought 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 heav’n
bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.
Here awa, there awa,
wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering,
haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my
ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring’st
me my Willie the same.
Loud blew the cauld
winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast
brought the tear in my e’e:
Now welcome the Simmer,
and welcome my Willie,
The Simmer to Nature,
my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes rest in
the cave o’your slumbers,
O how your wild horrors
a lover alarms!
Awaken ye breezes, row
gently ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie
ance mair to my arms.
But if he’s forgotten
his faithfullest Nannie,
O still flow between
us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it,
may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe
that my Willie’s my ain!
Wandering Willie—Revised Version
Here awa, there awa,
wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa,
haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my
ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring’st
me my Willie the same.
Winter winds blew loud
and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie
brought tears in my e’e,
Welcome now the Simmer,
and welcome, my Willie,
The Simmer to Nature,
my Willie to me!
Rest, ye wild storms,
in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling
a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes,
row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie
ance mair to my arms.
But oh, if he’s
faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us,
thou wide roaring main!
May I never see it,
may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe
that my Willie’s my ain!
O mirk, mirk is this
midnight hour,
And loud the tempest’s
roar;
A waefu’ wanderer
seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy
door.
An exile frae her father’s
ha’,
And a’ for loving
thee;
At least some pity on
me shaw,
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind’st
thou not the grove
By bonie Irwine side,
Where first I own’d
that virgin love
I lang, lang had denied.
How aften didst thou
pledge and vow
Thou wad for aye be
mine!
And my fond heart, itsel’
sae true,
It ne’er mistrusted
thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord
Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast:
Thou bolt of Heaven
that flashest by,
O, wilt thou bring me
rest!
Ye mustering thunders
from above,
Your willing victim
see;
But spare and pardon
my fause Love,
His wrangs to Heaven
and me.
Open The Door To Me, Oh
Oh, open the door, some
pity to shew,
Oh, open the door to
me, oh,
Tho’ thou hast
been false, I’ll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to
me, oh.
Cauld is the blast upon
my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love
for me, oh:
The frost that freezes
the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains
frae thee, oh.
The wan Moon is setting
beyond the white wave,
And Time is setting
with me, oh:
False friends, false
love, farewell! for mair
I’ll ne’er
trouble them, nor thee, oh.
She has open’d
the door, she has open’d it wide,
She sees the pale corse
on the plain, oh:
“My true love!”
she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again,
oh.
True hearted was he,
the sad swain o’ the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids
on the banks of the Ayr;
But by the sweet side
o’ the Nith’s winding river,
Are lovers as faithful,
and maidens as fair:
To equal young Jessie
seek Scotland all over;
To equal young Jessie
you seek it in vain,
Grace, beauty, and elegance,
fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty
fixes the chain.
O, fresh is the rose
in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily,
at evening close;
But in the fair presence
o’ lovely young Jessie,
Unseen is the lily,
unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile,
a wizard ensnaring;
Enthron’d in her
een he delivers his law:
And still to her charms
she alone is a stranger;
Her modest demeanour’s
the jewel of a’.
Meg O’ The Mill
O ken ye what Meg o’
the Mill has gotten,
An’ ken ye what
Meg o’ the Mill has gotten?
She gotten a coof wi’
a claut o’ siller,
And broken the heart
o’ the barley Miller.
The Miller was strappin,
the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord,
and a hue like a lady;
The laird was a widdifu’,
bleerit knurl;
She’s left the
gude fellow, and taen the churl.
The Miller he hecht
her a heart leal and loving,
The lair did address
her wi’ matter mair moving,
A fine pacing-horse
wi’ a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side,
and a bonie side-saddle.
O wae on the siller,
it is sae prevailin’,
And wae on the love
that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher’s nae
word in a true lover’s parle,
But gie me my love,
and a fig for the warl’!
O ken ye what Meg o’
the Mill has gotten,
An’ ken ye what
Meg o’ the Mill has gotten?
A braw new naig wi’
the tail o’ a rottan,
And that’s what
Meg o’ the Mill has gotten.
O ken ye what Meg o’
the Mill lo’es dearly,
An’ ken ye what
Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly?
A dram o’ gude
strunt in the morning early,
And that’s what
Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly.
O ken ye how Meg o’
the Mill was married,
An’ ken ye how
Meg o’ the Mill was married?
The priest he was oxter’d,
the clark he was carried,
And that’s how
Meg o’ the Mill was married.
O ken ye how Meg o’
the Mill was bedded,
An’ ken ye how
Meg o’ the Mill was bedded?
The groom gat sae fou’,
he fell awald beside it,
And that’s how
Meg o’ the Mill was bedded.
The Soldier’s Return
Air—“The Mill, mill, O.”
When wild war’s
deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet
babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and
tented field,
Where lang I’d
been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’
my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.
A leal, light heart
was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d
wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia
hame again,
I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks
o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching
smile
That caught my youthful
fancy.
At length I reach’d
the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill
and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain
dear maid,
Down by her mother’s
dwelling!
And turn’d me
round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
Wi’ alter’d
voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s
blossom,
O! happy, happy may
he be,
That’s dearest
to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I’ve
far to gang,
And fain would be thy
lodger;
I’ve serv’d
my king and country lang—
Take pity on a sodger.”
Sae wistfully she gaz’d
on me,
And lovelier was than
ever;
Quo’ she, “A
sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and
hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake
it;
That gallant badge—the
dear cockade,
Ye’re welcome
for the sake o’t.”
She gaz’d—she
redden’d like a rose—
Syne pale like only
lily;
She sank within my arms,
and cried,
“Art thou my ain
dear Willie?”
“By him who made
yon sun and sky!
By whom true love’s
regarded,
I am the man; and thus
may still
True lovers be rewarded.
“The wars are
o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still
true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear,
we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se
ne’er be parted.”
Quo’ she, “My
grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d
fairly;
And come, my faithfu’
sodger lad,
Thou’rt welcome
to it dearly!”
For gold the merchant
ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the
manor;
But glory is the sodger’s
prize,
The sodgerpppp’s
wealth is honor:
The brave poor sodger
ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s
his country’s stay,
In day and hour of danger.
The True Loyal Natives
Ye true “Loyal
Natives” attend to my song
In uproar and riot rejoice
the night long;
From Envy and Hatred
your corps is exempt,
But where is your shield
from the darts of Contempt!
Lord, to account who
dares thee call,
Or e’er dispute
thy pleasure?
Else why, within so
thick a wall,
Enclose so poor a treasure?
Lines Inscribed In A Lady’s Pocket Almanac
Grant me, indulgent
Heaven, 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 that were.
Ye hypocrites! are these
your pranks?
To murder men and give
God thanks!
Desist, for shame!—proceed
no further;
God won’t accept
your thanks for Murther!
Lines On The Commemoration Of Rodney’s Victory
Instead of a Song, boy’s,
I’ll give you a Toast;
Here’s to 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 will
last while the world goes round.
The next in succession
I’ll give you’s 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 our great Revolution!
And longer with Politics
not to be cramm’d,
Be Anarchy curs’d,
and Tyranny damn’d!
And who would to Liberty
e’er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman—and
he his first trial!
Thou greybeard, old
Wisdom! may boast of thy treasures;
Give me with young Folly
to live;
I grant thee thy calm-blooded,
time-settled pleasures,
But Folly has raptures
to give.
Kirk and State Excisemen
Ye men of wit and wealth,
why all this sneering
’Gainst poor Excisemen?
Give the cause a hearing:
What are your Landlord’s
rent-rolls? Taxing ledgers!
What Premiers?
What ev’n Monarchs? Mighty Gaugers!
Nay, what are Priests?
(those seeming godly wise-men,)
What are they, pray,
but Spiritual Excisemen!
The King’s most
humble servant, I
Can scarcely spare a
minute;
But I’ll be wi’
you by an’ by;
Or else the Deil’s
be in it.
Grace After Meat
Lord, we thank, and
thee adore,
For temporal gifts we
little merit;
At present we will ask
no more—
Let William Hislop give
the spirit.
O Lord, when hunger
pinches sore,
Do thou stand us in
stead,
And send us, from thy
bounteous store,
A tup or wether head!
Amen.
O Lord, since we have
feasted thus,
Which we so little merit,
Let Meg now take away
the flesh,
And Jock bring in the
spirit! Amen.
Impromptu On General Dumourier’s Desertion From The French Republican Army
You’re welcome
to Despots, Dumourier;
You’re welcome
to Despots, Dumourier:
How does Dampiere do?
Ay, and Bournonville
too?
Why did they not come
along with you, Dumourier?
I will fight France
with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France
with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France
with you,
I will take my chance
with you;
By my soul, I’ll
dance with you, Dumourier.
Then let us fight about,
Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Till Freedom’s
spark be out,
Then we’ll be
damn’d, no doubt, Dumourier.
The last time I came
o’er the moor,
And left Maria’s
dwelling,
What throes, what tortures
passing cure,
Were in my bosom swelling:
Condemn’d to see
my rival’s reign,
While I in secret languish;
To feel a fire in every
vein,
Yet dare not speak my
anguish.
Love’s veriest
wretch, despairing, I
Fain, fain, my crime
would cover;
Th’ unweeting
groan, the bursting sigh,
Betray the guilty lover.
I know my doom must
be despair,
Thou wilt nor canst
relieve me;
But oh, Maria, hear
my prayer,
For Pity’s sake
forgive me!
The music of thy tongue
I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav’d
me;
I saw thine eyes, yet
nothing fear’d,
Till fear no more had
sav’d me:
The unwary sailor thus,
aghast,
The wheeling torrent
viewing,
’Mid circling
horrors yields at last
To overwhelming ruin.
Logan Braes
Tune—“Logan Water.”
O Logan, sweetly didst
thou glide,
That day I was my Willie’s
bride,
And years sin syne hae
o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer
sun:
But now thy flowery
banks appear
Like drumlie Winter,
dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun
face his faes,
Far, far frae me and
Logan braes.
Again the merry month
of May
Has made our hills and
valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in
leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the
breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts
his rosy eye,
And Evening’s
tears are tears o’ joy:
My soul, delightless
a’ surveys,
While Willie’s
far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white
hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings
sits the thrush:
Her faithfu’ mate
will share her toil,
Or wi’ his song
her cares beguile;
But I wi’ my sweet
nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae
mate to cheer,
Pass widow’d nights
and joyless days,
While Willie’s
far frae Logan braes.
O wae be to you, Men
o’ State,
That brethren rouse
to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond
heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads
return!
How can your flinty
hearts enjoy
The widow’s tear,
the orphan’s cry?
But soon may peace bring
happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan
braes!
Tune—“The Quaker’s Wife.”
Blythe hae I been on
yon hill,
As the lambs before
me;
Careless ilka thought
and free,
As the breeze flew o’er
me;
Now nae langer sport
and play,
Mirth or sang can please
me;
Lesley is sae fair and
coy,
Care and anguish seize
me.
Heavy, heavy is the
task,
Hopeless love declaring;
Trembling, I dow nocht
but glow’r,
Sighing, dumb despairing!
If she winna ease the
thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green
sod,
Soon maun be my dwelling.
O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair
Air—“Hughie Graham.”
O were my love yon Lilac
fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms
to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter
there,
When wearied on my little
wing!
How I wad mourn when
it was torn
By Autumn wild, and
Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton
wing,
When youthfu’
May its bloom renew’d.
O gin my love were yon
red rose,
That grows upon the
castle wa’;
And I myself a drap
o’ dew,
Into her bonie breast
to fa’!
O there, beyond expression
blest,
I’d feast on beauty
a’ the night;
Seal’d on her
silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley’d awa
by Phoebus’ light!
To its ain tune.
There was a lass, and
she was fair,
At kirk or market to
be seen;
When a’ our fairest
maids were met,
The fairest maid was
bonie Jean.
And aye she wrought
her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sang sae
merrilie;
The blythest bird upon
the bush
Had ne’er a lighter
heart than she.
But hawks will rob the
tender joys
That bless the little
lintwhite’s nest;
And frost will blight
the fairest flowers,
And love will break
the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the
brawest lad,
The flower and pride
of a’ the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep,
and kye,
And wanton naigies nine
or ten.
He gaed wi’ Jeanie
to the tryste,
He danc’d wi’
Jeanie on the down;
And, lang ere witless
Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint,
her peace was stown!
As in the bosom of the
stream,
The moon-beam dwells
at dewy e’en;
So trembling, pure,
was tender love
Within the breast of
bonie Jean.
And now she works her
mammie’s wark,
And aye she sighs wi’
care and pain;
Yet wist na what her
ail might be,
Or what wad make her
weel again.
But did na Jeanie’s
heart loup light,
And didna joy blink
in her e’e,
As Robie tauld a tale
o’ love
Ae e’ening on
the lily lea?
The sun was sinking
in the west,
The birds sang sweet
in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he
fondly laid,
And whisper’d
thus his tale o’ love:
“O Jeanie fair,
I lo’e thee dear;
O canst thou think to
fancy me,
Or wilt thou leave thy
mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the
farms wi’ me?
“At barn or byre
thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to
trouble thee;
But stray amang the
heather-bells,
And tent the waving
corn wi’ me.”
Now what could artless
Jeanie do?
She had nae will to
say him na:
At length she blush’d
a sweet consent,
And love was aye between
them twa.
Lines On John M’Murdo, Esq.
Blest be M’Murdo
to his latest day!
No envious cloud o’ercast
his evening ray;
No wrinkle, furrow’d
by the hand of care,
Nor ever sorrow add
one silver hair!
O may no son the father’s
honour stain,
Nor ever daughter give
the mother pain!
Named Echo
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.
Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway
What dost thou in that
mansion fair?
Flit, Galloway, and
find
Some narrow, dirty,
dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind.
No Stewart art thou,
Galloway,
The Stewarts ’ll
were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts
were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.
Bright ran thy line,
O Galloway,
Thro’ many a far-fam’d
sire!
So ran the far-famed
Roman way,
And ended in a mire.
Spare me thy vengeance,
Galloway!
In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at
thy hand,
For thou hast none to
give.
When Morine, deceas’d,
to the Devil went down,
’Twas nothing
would serve him but Satan’s own crown;
“Thy fool’s
head,” quoth Satan, “that crown shall wear
never,
I grant thou’rt
as wicked, but not quite so clever.”
Song—Phillis The Fair
Tune—“Robin Adair.”
While larks, with little
wing,
Fann’d the pure
air,
Tasting the breathing
Spring,
Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun’s
golden eye
Peep’d o’er
the mountains high;
Such thy morn! did I
cry,
Phillis the fair.
In each bird’s
careless song,
Glad I did share;
While yon wild-flowers
among,
Chance led me there!
Sweet to the op’ning
day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy
spray;
Such thy bloom! did
I say,
Phillis the fair.
Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were;
I mark’d the cruel
hawk
Caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune
be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure
thee,
Phillis the fair.
Tune—“Robin Adair.”
Had I a cave on some
wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl
to the wave’s dashing roar:
There would I weep my
woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should
close,
Ne’er to wake
more!
Falsest of womankind,
can’st thou declare
All thy fond, plighted
vows fleeting as air!
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o’er thy
perjury;
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there!
Song—By Allan Stream
By Allan stream I chanc’d
to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond
Benledi;
The winds are whispering
thro’ the grove,
The yellow corn was
waving ready:
I listen’d to
a lover’s sang,
An’ thought on
youthfu’ pleasures mony;
And aye the wild-wood
echoes rang—
“O, dearly do
I love thee, Annie!
“O, happy be the
woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make
it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain
the hour,
The place and time I
met my Dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing
breast,
She, sinking, said,
‘I’m thine for ever!’
While mony a kiss the
seal imprest—
The sacred vow we ne’er
should sever.”
The haunt o’ Spring’s
the primrose-brae,
The Summer joys the
flocks to follow;
How cheery thro’
her short’ning day,
Is Autumn in her weeds
o’ yellow;
But can they melt the
glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in
speechless pleasure?
Or thro’ each
nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our
bosom’s treasure?
Chorus.—O
Whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad,
O whistle, an’
I’ll come to ye, my lad,
Tho’ father an’
mother an’ a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, an’
I’ll come to ye, my lad.
But warily tent when
ye come to court me,
And come nae unless
the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile,
and let naebody see,
And come as ye were
na comin’ to me,
And come as ye were
na comin’ to me.
O whistle an’
I’ll come, &c.
At kirk, or at market,
whene’er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho’
that ye car’d na a flie;
But steal me a blink
o’ your bonie black e’e,
Yet look as ye were
na lookin’ to me,
Yet look as ye were
na lookin’ to me.
O whistle an’
I’ll come, &c.
Aye vow and protest
that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly
my beauty a-wee;
But court na anither,
tho’ jokin’ ye be,
For fear that she wile
your fancy frae me,
For fear that she wile
your fancy frae me.
O whistle an’
I’ll come, &c.
Phillis The Queen O’ The Fair
Tune—“The Muckin o’ Geordie’s Byre.”
Adown winding Nith I
did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers
as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I
did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and
to sing.
Chorus.—Awa’
wi’ your belles and your beauties,
They never wi’
her can compare,
Whaever has met wi’
my Phillis,
Has met wi’ the
queen o’ the fair.
The daisy amus’d
my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple,
so wild;
Thou emblem, said I,
o’ my Phillis—
For she is Simplicity’s
child.
Awa’ wi’
your belles, &c.
The rose-bud’s
the blush o’ my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip
when ’tis prest:
How fair and how pure
is the lily!
But fairer and purer
her breast.
Awa’ wi’
your belles, &c.
Yon knot of gay flowers
in the arbour,
They ne’er wi’
my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath
of the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o’
diamond her eye.
Awa’ wi’
your belles, &c.
Her voice is the song
o’ the morning,
That wakes thro’
the green-spreading grove
When Phoebus peeps over
the mountains,
On music, and pleasure,
and love.
Awa’ wi’
your belles, &c.
But beauty, how frail
and how fleeting!
The bloom of a fine
summer’s day;
While worth in the mind
o’ my Phillis,
Will flourish without
a decay.
Awa’ wi’
your belles, &c.
Come, let me take thee
to my breast,
And pledge we ne’er
shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as
vilest dust
The world’s wealth
and grandeur:
And do I hear my Jeanie
own
That equal transports
move her?
I ask for dearest life
alone,
That I may live to love
her.
Thus, in my arms, wi’
a’ her charms,
I clasp my countless
treasure;
I’ll seek nae
main o’ Heav’n to share,
Tha sic a moment’s
pleasure:
And by thy e’en
sae bonie blue,
I swear I’m thine
for ever!
And on thy lips I seal
my vow,
And break it shall I
never.
Dainty Davie
Now rosy May comes in
wi’ flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading
bowers;
And now comes in the
happy hours,
To wander wi’
my Davie.
Chorus.—Meet
me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, Dainty
Davie;
There I’ll spend
the day wi’ you,
My ain dear Dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round
us fa’,
The merry birds are
lovers a’,
The scented breezes
round us blaw,
A wandering wi’
my Davie.
Meet me on, &c.
As purple morning starts
the hare,
To steal upon her early
fare,
Then thro’ the
dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu’
Davie.
Meet me on, &c.
When day, expiring in
the west,
The curtain draws o’
Nature’s rest,
I flee to his arms I
loe’ the best,
And that’s my
ain dear Davie.
Meet me on, &c.
Scots, wha hae wi’
Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has
aften led,
Welcome to your gory
bed,
Or to Victorie!
Now’s the day,
and now’s the hour;
See the front o’
battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s
power—
Chains and Slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor
knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s
grave?
Wha sae base as be a
Slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha, for Scotland’s
King and Law,
Freedom’s sword
will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man
fa’,
Let him on wi’
me!
By Oppression’s
woes and pains!
By your Sons in servile
chains!
We will drain our dearest
veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud Usurpers
low!
Tyrants fall in every
foe!
Liberty’s in every
blow!—
Let us Do or Die!
Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive
Behold the hour, the
boat arrive;
Thou goest, the darling
of my heart;
Sever’d from thee,
can I survive,
But Fate has will’d
and we must part.
I’ll often greet
the surging swell,
Yon distant Isle will
often hail:
“E’en here
I took the last farewell;
There, latest mark’d
her vanish’d sail.”
Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl
round me cry,
Across the rolling,
dashing roar,
I’ll westward
turn my wistful eye:
“Happy thou Indian
grove,” I’ll say,
“Where now my
Nancy’s path may be!
While thro’ thy
sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she
muse on me!”
As down the burn they
took their way,
And thro’ the
flowery dale;
His cheek to hers he
aft did lay,
And love was aye the
tale:
With “Mary, when
shall we return,
Sic pleasure to renew?”
Quoth Mary—“Love,
I like the burn,
And aye shall follow
you.”
Thou Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie
Tune—“Fee him, father, fee him.”
Thou hast left me ever,
Jamie,
Thou hast left me ever;
Thou has left me ever,
Jamie,
Thou hast left me ever:
Aften hast thou vow’d
that Death
Only should us sever;
Now thou’st left
thy lass for aye—
I maun see thee never,
Jamie,
I’ll see thee
never.
Thou hast me forsaken,
Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken;
Thou hast me forsaken,
Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken;
Thou canst love another
jo,
While my heart is breaking;
Soon my weary een I’ll
close,
Never mair to waken,
Jamie,
Never mair to waken!
Where Are The Joys I have Met?
Tune—“Saw ye my father.”
Where are the joys I
have met in the morning,
That danc’d to
the lark’s early song?
Where is the peace that
awaited my wand’ring,
At evening the wild-woods
among?
No more a winding the
course of yon river,
And marking sweet flowerets
so fair,
No more I trace the
light footsteps of Pleasure,
But Sorrow and sad-sighing
Care.
Is it that Summer’s
forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly Winter
is near?
No, no, the bees humming
round the gay roses
Proclaim it the pride
of the year.
Fain would I hide what
I fear to discover,
Yet long, long, too
well have I known;
All that has caused
this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny
alone.
Time cannot aid me,
my griefs are immortal,
Nor Hope dare a comfort
bestow:
Come then, enamour’d
and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I’ll
seek in my woe.
Tune—“The Collier’s Dochter.”
Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle Fair can
give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure,
Thy hopes will soon
deceive thee:
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The cloud’s uncertain
motion,
They are but types of
Woman.
O art thou not asham’d
To doat upon a feature?
If Man thou wouldst
be nam’d,
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find an honest fellow,
Good claret set before
thee,
Hold on till thou art
mellow,
And then to bed in glory!
Thine Am I, My Faithful Fair
Tune—“The Quaker’s Wife.”
Thine am I, my faithful
Fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev’ry pulse along
my veins,
Ev’ry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my
heart,
There to throb and languish;
Tho’ despair had
wrung its core,
That would heal its
anguish.
Take away those rosy
lips,
Rich with balmy treasure;
Turn away thine eyes
of love,
Lest I die with pleasure!
What is life when wanting
Love?
Night without a morning:
Love’s the cloudless
summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.
4th November 1793.
Old Winter, with his
frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his
prayer preferred:
“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.
My Spouse Nancy
Tune—“My Jo Janet.”
“Husband, husband,
cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave,
Sir;
Tho’ I am your
wedded wife
Yet I am not your slave,
Sir.”
“One of two must
still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;
Is it Man or Woman,
say,
My spouse Nancy?’
“If ’tis
still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I’ll desert my
sov’reign lord,
And so, good bye, allegiance!”
“Sad shall I be,
so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy;
Yet I’ll try to
make a shift,
My spouse Nancy.”
“My poor heart,
then break it must,
My last hour I am near
it:
When you lay me in the
dust,
Think how you will bear
it.”
“I will hope and
trust in Heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it
will be given,
My spouse Nancy.”
“Well, Sir, from
the silent dead,
Still I’ll try
to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight
bed
Horrid sprites shall
haunt you!”
“I’ll wed
another like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;
Then all hell will fly
for fear,
My spouse Nancy.”
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.
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
slily 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
airs and arts hast strove;
Who, as 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 her 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.
“Praise Woman
still,” his lordship roars,
“Deserv’d
or not, no matter?”
But thee, whom all my
soul adores,
Ev’n Flattery
cannot flatter:
Maria, all my thought
and dream,
Inspires my vocal shell;
The more I praise my
lovely theme,
The more the truth I
tell.
1794
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.
Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?
Tune—“The Sutor’s Dochter.”
Wilt thou be my Dearie?
When Sorrow wring thy
gentle heart,
O wilt thou let me cheer
thee!
By the treasure of my
soul,
That’s the love
I bear thee:
I swear and vow that
only thou
Shall ever be my Dearie!
Only thou, I swear and
vow,
Shall ever be my Dearie!
Lassie, say thou lo’es
me;
Or, if thou wilt na
be my ain,
O say na thou’lt
refuse me!
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose
me,
Let me, lassie, quickly
die,
Still trusting that
thou lo’es me!
Lassie, let me quickly
die,
Still trusting that
thou lo’es me!
Tune—“The King o’ France he rade a race.”
Amang the trees, where
humming bees,
At buds and flowers
were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out
her drone,
And to her pipe was
singing, O:
’Twas Pibroch,
Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels,
She dirl’d them
aff fu’ clearly, O:
When there cam’
a yell o’ foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie,
O.
Their capon craws an’
queer “ha, ha’s,”
They made our lugs grow
eerie, O;
The hungry bike did
scrape and fyke,
Till we were wae and
weary, O:
But a royal ghaist,
wha ance was cas’d,
A prisoner, aughteen
year awa’,
He fir’d a Fiddler
in the North,
That dang them tapsalteerie,
O.
The Minstrel At Lincluden
Tune—“Cumnock Psalms.”
As I stood by yon roofless
tower,
Where the wa’flow’r
scents the dery air,
Where the howlet mourns
in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight
moon her care.
Chorus—A
lassie all alone, was making her moan,
Lamenting our lads beyond
the sea:
In the bluidy wars they
fa’, and our honour’s gane an’ a’,
And broken-hearted we
maun die.
The winds were laid,
the air was till,
The stars they shot
along the sky;
The tod was howling
on the hill,
And the distant-echoing
glens reply.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
The burn, adown its
hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin’d
wa’,
Hasting to join the
sweeping Nith,
Whase roarings seem’d
to rise and fa’.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
The cauld blae North
was streaming forth
Her lights, wi’
hissing, eerie din,
Athort the lift they
start and shift,
Like Fortune’s
favours, tint as win.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
Now, looking over firth
and fauld,
Her horn the pale-faced
Cynthia rear’d,
When lo! in form of
Minstrel auld,
A stern and stalwart
ghaist appear’d.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
And frae his harp sic
strains did flow,
Might rous’d the
slumbering Dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale
of woe,
As ever met a Briton’s
ear!
A lassie all alone,
&c.
He sang wi’ joy
his former day,
He, weeping, wail’d
his latter times;
But what he said—it
was nae play,
I winna venture’t
in my rhymes.
A lassie all alone,
&c.
As I stood by yon roofless
tower,
Where the wa’flower
scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns
in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight
moon her care.
The winds were laid,
the air was still,
The stars they shot
alang the sky;
The fox was howling
on the hill,
And the distant echoing
glens reply.
The stream, adown its
hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin’d
wa’s,
Hasting to join the
sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring
swells and fa’s.
The cauld blae North
was streaming forth
Her lights, wi’
hissing, eerie din;
Athwart the lift they
start and shift,
Like Fortune’s
favors, tint as win.
By heedless chance I
turn’d mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam,
shook to see
A stern and stalwart
ghaist arise,
Attir’d as Minstrels
wont to be.
Had I a statue been
o’ stane,
His daring look had
daunted me;
And on his bonnet grav’d
was plain,
The sacred posy—“Libertie!”
And frae his harp sic
strains did flow,
Might rous’d the
slumb’ring Dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale
of woe,
As ever met a Briton’s
ear!
He sang wi’ joy
his former day,
He, weeping, wailed
his latter times;
But what he said—it
was nae play,
I winna venture’t
in my rhymes.
A Red, Red Rose
[Hear Red, Red Rose]
O my Luve’s like
a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung
in June:
O my Luve’s like
the melodie,
That’s sweetly
play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my
bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee
still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas
gang dry.
Till a’ the seas
gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’
the sun;
And I will luve thee
still, my dear,
While the sands o’
life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel,
my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel,
a while!
And I will come again,
my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere
ten thousand mile!
Tune—“The Carlin of the Glen.”
Young Jamie, pride of
a’ the plain,
Sae gallant and sae
gay a swain,
Thro’ a’
our lasses he did rove,
And reign’d resistless
King of Love.
But now, wi’ sighs
and starting tears,
He strays amang the
woods and breirs;
Or in the glens and
rocky caves,
His sad complaining
dowie raves:—
“I wha sae late
did range and rove,
And chang’d with
every moon my love,
I little thought the
time was near,
Repentance I should
buy sae dear.
“The slighted
maids my torments see,
And laugh at a’
the pangs I dree;
While she, my cruel,
scornful Fair,
Forbids me e’er
to see her mair.”
The Flowery Banks Of Cree
Here is the glen, and
here the bower
All underneath the birchen
shade;
The village-bell has
told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely
maid?
’Tis not Maria’s
whispering call;
’Tis but the balmy
breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler’s
dying fall,
The dewy star of eve
to hail.
It is Maria’s
voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark
in the grove,
His little, faithful
mate to cheer;
At once ’tis music
and ’tis love.
And art thou come! and
art thou true!
O welcome dear to love
and me!
And let us all our vows
renew,
Along the flowery banks
of Cree.
On a lady famed for her Caprice.
How cold is that bosom
which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek
where the rouge lately glisten’d;
How silent that tongue
which the echoes oft tired,
How dull is that ear
which to flatt’ry so listen’d!
If sorrow and anguish
their exit await,
From friendship and
dearest affection remov’d;
How doubly severer,
Maria, thy fate,
Thou diedst unwept,
as thou livedst unlov’d.
Loves, Graces, and Virtues,
I call not on you;
So shy, grave, and distant,
ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring
of Folly so true,
And flowers let us cull
for Maria’s cold bier.
We’ll search through
the garden for each silly flower,
We’ll roam thro’
the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle,
so typical, shower,
For none e’er
approach’d her but rued the rash deed.
We’ll sculpture
the marble, we’ll measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on
her idiot lyre;
There keen Indignation
shall dart on his prey,
Which spurning Contempt
shall redeem from his ire.
The Epitaph
Here lies, now a prey
to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly,
gay in life’s beam:
Want only of wisdom
denied her respect,
Want only of goodness
denied her esteem.
If you rattle along
like your Mistress’ tongue,
Your speed will outrival
the dart;
But a fly for your load,
you’ll break down on the road,
If your stuff be as
rotten’s her heart.
Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell
Sic a reptile was Wat,
sic a miscreant slave,
That the worms ev’n
damn’d him when laid in his grave;
“In his flesh
there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries,
“And his heart
is rank poison!” another replies.
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 thy hair,
tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d,
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,
And even out-Irish his
Hibernian bronze;
The crafty Colonel 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 called
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!
Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb
Capt. Wm. Roddirk, of Corbiston.
Light lay the earth
on Billy’s breast,
His chicken heart so
tender;
But build a castle on
his head,
His scull will prop
it under.
When Lascelles thought
fit from this world to depart,
Some friends warmly
thought of embalming his heart;
A bystander whispers—“Pray
don’t make so much o’t,
The subject is poison,
no reptile will touch it.”
On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe
“Stop thief!”
dame Nature call’d to Death,
As Willy drew his latest
breath;
How shall I make a fool
again?
My choicest model thou
hast ta’en.
Here lies John Bushby—honest
man,
Cheat him, Devil—if
you can!
Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell
Of Glenriddell and Friars’ Carse.
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
flowers, 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
the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers!
pour the notes of woe,
And soothe the Virtues
weeping o’er his bier:
The man of worth—and
hath not left his peer!
Is in his “narrow
house,” for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring! again
with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss
will only meet.
The lovely lass o’
Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure
can she see;
For, e’en to morn
she cries, alas!
And aye the saut tear
blin’s her e’e.
“Drumossie moor,
Drumossie day—
A waefu’ day it
was to me!
For there I lost my
father dear,
My father dear, and
brethren three.
“Their winding-sheet
the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growin’
green to see;
And by them lies the
dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s
e’e!
“Now wae to thee,
thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow
thou be;
For mony a heart thou
has made sair,
That ne’er did
wrang to thine or thee!”
Charlie, He’s My Darling
’Twas on a Monday
morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to
our town,
The young Chevalier.
Chorus—An’
Charlie, he’s my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie, he’s
my darling,
The young Chevalier.
As he was walking up
the street,
The city for to view,
O there he spied a bonie
lass
The window looking through,
An’ Charlie, &c.
Sae light’s he
jumped up the stair,
And tirl’d at
the pin;
And wha sae ready as
hersel’
To let the laddie in.
An’ Charlie, &c.
He set his Jenny on
his knee,
All in his Highland
dress;
For brawly weel he ken’d
the way
To please a bonie lass.
An’ Charlie, &c.
It’s up yon heathery
mountain,
An’ down yon scroggie
glen,
We daur na gang a milking,
For Charlie and his
men,
An’ Charlie, &c.
Chorus—Bannocks
o’ bear meal,
Bannocks o’ barley,
Here’s to the
Highlandman’s
Bannocks o’ barley!
Wha, in a brulyie, will
First cry a parley?
Never the lads wi’
the
Bannocks o’ barley,
Bannocks o’ bear
meal, &c.
Wha, in his wae days,
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi’
the
Bannocks o’ barley!
Bannocks o’ bear
meal, &c.
The Highland Balou
Hee balou, my sweet
wee Donald,
Picture o’ the
great Clanronald;
Brawlie kens our wanton
Chief
Wha gat my young Highland
thief.
Leeze me on thy bonie
craigie,
An’ thou live,
thou’ll steal a naigie,
Travel the country thro’
and thro’,
And bring hame a Carlisle
cow.
Thro’ the Lawlands,
o’er the Border,
Weel, my babie, may
thou furder!
Herry the louns o’
the laigh Countrie,
Syne to the Highlands
hame to me.
Oh I am come to the
low Countrie,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Without a penny in my
purse,
To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae in the
Highland hills,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Nae woman in the Country
wide,
Sae happy was as me.
For then I had a score
o’kye,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Feeding on you hill
sae high,
And giving milk to me.
And there I had three
score o’yowes,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonie
knowes,
And casting woo’
to me.
I was the happiest of
a’ the Clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest
man,
And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie Stewart
cam at last,
Sae far to set us free;
My Donald’s arm
was wanted then,
For Scotland and for
me.
Their waefu’ fate
what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did
yield;
My Donald and his Country
fell,
Upon Culloden field.
Oh I am come to the
low Countrie,
Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!
Nae woman in the warld
wide,
Sae wretched now as
me.
It Was A’ For Our Rightfu’ King
It was a’ for
our rightfu’ King
We left fair Scotland’s
strand;
It was a’ for
our rightfu’ King
We e’er saw Irish
land, my dear,
We e’er saw Irish
land.
Now a’ is done
that men can do,
And a’ is done
in vain;
My Love and Native Land
fareweel,
For I maun cross the
main, my dear,
For I maun cross the
main.
He turn’d him
right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle reins
a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
my dear,
And adiue for evermore.
The soger frae the wars
returns,
The sailor frae the
main;
But I hae parted frae
my Love,
Never to meet again,
my dear,
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and
night is come,
And a’ folk bound
to sleep;
I think on him that’s
far awa,
The lee-lang night,
and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night,
and weep.
No Spartan tube, no
Attic shell,
No lyre Aeolian I awake;
’Tis liberty’s
bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia,
let me take!
See gathering thousands,
while I sing,
A broken chain exulting
bring,
And dash it in a tyrant’s
face,
And dare him to his
very beard,
And tell him he no more
is feared—
No more the despot of
Columbia’s race!
A tyrant’s proudest
insults brav’d,
They shout—a
People freed! They hail an Empire saved.
Where is man’s
god-like form?
Where is that brow erect
and bold—
That eye that can unmov’d
behold
The wildest rage, the
loudest storm
That e’er created
fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff,
servile, base,
That tremblest at a
despot’s nod,
Yet, crouching under
the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand
that struck th’ insulting blow!
Art thou of man’s
Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance
divine?
Each skulking feature
answers, No!
But come, ye sons of
Liberty,
Columbia’s offspring,
brave as free,
In danger’s hour
still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain,
the Royalty of Man!
Alfred! on thy starry
throne,
Surrounded by the tuneful
choir,
The bards that erst
have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous’d the
freeborn Briton’s soul of fire,
No more thy England
own!
Dare injured nations
form the great design,
To make detested tyrants
bleed?
Thy England execrates
the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile
banners waving,
Every pang of honour
braving,
England in thunder calls,
“The tyrant’s cause is mine!”
That hour accurst how
did the fiends rejoice
And hell, thro’
all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw
the generous English name
Linkt with such damned
deeds of everlasting shame!
Thee, Caledonia! thy
wild heaths among,
Fam’d for the
martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with
swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of
Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty
dead,
Beneath that 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 ancient
Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless
as the storm?
Show me that eye which
shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despot’s
proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which,
nerv’d with thundering fate,
Crush’d Usurpation’s
boldest daring!—
Dark-quench’d
as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance
lightens afar;
That palsied arm no
more whirls on the waste of war.
Inscription To Miss Graham Of Fintry
Here, where the Scottish
Muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and
tuneful numbers joined,
Accept the gift; though
humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute
of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian-feeling
in my 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 strains endears,
And heaven-born Piety
her sanction seals.
Tune—“O’er the hills and far away.”
How can my poor heart
be glad,
When absent from my
sailor lad;
How can I the thought
forego—
He’s on the seas
to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me
rove,
Still my heart is with
my love;
Nightly dreams, and
thoughts by day,
Are with him that’s
far away.
Chorus.—On
the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
Nightly dreams and thoughts
by day,
Are aye with him that’s
far away.
When in summer noon
I faint,
As weary flocks around
me pant,
Haply in this scorching
sun,
My sailor’s thund’ring
at his gun;
Bullets, spare my only
joy!
Bullets, spare my darling
boy!
Fate, do with me what
you may,
Spare but him that’s
far away,
On the seas and far
away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
Fate, do with me what
you may,
Spare but him that’s
far away.
At the starless, midnight
hour
When Winter rules with
boundless power,
As the storms the forests
tear,
And thunders rend the
howling air,
Listening to the doubling
roar,
Surging on the rocky
shore,
All I can—I
weep and pray
For his weal that’s
far away,
On the seas and far
away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
All I can—I
weep and pray,
For his weal that’s
far away.
Peace, thy olive wand
extend,
And bid wild War his
ravage end,
Man with brother Man
to meet,
And as a brother kindly
greet;
Then may heav’n
with prosperous gales,
Fill my sailor’s
welcome sails;
To my arms their charge
convey,
My dear lad that’s
far away.
On the seas and far
away,
On stormy seas and far
away;
To my arms their charge
convey,
My dear lad that’s
far away.
Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes—Second Version
Chorus.—Ca’the
yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where
the heather grows,
Ca’ them where
the burnie rowes,
My bonie Dearie.
Hark the mavis’
e’ening sang,
Sounding Clouden’s
woods amang;
Then a-faulding let
us gang,
My bonie Dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
We’ll gae down
by Clouden side,
Thro’ the hazels,
spreading wide,
O’er the waves
that sweetly glide,
To the moon sae clearly.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Yonder Clouden’s
silent towers,^1
Where, at moonshine’s
midnight hours,
O’er the dewy-bending
flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt
thou fear,
Thou’rt to Love
and Heav’n sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come
thee near;
My bonie Dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Fair and lovely as thou
art,
Thou hast stown my very
heart;
I can die—but
canna part,
My bonie Dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
[Footnote 1: An
old ruin in a sweet situation at the
confluence of the Clouden
and the Nith.—R. B.]
She Says She Loes Me Best Of A’
Tune—“Oonagh’s Waterfall.”
Sae flaxen were her
ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker
hue,
Bewitchingly o’er-arching
Twa laughing e’en
o’ lovely blue;
Her smiling, sae wyling.
Wad make a wretch forget
his woe;
What pleasure, what
treasure,
Unto these rosy lips
to grow!
Such was my Chloris’
bonie face,
When first that bonie
face I saw;
And aye my Chloris’
dearest charm—
She says, she lo’es
me best of a’.
Like harmony her motion,
Her pretty ankle is
a spy,
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget
the sky:
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and
gracefu’ air;
Ilk feature—auld
Nature
Declar’d that
she could do nae mair:
Hers are the willing
chains o’ love,
By conquering Beauty’s
sovereign law;
And still my Chloris’
dearest charm—
She says, she lo’es
me best of a’.
Let others love the
city,
And gaudy show, at sunny
noon;
Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve and rising
moon,
Fair beaming, and streaming,
Her silver light the
boughs amang;
While falling; recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes
his sang;
There, dearest Chloris,
wilt thou rove,
By wimpling burn and
leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o’
truth and love,
And say, thou lo’es
me best of a’.
On Miss Jessy Staig’s recovery.
Maxwell, if merit here
you crave,
That merit I deny;
You save fair Jessie
from the grave!—
An Angel could not die!
To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J—N
On her Principles of Liberty and Equality.
How, Liberty! girl,
can it be by thee nam’d?
Equality too! hussey,
art not asham’d?
Free and Equal indeed,
while mankind thou enchainest,
And over their hearts
a proud Despot so reignest.
Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.
From the white-blossom’d
sloe my dear Chloris requested
A sprig, her fair breast
to adorn:
No, by Heavens!
I exclaim’d, let me perish, if ever
I plant in that bosom
a thorn!
On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico
Kemble, thou cur’st
my unbelief
For Moses and his rod;
At Yarico’s sweet
nor of grief
The rock with tears
had flow’d.
Epigram On A Country Laird,
not quite so wise as Solomon.
Bless Jesus Christ,
O Cardonessp,
With grateful, lifted
eyes,
Who taught that not
the soul alone,
But body too shall rise;
For had He said “the
soul alone
From death I will deliver,”
Alas, alas! O Cardoness,
Then hadst thou lain
for ever.
Belonging to the same Laird.
We grant they’re
thine, those beauties all,
So lovely in our eye;
Keep them, thou eunuch,
Cardoness,
For others to enjoy!
On Hearing It Asserted Falsehood
is expressed in the Rev. Dr. Babington’s very looks.
That there is a falsehood
in his looks,
I must and will deny:
They tell their Master
is a knave,
And sure they do not
lie.
Earth’d up, here
lies an imp o’ hell,
Planted by Satan’s
dibble;
Poor silly wretch, he’s
damned himsel’,
To save the Lord the
trouble.
On A Swearing Coxcomb
Here cursing, swearing
Burton lies,
A buck, a beau, or “Dem
my eyes!”
Who in his life did
little good,
And his last words were
“Dem my blood!”
On An Innkeeper Nicknamed “The Marquis”
Here lies a mock Marquis,
whose titles were shamm’d,
If ever he rise, it
will be to be damn’d.
In se’enteen hunder’n
forty-nine,
The deil gat stuff to
mak a swine,
An’ coost it in
a corner;
But wilily he chang’d
his plan,
An’ shap’d
it something like a man,
An’ ca’d
it Andrew Turner.
Pretty Peg
As I gaed up by yon
gate-end,
When day was waxin’
weary,
Wha did I meet come
down the street,
But pretty Peg, my dearie!
Her air sae sweet, an’
shape complete,
Wi’ nae proportion
wanting,
The Queen of Love did
never move
Wi’ motion mair
enchanting.
Wi’ linked hands
we took the sands,
Adown yon winding river;
Oh, that sweet hour
and shady bower,
Forget it shall I never!
As, Chloris, since it
may not be,
That thou of love wilt
hear;
If from the lover thou
maun flee,
Yet let the friend be
dear.
Altho’ I love
my Chloris mair
Than ever tongue could
tell;
My passion I will ne’er
declare—
I’ll say, I wish
thee well.
Tho’ a’
my daily care thou art,
And a’ my nightly
dream,
I’ll hide the
struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.
Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly
Tune—“When she cam’ ben she bobbit.”
O saw ye my Dear, my
Philly?
O saw ye my Dear, my
Philly,
She’s down i’
the grove, she’s wi’ a new Love,
She winna come hame
to her Willy.
What says she my dear,
my Philly?
What says she my dear,
my Philly?
She lets thee to wit
she has thee forgot,
And forever disowns
thee, her Willy.
O had I ne’er
seen thee, my Philly!
O had I ne’er
seen thee, my Philly!
As light as the air,
and fause as thou’s fair,
Thou’s broken
the heart o’ thy Willy.
How lang and dreary
is the night
When I am frae my Dearie;
I restless lie frae
e’en to morn
Though I were ne’er
sae weary.
Chorus.—For
oh, her lanely nights are lang!
And oh, her dreams are
eerie;
And oh, her window’d
heart is sair,
That’s absent
frae her Dearie!
When I think on the
lightsome days
I spent wi’ thee,
my Dearie;
And now what seas between
us roar,
How can I be but eerie?
For oh, &c.
How slow ye move, ye
heavy hours;
The joyless day how
dreary:
It was na sae ye glinted
by,
When I was wi’
my Dearie!
For oh, &c.
Inconstancy In Love
Tune—“Duncan Gray.”
Let not Woman e’er
complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not Woman e’er
complain
Fickle Man is apt to
rove:
Look abroad thro’
Nature’s range,
Nature’s mighty
Law is change,
Ladies, would it not
seem strange
Man should then a monster
prove!
Mark the winds, and
mark the skies,
Ocean’s ebb, and
ocean’s flow,
Sun and moon but set
to rise,
Round and round the
seasons go.
Why then ask of silly
Man
To oppose great Nature’s
plan?
We’ll be constant
while we can—
You can be no more,
you know.
Tune—“Deil tak the wars.”
Sleep’st thou,
or wak’st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy morn now lifts
his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which
Nature
Waters wi’ the
tears o’ joy.
Now, to the streaming
fountain,
Or up the heathy mountain,
The hart, hind, and
roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
In twining hazel bowers,
Its lay the linnet pours,
The laverock to the
sky
Ascends, wi’ sangs
o’ joy,
While the sun and thou
arise to bless the day.
Phoebus gilding the
brow of morning,
Banishes ilk darksome
shade,
Nature, gladdening and
adorning;
Such to me my lovely
maid.
When frae my Chloris
parted,
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
The night’s gloomy
shades, cloudy, dark, o’ercast my sky:
But when she charms
my sight,
In pride of Beauty’s
light—
When thro’ my
very heart
Her burning glories
dart;
’Tis then—’tis
then I wake to life and joy!
The Winter Of Life
But lately seen in gladsome
green,
The woods rejoic’d
the day,
Thro’ gentle showers,
the laughing flowers
In double pride were
gay:
But now our joys are
fled
On winter blasts awa;
Yet maiden May, in rich
array,
Again shall bring them
a’.
But my white pow, nae
kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws
of Age;
My trunk of eild, but
buss or beild,
Sinks in Time’s
wintry rage.
Oh, Age has weary days,
And nights o’
sleepless pain:
Thou golden time, o’
Youthfu’ prime,
Why comes thou not again!
Tune—“My lodging is on the cold ground.”
Behold, my love, how
green the groves,
The primrose banks how
fair;
The balmy gales awake
the flowers,
And wave thy flowing
hair.
The lav’rock shuns
the palace gay,
And o’er the cottage
sings:
For Nature smiles as
sweet, I ween,
To Shepherds as to Kings.
Let minstrels sweep
the skilfu’ string,
In lordly lighted ha’:
The Shepherd stops his
simple reed,
Blythe in the birken
shaw.
The Princely revel may
survey
Our rustic dance wi’
scorn;
But are their hearts
as light as ours,
Beneath the milk-white
thorn!
The shepherd, in the
flowery glen;
In shepherd’s
phrase, will woo:
The courtier tells a
finer tale,
But is his heart as
true!
These wild-wood flowers
I’ve pu’d, to deck
That spotless breast
o’ thine:
The courtiers’
gems may witness love,
But, ’tis na love
like mine.
The Charming Month Of May
Tune—“Daintie Davie.”
It was the charming
month of May,
When all the flow’rs
were fresh and gay.
One morning, by the
break of day,
The youthful, charming
Chloe—
From peaceful slumber
she arose,
Girt on her mantle and
her hose,
And o’er the flow’ry
mead she goes—
The youthful, charming
Chloe.
Chorus.—Lovely
was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming
Chloe,
Tripping o’er
the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming
Chloe.
The feather’d
people you might see
Perch’d all around
on every tree,
In notes of sweetest
melody
They hail the charming
Chloe;
Till, painting gay the
eastern skies,
The glorious sun began
to rise,
Outrival’d by
the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming
Chloe.
Lovely was she, &c.
Tune—“Rothiemurchie’s Rant.”
Chorus.—Lassie
wi’the lint-white locks,
Bonie lassie, artless
lassie,
Wilt thou wi’
me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my Dearie,
O?
Now Nature cleeds the
flowery lea,
And a’ is young
and sweet like thee,
O wilt thou share its
joys wi’ me,
And say thou’lt
be my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
The primrose bank, the
wimpling burn,
The cuckoo on the milk-white
thorn,
The wanton lambs at
early morn,
Shall welcome thee,
my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
And when the welcome
simmer shower
Has cheer’d ilk
drooping little flower,
We’ll to the breathing
woodbine bower,
At sultry noon, my Dearie,
O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
When Cynthia lights,
wi’ silver ray,
The weary shearer’s
hameward way,
Thro’ yellow waving
fields we’ll stray,
And talk o’ love,
my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
And when the howling
wintry blast
Disturbs my Lassie’s
midnight rest,
Enclasped to my faithfu’
breast,
I’ll comfort thee,
my Dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the,
&c.
Dialogue song—Philly And Willy
Tune—“The Sow’s tail to Geordie.”
He.
O Philly, happy be that day,
When roving thro’
the gather’d hay,
My youthfu’ heart
was stown away,
And by thy charms, my
Philly.
She.
O Willy, aye I bless the grove
Where first I own’d
my maiden love,
Whilst thou did pledge
the Powers above,
To be my ain dear Willy.
Both.
For a’ the joys that gowd can gie,
I dinna care a single
flie;
The lad I love’s
the lad for me,
The lass I love’s
the lass for me,
And that’s my
ain dear Willy.
And that’s my
ain dear Philly.
He.
As songsters of the early year,
Are ilka day mair sweet
to hear,
So ilka day to me mair
dear
And charming is my Philly.
She.
As on the brier the budding rose,
Still richer breathes
and fairer blows,
So in my tender bosom
grows
The love I bear my Willy.
Both. For a’ the joys, &c.
He.
The milder sun and bluer sky
That crown my harvest
cares wi’ joy,
Were ne’er sae
welcome to my eye
As is a sight o’
Philly.
She.
The little swallow’s wanton wing,
Tho’ wafting o’er
the flowery Spring,
Did ne’er to me
sic tidings bring,
As meeting o’
my Willy.
Both. For a’
the joys, &c.
He.
The bee that thro’ the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the op’ning
flower,
Compar’d wi’
my delight is poor,
Upon the lips o’
Philly.
She.
The woodbine in the dewy weet,
When ev’ning shades
in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant
or sae sweet
As is a kiss o’
Willy.
Both. For a’ the joys, &c.
He.
Let fortune’s wheel at random rin,
And fools may tine and
knaves may win;
My thoughts are a’
bound up in ane,
And that’s my
ain dear Philly.
She.
What’s a’ the joys that gowd can gie?
I dinna care a single
flie;
The lad I love’s
the lad for me,
And that’s my
ain dear Willy.
Both. For a’ the joys, &c.
Tune—“Lumps o’ Puddin’.”
Contented wi’
little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather
wi’ Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp as
they’re creeping alang,
Wi’ a cog o’
gude swats and an auld Scottish sang.
Chorus—Contented
wi’ little, &c.
I whiles claw the elbow
o’ troublesome thought;
But Man is a soger,
and Life is a faught;
My mirth and gude humour
are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom’s
my Lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
Contented wi’
little, &c.
A townmond o’
trouble, should that be may fa’,
A night o’ gude
fellowship sowthers it a’:
When at the blythe end
o’ our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks
o’ the road he has past?
Contented wi’
little, &c.
Blind Chance, let her
snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be’t to me, be’t
frae me, e’en let the jade gae:
Come Ease, or come Travail,
come Pleasure or Pain,
My warst word is:
“Welcome, and welcome again!”
Contented wi’
little, &c.
Farewell Thou Stream
Air—“Nansie’s to the greenwood gane.”
Farewell, thou stream
that winding flows
Around Eliza’s
dwelling;
O mem’ry! spare
the cruel thoes
Within my bosom swelling.
Condemn’d to drag
a hopeless chain
And yet in secret languish;
To feel a fire in every
vein,
Nor dare disclose my
anguish.
Love’s veriest
wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would
cover;
The bursting sigh, th’
unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doom’st
me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst
relieve me;
But, O Eliza, hear one
prayer—
For pity’s sake
forgive me!
The music of thy voice
I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav’d
me;
I saw thine eyes, yet
nothing fear’d,
Till fears no more had
sav’d me:
Th’ unwary sailor
thus, aghast
The wheeling torrent
viewing,
’Mid circling
horrors sinks at last,
In overwhelming ruin.
Tune—“Roy’s Wife.”
Chorus—Canst
thou leave me thus, my Katie?
Canst thou leave me
thus, my Katie?
Well thou know’st
my aching heart,
And canst thou leave
me thus, for pity?
Is this thy plighted,
fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part,
my Katie?
Is this thy faithful
swain’s reward—
An aching, broken heart,
my Katie!
Canst thou leave me,
&c.
Farewell! and ne’er
such sorrows tear
That finkle heart of
thine, my Katie!
Thou maysn find those
will love thee dear,
But not a love like
mine, my Katie,
Canst thou leave me,
&c.
My Nanie’s Awa
Tune—“There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.”
Now in her green mantle
blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins
that bleat o’er her braes;
While birds warble welcomes
in ilka green shaw,
But to me it’s
delightless—my Nanie’s awa.
The snawdrap and primrose
our woodlands adorn,
And violetes bathe in
the weet o’ the morn;
They pain my sad bosom,
sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’
Nanie—and Nanie’s awa.
Thou lav’rock
that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn
o’ the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis
that hails the night-fa’,
Give over for pity—my
Nanie’s awa.
Come Autumn, sae pensive,
in yellow and grey,
And soothe me wi’
tidings o’ Nature’s decay:
The dark, dreary Winter,
and wild-driving snaw
Alane can delight me—now
Nanie’s awa.
Wae is my heart, and
the tear’s in my e’e;
Lang, lang has Joy been
a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless,
my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice
o’ Pity ne’er sounds in my ear.
Love thou hast pleasures,
and deep hae I luv’d;
Love, thou hast sorrows,
and sair hae I pruv’d;
But this bruised heart
that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel, by its throbbings,
will soon be at rest.
Oh, if I were—where
happy I hae been—
Down by yon stream,
and yon bonie castle-green;
For there he is wand’ring
and musing on me,
Wha wad soon dry the
tear-drop that clings to my e’e.
For The Sake O’ Somebody
My heart is sair—I
dare na tell,
My heart is sair for
Somebody;
I could wake a winter
night
For the sake o’
Somebody.
O-hon! for Somebody!
O-hey! for Somebody!
I could range the world
around,
For the sake o’
Somebody.
Ye Powers that smile
on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on
Somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep
him free,
And send me safe my
Somebody!
O-hon! for Somebody!
O-hey! for Somebody!
I wad do—what
wad I not?
For the sake o’
Somebody.
1795
Tune—“For a’ that.”
Is there for honest
Poverty
That hings his head,
an’ a’ that;
The coward slave—we
pass him by,
We dare be poor for
a’ that!
For a’ that, an’
a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’
a’ that,
The rank is but the
guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the
gowd for a’ that.
What though on hamely
fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’
a that;
Gie fools their silks,
and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man
for a’ that:
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’
a’ that;
The honest man, tho’
e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men
for a’ that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca’d
a lord,
Wha struts, an’
stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds
worship at his word,
He’s but a coof
for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’
a’ that:
The man o’ independent
mind
He looks an’ laughs
at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted
knight,
A marquis, duke, an’
a’ that;
But an honest man’s
abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna
fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
Their dignities an’
a’ that;
The pith o’ sense,
an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than
a’ that.
Then let us pray that
come it may,
(As come it will for
a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth,
o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree,
an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
It’s coming yet
for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the
world o’er,
Shall brothers be for
a’ that.
Craigieburn Wood
Sweet fa’s the
eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the
morrow;
But a’ the pride
o’ Spring’s return
Can yield me nocht but
sorrow.
I see the flowers and
spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds
singing;
But what a weary wight
can please,
And Care his bosom wringing!
Fain, fain would I my
griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your
anger;
But secret love will
break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity
me,
If thou shalt love another,
When yon green leaves
fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they’ll
wither.
The Solemn League And Covenant
The Solemn League and
Covenant
Now brings a smile,
now brings a tear;
But sacred Freedom,
too, was theirs:
If thou’rt a slave,
indulge thy sneer.
Compliments Of John Syme Of Ryedale
Lines sent with a Present of a Dozen of Porter.
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.
There’s Death
in the cup, so beware!
Nay, more—there
is danger in touching;
But who can avoid the
fell snare,
The man and his wine’s
so bewitching!
Apology For Declining An Invitation To Dine
No more of your guests,
be they titled or not,
And cookery the first
in the nation;
Who is proof to thy
personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other
temptation.
Here Brewer Gabriel’s
fire’s extinct,
And empty all his barrels:
He’s blest—if,
as he brew’d, he drink,
In upright, honest morals.
Epigram On Mr. James Gracie
Gracie, thou art a man
of worth,
O be thou Dean for ever!
May he be damned to
hell henceforth,
Who fauts thy weight
or measure!
Cauld is the e’enin
blast,
O’ Boreas o’er
the pool,
An’ dawin’
it is dreary,
When birks are bare
at Yule.
Cauld blaws the e’enin
blast,
When bitter bites the
frost,
And, in the mirk and
dreary drift,
The hills and glens
are lost:
Ne’er sae murky
blew the night
That drifted o’er
the hill,
But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay
Gat grist to her mill.
Inscription At Friars’ Carse Hermitage
To the Memory of Robert Riddell.
To Riddell, much lamented
man,
This ivied cot was dear;
Wandr’er, dost
value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.
There was a bonie lass,
and a bonie, bonie lass,
And she lo’ed
her bonie laddie dear;
Till War’s loud
alarms tore her laddie frae her arms,
Wi’ mony a sigh
and tear.
Over sea, over shore,
where the cannons loudly roar,
He still was a stranger
to fear;
And nocht could him
quail, or his bosom assail,
But the bonie lass he
lo’ed sae dear.
Wee Willie Gray
Tune—“Wee Totum Fogg.”
Wee Willie Gray, and
his leather wallet,
Peel a willow wand to
be him boots and jacket;
The rose upon the breir
will be him trews an’ doublet,
The rose upon the breir
will be him trews an’ doublet,
Wee Willie Gray, and
his leather wallet,
Twice a lily-flower
will be him sark and cravat;
Feathers of a flee wad
feather up his bonnet,
Feathers of a flee wad
feather up his bonnet.
Chorus—O
aye my wife she dang me,
An’ aft my wife
she bang’d me,
If ye gie a woman a’
her will,
Gude faith! she’ll
soon o’er-gang ye.
On peace an’ rest
my mind was bent,
And, fool I was!
I married;
But never honest man’s
intent
Sane cursedly miscarried.
O aye my wife, &c.
Some sairie comfort
at the last,
When a’ thir days
are done, man,
My pains o’ hell
on earth is past,
I’m sure o’
bliss aboon, man,
O aye my wife, &c.
Gude Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon
Chorus—O
gude ale comes and gude ale goes;
Gude ale gars me sell
my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn
my shoon—
Gude ale keeps my heart
aboon!
I had sax owsen in a
pleugh,
And they drew a’
weel eneugh:
I sell’d them
a’ just ane by ane—
Gude ale keeps the heart
aboon!
O gude ale comes, &c.
Gude ale hauds me bare
and busy,
Gars me moop wi’
the servant hizzie,
Stand i’ the stool
when I hae done—
Gude ale keeps the heart
aboon!
O gude ale comes, &c.
O steer her up, an’
haud her gaun,
Her mither’s at
the mill, jo;
An’ gin she winna
tak a man,
E’en let her tak
her will, jo.
First shore her wi’
a gentle kiss,
And ca’ anither
gill, jo;
An’ gin she tak
the thing amiss,
E’en let her flyte
her fill, jo.
O steer her up, an’
be na blate,
An’ gin she tak
it ill, jo,
Then leave the lassie
till her fate,
And time nae langer
spill, jo:
Ne’er break your
heart for ae rebute,
But think upon it still,
jo:
That gin the lassie
winna do’t,
Ye’ll find anither
will, jo.
The Lass O’ Ecclefechan
Tune—“Jack o’ Latin.”
Gat ye me, O gat ye
me,
O gat ye me wi’
naething?
Rock an reel, and spinning
wheel,
A mickle quarter basin:
Bye attour my Gutcher
has
A heich house and a
laich ane,
A’ forbye my bonie
sel,
The toss o’ Ecclefechan.
O haud your tongue now,
Lucky Lang,
O haud your tongue and
jauner
I held the gate till
you I met,
Syne I began to wander:
I tint my whistle and
my sang,
I tint my peace and
pleasure;
But your green graff,
now Lucky Lang,
Wad airt me to my treasure.
O Lassie, are ye sleepin
yet,
Or are ye waukin, I
wad wit?
For Love has bound me
hand an’ fit,
And I would fain be
in, jo.
Chorus—O
let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
O let me in this ae
night,
I’ll no come back
again, jo!
O hear’st thou
not the wind an’ weet?
Nae star blinks thro’
the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary
feet,
And shield me frae the
rain, jo.
O let me in, &c.
The bitter blast that
round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded
fa’s;
The cauldness o’
thy heart’s the cause
Of a’ my care
and pine, jo.
O let me in, &c.
Her Answer
O tell na me o’
wind an’ rain,
Upbraid na me wi’
cauld disdain,
Gae back the gate ye
cam again,
I winna let ye in, jo.
Chorus—I
tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a’
this ae night,
I winna let ye in, jo.
The snellest blast,
at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless
wand’rer pours
Is nocht to what poor
she endures,
That’s trusted
faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The sweetest flower
that deck’d the mead,
Now trodden like the
vilest weed—
Let simple maid the
lesson read
The weird may be her
ain, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The bird that charm’d
his summer day,
Is now the cruel Fowler’s
prey;
Let witless, trusting,
Woman say
How aft her fate’s
the same, jo!
I tell you now, &c.
Air—“I’ll gang nae mair to yon toun.”
Chorus—I’ll
aye ca’ in by yon town,
And by yon garden-green
again;
I’ll aye ca’
in by yon town,
And see my bonie Jean
again.
There’s nane sall
ken, there’s nane can guess
What brings me back
the gate again,
But she, my fairest
faithfu’ lass,
And stownlins we sall
meet again.
I’ll aye ca’
in, &c.
She’ll wander
by the aiken tree,
When trystin time draws
near again;
And when her lovely
form I see,
O haith! she’s
doubly dear again.
I’ll aye ca’
in, &c.
O Wat Ye Wha’s In Yon Town
Tune—“I’ll gang nae mair to yon toun.”
Chorus—O
wat ye wha’s in yon town,
Ye see the e’enin
sun upon,
The dearest maid’s
in yon town,
That e’ening sun
is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay
green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading
tree;
How blest ye flowers
that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances
o’ her e’e!
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
How blest ye birds that
round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming
year;
And doubly welcome be
the Spring,
The season to my Jeanie
dear.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
The sun blinks blythe
on yon town,
Among the broomy braes
sae green;
But my delight in yon
town,
And dearest pleasure,
is my Jean.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
Without my Fair, not
a’ the charms
O’ Paradise could
yield me joy;
But give me Jeanie in
my arms
And welcome Lapland’s
dreary sky!
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
My cave wad be a lover’s
bower,
Tho’ raging Winter
rent the air;
And she a lovely little
flower,
That I wad tent and
shelter there.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
O sweet is she in yon
town,
The sinkin, sun’s
gane down upon;
A fairer than’s
in yon town,
His setting beam ne’er
shone upon.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
If angry Fate is sworn
my foe,
And suff’ring
I am doom’d to bear;
I careless quit aught
else below,
But spare, O spare me
Jeanie dear.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
For while life’s
dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her
shall ne’er depart,
And she, as fairest
is her form,
She has the truest,
kindest heart.
O wat ye wha’s,
&c.
Ballad First
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
The best deserves to
fa’ that?
Wha sees Kerroughtree’s
open yett,
(And wha is’t
never saw that?)
Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree
met,
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, and
a’ that.
Tho’ wit and worth,
in either sex,
Saint 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.
But why should we to
Nobles jouk,
And is’t against
the law, that?
For why, a Lord may
be a gowk,
Wi’ ribband, star
and a’ that,
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
A Lord may be a lousy
loun,
Wi’ ribband, star
and a’ that.
A beardless boy comes
o’er the hills,
Wi’ uncle’s
purse and a’ that;
But we’ll hae
ane frae mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a’
that.
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
For we’re not
to be bought and sold,
Like naigs, and nowt,
and a’ that.
Then let us drink—The
Stewartry,
Kerroughtree’s
laird, and a’ that,
Our representative to
be,
For weel he’s
worthy a’ that.
For a’ that, and
a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet
for a’ that!
A House of Commons such
as he,
They wad be blest that
saw that.
Ballad Second—Election Day
Tune—“Fy, let us a’ to the Bridal.”
Fy, let us a’
to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin’
there;
For Murray’s light
horse are to muster,
And O how the heroes
will swear!
And there will be Murray,
Commander,
And Gordon, the battle
to win;
Like brothers they’ll
stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance
and kin.
And there will be black-nebbit
Johnie,
The tongue o’
the trump to them a’;
An he get na Hell for
his haddin’,
The Deil gets na justice
ava.
And there will be Kempleton’s
birkie,
A boy no sae black at
the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob
fortune,
We’ll e’en
let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton’s
new Sheriff;
Dame Justice fu’
brawly has sped,
She’s gotten the
heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what’s
become o’ the head?
And there will be Cardoness,
Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness’
eyes;
A wight that will weather
damnation,
The Devil the prey will
despise.
And there will be Douglasses
doughty,
New christening towns
far and near;
Abjuring their democrat
doings,
By kissin’ the-o’
a Peer:
And there will be folk
frae Saint Mary’s
A house o’ great
merit and note;
The deil ane but honours
them highly—
The deil ane will gie
them his vote!
And there will be Kenmure
sae gen’rous,
Whose honour is proof
to the storm,
To save them from stark
reprobation,
He lent them his name
in the Firm.
And there will be lads
o’ the gospel,
Muirhead wha’s
as gude as he’s true;
And there will be Buittle’s
Apostle,
Wha’s mair o’
the black than the blue.
And there will be Logan
M’Dowall,
Sculdudd’ry an’
he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot
o’ Galloway,
Sogering, gunpowder
Blair.
But we winna mention
Redcastle,
The body, e’en
let him escape!
He’d venture the
gallows for siller,
An ‘twere na the
cost o’ the rape.
But where is the Doggerbank
hero,
That made “Hogan
Mogan” to skulk?
Poor Keith’s gane
to hell to be fuel,
The auld rotten wreck
of a Hulk.
And where is our King’s
Lord Lieutenant,
Sae fam’d for
his gratefu’ return?
The birkie is gettin’
his Questions
To say in Saint Stephen’s
the morn.
But mark ye! there’s
trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honor was ever
his law;
If the Virtues were
pack’d in a parcel,
His worth might be sample
for a’;
And strang an’
respectfu’s his backing,
The maist o’ the
lairds wi’ him stand;
Nae gipsy-like nominal
barons,
Wha’s property’s
paper—not land.
And there, frae the
Niddisdale borders,
The Maxwells will gather
in droves,
Teugh Jockie, staunch
Geordie, an’ Wellwood,
That griens for the
fishes and loaves;
And there will be Heron,
the Major,
Wha’ll ne’er
be forgot in the Greys;
Our flatt’ry we’ll
keep for some other,
Him, only it’s
justice to praise.
And there will be maiden
Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming’s
gude Knight,
And there will be roarin
Birtwhistle,
Yet luckily roars i’
the right.
And there’ll be
Stamp Office Johnie,
(Tak tent how ye purchase
a dram!)
And there will be gay
Cassencarry,
And there’ll be
gleg Colonel Tam.
And there’ll be
wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should
hing by the neck,
For prodigal, thriftless
bestowing—
His merit had won him
respect.
And there will be rich
brother nabobs,
(Tho’ Nabobs,
yet men not the worst,)
And there will be Collieston’s
whiskers,
And Quintin—a
lad o’ the first.
Then hey! the chaste
Interest o’ Broughton
And hey! for the blessin’s
’twill bring;
It may send Balmaghie
to the Commons,
In Sodom ’twould
make him a king;
And hey! for the sanctified
Murray,
Our land wha wi’
chapels has stor’d;
He founder’d his
horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig
to the Lord.
Ballad Third
John Bushby’s Lamentation.
Tune—“Babes in the Wood.”
’Twas in the seventeen
hunder year
O’ grace, and
ninety-five,
That year I was the
wae’est man
Of ony man alive.
In March the three-an’-twentieth
morn,
The sun raise clear
an’ bright;
But oh! I was a
waefu’ man,
Ere to-fa’ o’
the night.
Yerl Galloway lang did
rule this land,
Wi’ equal right
and fame,
And thereto was his
kinsmen join’d,
The Murray’s noble
name.
Yerl Galloway’s
man o’ men was I,
And chief o’ Broughton’s
host;
So twa blind beggars,
on a string,
The faithfu’ tyke
will trust.
But now Yerl Galloway’s
sceptre’s broke,
And Broughton’s
wi’ the slain,
And I my ancient craft
may try,
Sin’ honesty is
gane.
‘Twas by the banks
o’ bonie Dee,
Beside Kirkcudbright’s
towers,
The Stewart and the
Murray there,
Did muster a’
their powers.
Then Murray on the auld
grey yaud,
Wi’ winged spurs
did ride,
That auld grey yaud
a’ Nidsdale rade,
He staw upon Nidside.
And there had na been
the Yerl himsel,
O there had been nae
play;
But Garlies was to London
gane,
And sae the kye might
stray.
And there was Balmaghie,
I ween,
In front rank he wad
shine;
But Balmaghie had better
been
Drinkin’ Madeira
wine.
And frae Glenkens cam
to our aid
A chief o’ doughty
deed;
In case that worth should
wanted be,
O’ Kenmure we
had need.
And by our banners march’d
Muirhead,
And Buittle was na slack;
Whase haly priesthood
nane could stain,
For wha could dye the
black?
And there was grave
squire Cardoness,
Look’d on till
a’ was done;
Sae in the tower o’
Cardoness
A howlet sits at noon.
And there led I the
Bushby clan,
My gamesome billie,
Will,
And my son Maitland,
wise as brave,
My footsteps follow’d
still.
The Douglas and the
Heron’s name,
We set nought to their
score;
The Douglas and the
Heron’s name,
Had felt our weight
before.
But Douglasses o’
weight had we,
The pair o’ lusty
lairds,
For building cot-houses
sae fam’d,
And christenin’
kail-yards.
And there Redcastle
drew his sword,
That ne’er was
stain’d wi’ gore,
Save on a wand’rer
lame and blind,
To drive him frae his
door.
And last cam creepin’
Collieston,
Was mair in fear than
wrath;
Ae knave was constant
in his mind—
To keep that knave frae
scaith.
Inscription For An Altar Of Independence
At Kerroughtree, the Seat of Mr. Heron.
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.
I coft a stane o’
haslock woo’,
To mak a wab to Johnie
o’t;
For Johnie is my only
jo,
I loe him best of onie
yet.
Chorus—The
cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t,
The warpin’ o’t,
the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me
a groat,
The tailor staw the
lynin’ o’t.
For tho’ his locks
be lyart grey,
And tho’ his brow
be beld aboon,
Yet I hae seen him on
a day,
The pride of a’
the parishen.
The cardin o’t,
&c.
The Cooper O’ Cuddy
Tune—“Bab at the bowster.”
Chorus—We’ll
hide the Cooper behint the door,
Behint the door, behint
the door,
We’ll hide the
Cooper behint the door,
And cover him under
a mawn, O.
The Cooper o’
Cuddy came here awa,
He ca’d the girrs
out o’er us a’;
An’ our gudewife
has gotten a ca’,
That’s anger’d
the silly gudeman O.
We’ll hide the
Cooper, &c.
He sought them out,
he sought them in,
Wi’ deil hae her!
an’, deil hae him!
But the body he was
sae doited and blin’,
He wist na where he
was gaun O.
We’ll hide the
Cooper, &c.
They cooper’d
at e’en, they cooper’d at morn,
Till our gudeman has
gotten the scorn;
On ilka brow she’s
planted a horn,
And swears that there
they sall stan’ O.
We’ll hide the
Cooper, &c.
When Januar’ wind
was blawing cauld,
As to the north I took
my way,
The mirksome night did
me enfauld,
I knew na where to lodge
till day:
By my gude luck a maid
I met,
Just in the middle o’
my care,
And kindly she did me
invite
To walk into a chamber
fair.
I bow’d fu’
low unto this maid,
And thank’d her
for her courtesie;
I bow’d fu’
low unto this maid,
An’ bade her make
a bed to me;
She made the bed baith
large and wide,
Wi’ twa white
hands she spread it doun;
She put the cup to her
rosy lips,
And drank—“Young
man, now sleep ye soun’.”
Chorus—The
bonie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the
bed to me,
I’ll ne’er
forget till the day I die,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
She snatch’d the
candle in her hand,
And frae my chamber
went wi’ speed;
But I call’d her
quickly back again,
To lay some mair below
my head:
A cod she laid below
my head,
And served me with due
respect,
And, to salute her wi’
a kiss,
I put my arms about
her neck.
The bonie lass, &c.
“Haud aff your
hands, young man!” she said,
“And dinna sae
uncivil be;
Gif ye hae ony luve
for me,
O wrang na my virginitie.”
Her hair was like the
links o’ gowd,
Her teeth were like
the ivorie,
Her cheeks like lilies
dipt in wine,
The lass that made the
bed to me:
The bonie lass, &c.
Her bosom was the driven
snaw,
Twa drifted heaps sae
fair to see;
Her limbs the polish’d
marble stane,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
I kiss’d her o’er
and o’er again,
And aye she wist na
what to say:
I laid her ‘tween
me and the wa’;
The lassie thocht na
lang till day.
The bonie lass, &c.
Upon the morrow when
we raise,
I thank’d her
for her courtesie;
But aye she blush’d
and aye she sigh’d,
And said, “Alas,
ye’ve ruin’d me.”
I claps’d her
waist, and kiss’d her syne,
While the tear stood
twinkling in her e’e;
I said, my lassie, dinna
cry.
For ye aye shall make
the bed to me.
The bonie lass, &c.
She took her mither’s
holland sheets,
An’ made them
a’ in sarks to me;
Blythe and merry may
she be,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
Chorus—The
bonie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the
bed to me.
I’ll ne’er
forget till the day I die,
The lass that made the
bed to me.
Had I The Wyte? She Bade Me
Had I the wyte, had
I the wyte,
Had I the wyte? she
bade me;
She watch’d me
by the hie-gate side,
And up the loan she
shaw’d me.
And when I wadna venture
in,
A coward loon she ca’d
me:
Had Kirk an’ State
been in the gate,
I’d lighted when
she bade me.
Sae craftilie she took
me ben,
And bade me mak nae
clatter;
“For our ramgunshoch,
glum gudeman
Is o’er ayont
the water.”
Whae’er shall
say I wanted grace,
When I did kiss and
dawte her,
Let him be planted in
my place,
Syne say, I was the
fautor.
Could I for shame, could
I for shame,
Could I for shame refus’d
her;
And wadna manhood been
to blame,
Had I unkindly used
her!
He claw’d her
wi’ the ripplin-kame,
And blae and bluidy
bruis’d her;
When sic a husband was
frae hame,
What wife but wad excus’d
her!
I dighted aye her e’en
sae blue,
An’ bann’d
the cruel randy,
And weel I wat, her
willin’ mou
Was sweet as sugar-candie.
At gloamin-shot, it
was I wot,
I lighted on the Monday;
But I cam thro’
the Tyseday’s dew,
To wanton Willie’s
brandy.
Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat?
Tune—“Push about the Jorum.”
Does haughty Gaul invasion
threat?
Then let the louns beware,
Sir;
There’s wooden
walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore,
Sir:
The Nith shall run to
Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in
Solway,
Ere we permit a Foreign
Foe
On British ground to
rally!
We’ll ne’er
permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to
rally!
O let us not, like snarling
curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in
an unco loun,
And wi’ a rung
decide it!
Be Britain still to
Britain true,
Amang ourselves united;
For never but by British
hands
Maun British wrangs
be righted!
No! never but by British
hands
Shall British wrangs
be righted!
The Kettle o’
the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may
fail in’t;
But deil a foreign tinkler
loun
Shall ever ca’a
nail in’t.
Our father’s blude
the Kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to
spoil it;
By Heav’ns! the
sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil
it!
By Heav’ns! the
sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil
it!
The wretch that would
a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his
true-born brother,
Who would set the Mob
aboon the Throne,
May they be damn’d
together!
Who will not sing “God
save the King,”
Shall hang as high’s
the steeple;
But while we sing “God
save the King,”
We’ll ne’er
forget The People!
But while we sing “God
save the King,”
We’ll ne’er
forget The People!
Tune—“Loch Erroch Side.”
O stay, sweet warbling
woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the
trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts
thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
Again, again that tender
part,
That I may catch thy
melting art;
For surely that wad
touch her heart
Wha kills me wi’
disdaining.
Say, was thy little
mate unkind,
And heard thee as the
careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and
sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe
could wauken!
Thou tells o’
never-ending care;
O’speechless grief,
and dark despair:
For pity’s sake,
sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is
broken.
Song.—On Chloris Being Ill
Tune—“Aye wauken O.”
Chorus—Long,
long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow
While my soul’s
delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care?
Can I cease to languish,
While my darling Fair
Is on the couch of anguish?
Long, long, &c.
Ev’ry hope is
fled,
Ev’ry fear is
terror,
Slumber ev’n I
dread,
Ev’ry dream is
horror.
Long, long, &c.
Hear me, Powers Divine!
Oh, in pity, hear me!
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare
me!
Long, long, &c.
Altered from an old
English song.
Tune—“John
Anderson, my jo.”
How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby
Poor Woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile, the hapless
Daughter
Has but a choice of
strife;
To shun a tyrant Father’s
hate—
Become a wretched Wife.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus
flies,
To shun impelling ruin,
Awhile her pinions tries;
Till, of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless
Falconer,
And drops beneath his
feet.
Mark Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion
Air—“Deil tak the wars.”
Mark yonder pomp of
costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled
bride:
But when compar’d
with real passion,
Poor is all that princely
pride.
Mark yonder, &c. (four
lines repeated).
What are the showy treasures,
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay, gaudy glare
of vanity and art:
The polish’d jewels’
blaze
May draw the wond’ring
gaze;
And courtly grandeur
bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can
come near the heart.
But did you see my dearest
Chloris,
In simplicity’s
array;
Lovely as yonder sweet
opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze
of day,
But did you see, &c.
O then, the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,
In Love’s delightful
fetters she chains the willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The world’s imperial
crown,
Ev’n Avarice would
deny,
His worshipp’d
deity,
And feel thro’
every vein Love’s raptures roll.
Tune—“Laddie, lie near me.”
’Twas na her bonie
blue e’e was my ruin,
Fair tho’ she
be, that was ne’er my undoin’;
’Twas the dear
smile when nae body did mind us,
‘Twas the bewitching,
sweet, stown glance o’ kindness:
‘Twas the bewitching,
sweet, stown glance o’ kindness.
Sair do I fear that
to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that
despair maun abide me,
But tho’ fell
fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in
my bosom for ever:
Queen shall she be in
my bosom for ever.
Chloris, I’m thine
wi’ a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted
me love o’ the dearest!
And thou’rt the
angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his
motion would falter:
Sooner the sun in his
motion would falter.
Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle
Tune—“Humours of Glen.”
Their groves o’
sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming
summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon
lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wi’ the burn stealing
under the lang, yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are
yon humble broom bowers
Where the blue-bell
and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen;
For there, lightly tripping,
among the wild flowers,
A-list’ning the
linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho’ rich is the
breeze in their gay, sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia’s
blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented
woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?—the
haunt of the Tyrant and Slave.
The Slave’s spicy
forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian
views wi’ disdain;
He wanders as free as
the winds of his mountains,
Save Love’s willing
fetters—the chains of his Jean.
Air—“Let me in this ae night.”
Forlorn, my Love, no
comfort near,
Far, far from thee,
I wander here;
Far, far from thee,
the fate severe,
At which I most repine,
Love.
Chorus—O
wert thou, Love, but near me!
But near, near, near
me,
How kindly thou wouldst
cheer me,
And mingle sighs with
mine, Love.
Around me scowls a wintry
sky,
Blasting each bud of
hope and joy;
And shelter, shade,
nor home have I;
Save in these arms of
thine, Love.
O wert thou, &c.
Cold, alter’d
friendship’s cruel part,
To poison Fortune’s
ruthless dart—
Let me not break thy
faithful heart,
And say that fate is
mine, Love.
O wert thou, &c.
But, dreary tho’
the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet
shall meet;
That only ray of solace
sweet,
Can on thy Chloris shine,
Love!
O wert thou, &c.
Fragment,—Why, Why Tell The Lover
Tune—“Caledonian Hunt’s delight.”
Why, why tell thy lover
Bliss he never must
enjoy”?
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes
the lie?
O why, while fancy,
raptur’d slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all
the theme,
Why, why would’st
thou, cruel—
Wake thy lover from
his dream?
Tune—“The Lothian Lassie.”
Last May, a braw wooer
cam doun the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his
love he did deave me;
I said, there was naething
I hated like men—
The deuce gae wi’m,
to believe me, believe me;
The deuce gae wi’m
to believe me.
He spak o’ the
darts in my bonie black e’en,
And vow’d for
my love he was diein,
I said, he might die
when he liked for Jean—
The Lord forgie me for
liein, for liein;
The Lord forgie me for
liein!
A weel-stocked mailen,
himsel’ for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand,
were his proffers;
I never loot on that
I kenn’d it, or car’d;
But thought I might
hae waur offers, waur offers;
But thought I might
hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think?—in
a fortnight or less—
The deil tak his taste
to gae near her!
He up the Gate-slack
to my black cousin, Bess—
Guess ye how, the jad!
I could bear her, could bear her;
Guess ye how, the jad!
I could bear her.
But a’ the niest
week, as I petted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryst
o’ Dalgarnock;
But wha but my fine
fickle wooer was there,
I glowr’d as I’d
seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glowr’d as I’d
seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther
I gae him a blink,
Lest neibours might
say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d
as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was
his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was
his dear lassie.
I spier’d for
my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d
her hearin’,
And how her new shoon
fit her auld schachl’t feet,
But heavens! how he
fell a swearin, a swearin,
But heavens! how he
fell a swearin.
He begged, for gudesake,
I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him
wi’ sorrow;
So e’en to preserve
the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him
to-morrow, to-morrow;
I think I maun wed him
to-morrow.
This Is No My Ain Lassie
Tune—“This is no my house.”
Chorus—This
is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho, the lassie
be;
Weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her
e’re.
I see a form, I see
a face,
Ye weel may wi’
the fairest place;
It wants, to me, the
witching grace,
The kind love that’s
in her e’e.
This is no my ain, &c.
She’s bonie, blooming,
straight, and tall,
And lang has had my
heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my
very saul,
The kind love that’s
in her e’e.
This is no my ain, &c.
A thief sae pawkie is
my Jean,
To steal a blink, by
a’ unseen;
But gleg as light are
lover’s een,
When kind love is in
her e’e.
This is no my ain, &c.
It may escape the courtly
sparks,
It may escape the learned
clerks;
But well the watching
lover marks
The kind love that’s
in her eye.
This is no my ain, &c.
O bonie was yon rosy
brier,
That blooms sae far
frae haunt o’ man;
And bonie she, and ah,
how dear!
It shaded frae the e’enin
sun.
Yon rosebuds in the
morning dew,
How pure, amang the
leaves sae green;
But purer was the lover’s
vow
They witness’d
in their shade yestreen.
All in its rude and
prickly bower,
That crimson rose, how
sweet and fair;
But love is far a sweeter
flower,
Amid life’s thorny
path o’ care.
The pathless, wild and
wimpling burn,
Wi’ Chloris in
my arms, be mine;
And I the warld nor
wish nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs
alike resign.
Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham
Now spring has clad
the grove in green,
And strew’d the
lea wi’ flowers;
The furrow’d,
waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering
showers.
While ilka thing in
nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone
are mine
The weary steps o’
woe!
The trout in yonder
wimpling burn
That glides, a silver
dart,
And, safe beneath the
shady thorn,
Defies the angler’s
art—
My life was ance that
careless stream,
That wanton trout was
I;
But Love, wi’
unrelenting beam,
Has scorch’d my
fountains dry.
That little floweret’s
peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that
grows,
Which, save the linnet’s
flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love
has o’er me past,
And blighted a’
my bloom;
And now, beneath the
withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.
The waken’d lav’rock
warbling springs,
And climbs the early
sky,
Winnowing blythe his
dewy wings
In morning’s rosy
eye;
As little reck’d
I sorrow’s power,
Until the flowery snare
O’witching Love,
in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o’
care.
O had my fate been Greenland
snows,
Or Afric’s burning
zone,
Wi’man and nature
leagued my foes,
So Peggy ne’er
I’d known!
The wretch whose doom
is “Hope nae mair”
What tongue his woes
can tell;
Within whase bosom,
save Despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
Tune—“Morag.”
O wat ye wha that lo’es
me
And has my heart a-keeping?
O sweet is she that
lo’es me,
As dews o’ summer
weeping,
In tears the rosebuds
steeping!
Chorus—O
that’s the lassie o’ my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O she’s the queen
o’ womankind,
And ne’er a ane
to peer her.
If thou shalt meet a
lassie,
In grace and beauty
charming,
That e’en thy
chosen lassie,
Erewhile thy breast
sae warming,
Had ne’er sic
powers alarming;
O that’s the lassie,
&c.
If thou hadst heard
her talking,
And thy attention’s
plighted,
That ilka body talking,
But her, by thee is
slighted,
And thou art all delighted;
O that’s the lassie,
&c.
If thou hast met this
Fair One,
When frae her thou hast
parted,
If every other Fair
One
But her, thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted,
O that’s the lassie
o’ my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that’s the queen
o’ womankind,
And ne’er a ane
to peer her.
Inscription
Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the Lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of—“Chloris."^1
’Tis Friendship’s
pledge, my young, fair Friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear
attend
The moralising 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
lour;
(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,
Of 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.
R.B.
[Footnote 1: Miss Lorimer.]
Will ye go to the Hielands,
Leezie Lindsay,
Will ye go to the Hielands
wi’ me?
Will ye go to the Hielands,
Leezie Lindsay,
My pride and my darling
to be.
Fragment.—The Wren’s Nest
The Robin to the Wren’s
nest
Cam keekin’ in,
cam keekin’ in;
O weel’s me on
your auld pow,
Wad ye be in, wad ye
be in?
Thou’s ne’er
get leave to lie without,
And I within, and I
within,
Sae lang’s I hae
an auld clout
To rowe ye in, to rowe
ye in.
There’s news,
lassies, news,
Gude news I’ve
to tell!
There’s a boatfu’
o’ lads
Come to our town to
sell.
Chorus—The
wean wants a cradle,
And the cradle wants
a cod:
I’ll no gang to
my bed,
Until I get a nod.
Father, quo’ she,
Mither, quo she,
Do what you can,
I’ll no gang to
my bed,
Until I get a man.
The wean, &c.
I hae as gude a craft
rig
As made o’yird
and stane;
And waly fa’ the
ley-crap,
For I maun till’d
again.
The wean, &c.
Crowdie Ever Mair
O that I had ne’er
been married,
I wad never had nae
care,
Now I’ve gotten
wife an’ weans,
An’ they cry “Crowdie”
evermair.
Chorus—Ance
crowdie, twice crowdie,
Three times crowdie
in a day
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye’ll crowdie
a’ my meal away.
Waefu’ Want and
Hunger fley me,
Glowrin’ by the
hallan en’;
Sair I fecht them at
the door,
But aye I’m eerie
they come ben.
Ance crowdie, &c.
Chorus—Mally’s
meek, Mally’s sweet,
Mally’s modest
and discreet;
Mally’s rare,
Mally’s fair,
Mally’s every
way complete.
As I was walking up
the street,
A barefit maid I chanc’d
to meet;
But O the road was very
hard
For that fair maiden’s
tender feet.
Mally’s meek,
&c.
It were mair meet that
those fine feet
Were weel laced up in
silken shoon;
An’ ’twere
more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt
aboon,
Mally’s meek,
&c.
Her yellow hair, beyond
compare,
Comes trinklin down
her swan-like neck,
And her two eyes, like
stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking
ship frae wreck,
Mally’s meek,
&c.
Jockey’s Taen The Parting Kiss
Air—“Bonie lass tak a man.”
Jockey’s taen
the parting kiss,
O’er the mountains
he is gane,
And with him is a’
my bliss,
Nought but griefs with
me remain,
Spare my Love, ye winds
that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating
rain!
Spare my Love, thou
feath’ry snaw,
Drifting o’er
the frozen plain!
When the shades of evening
creep
O’er the day’s
fair, gladsome e’e,
Sound and safely may
he sleep,
Sweetly blythe his waukening
be.
He will think on her
he loves,
Fondly he’ll repeat
her name;
For where’er he
distant roves,
Jockey’s heart
is still the same.
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 moanin’
To see the New come
laden, groanin’,
Wi’ double plenty
o’er the loanin’,
To thee and thine:
Domestic peace and comforts
crownin’
The hale design.
Postscript
Ye’ve heard this
while how I’ve been lickit,
And by fell Death was
nearly nickit;
Grim loon! he got me
by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by gude luck I lap
a wicket,
And turn’d a neuk.
But by that health,
I’ve got a share o’t,
But by that life, I’m
promis’d mair o’t,
My hale and wee, I’ll
tak a care o’t,
A tentier way;
Then farewell folly,
hide and hair o’t,
For ance and aye!
1796
A New Ballad
Tune—“The
Dragon of Wantley.”
Dire was the hate at
old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did
carry;
And dire the discord
Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless
Mary:
But Scot to Scot ne’er
met so hot,
Or were more in fury
seen, Sir,
Than ’twixt Hal
and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be the Faculty’s
Dean, Sir.
This Hal for genius,
wit and lore,
Among the first was
number’d;
But pious Bob, ’mid
learning’s store,
Commandment the tenth
remember’d:
Yet simple Bob the victory
got,
And wan his heart’s
desire,
Which shews that heaven
can boil the pot,
Tho’ the devil
piss in the fire.
Squire Hal, besides,
had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy;
For talents, to deserve
a place,
Are qualifications saucy.
So their worships of
the Faculty,
Quite sick of merit’s
rudeness,
Chose one who should
owe it all, d’ye see,
To their gratis grace
and goodness.
As once on Pisgah purg’d
was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah
height,
Bob’s purblind
mental vision—
Nay, Bobby’s mouth
may be opened yet,
Till for eloquence you
hail him,
And swear that he has
the angel met
That met the ass of
Balaam.
In your heretic sins
may you live and die,
Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty!
But accept, ye sublime
Majority,
My congratulations hearty.
With your honours, as
with a certain king,
In your servants this
is striking,
The more incapacity
they bring,
The more they’re
to your liking.
Epistle To Colonel De Peyster
My honor’d 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 world
were it,
Would pain and care
and sickness spare it;
And Fortune favour worth
and merit
As they deserve;
And aye rowth o’
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,
Aye wavering like the
willow-wicker,
’Tween good and
ill.
Then that curst carmagnole,
auld Satan,
Watches like baudrons
by a ratton
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 showing us the
tempting ware,
Bright wines, and bonie
lasses rare,
To put us daft
Syne weave, unseen,
thy spider snare
O hell’s damned
waft.
Poor Man, the flie,
aft bizzes by,
And aft, as chance he
comes thee nigh,
Thy damn’d auld
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 murdering 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!
Tune—“Ballinamona Ora.”
Awa’ wi’
your witchcraft o’ Beauty’s alarms,
The slender bit Beauty
you grasp in your arms,
O, gie me the lass that
has acres o’ charms,
O, gie me the lass wi’
the weel-stockit farms.
Chorus—Then
hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher,
Then hey, for a lass
wi’ a tocher;
Then hey, for a lass
wi’ a tocher;
The nice yellow guineas
for me.
Your Beauty’s
a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster,
the faster it grows:
But the rapturous charm
o’ the bonie green knowes,
Ilk spring they’re
new deckit wi’ bonie white yowes.
Then hey, for a lass,
&c.
And e’en when
this Beauty your bosom hath blest
The brightest o’
Beauty may cloy when possess’d;
But the sweet, yellow
darlings wi’ Geordie impress’d,
The langer ye hae them,
the mair they’re carest.
Then hey, for a lass,
&c.
Heron Election Ballad, No. IV.
The Trogger.
Tune—“Buy
Broom Besoms.”
Wha will buy my troggin,
fine election ware,
Broken trade o’
Broughton, a’ in high repair?
Chorus—Buy
braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee;
Wha wants troggin let
him come to me.
There’s a noble
Earl’s 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 in a needle’s e’e;
Here’s a reputation
tint by Balmaghie.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s its stuff
and lining, Cardoness’ head,
Fine for a soger, a’
the wale o’ lead.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s a little
wadset, Buittle’s scrap o’ truth,
Pawn’d in a gin-shop,
quenching holy drouth.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s an honest
conscience might a prince adorn;
Frae the downs o’
Tinwald, so was never worn.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s armorial
bearings frae the manse o’ Urr;
The crest, a sour crab-apple,
rotten at the core.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s the worth
and wisdom Collieston can boast;
By a thievish midge
they had been nearly lost.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Satan’s
picture, like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle,
sprawlin’ like a taed.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s the font
where Douglas stane and mortar names;
Lately used at Caily
christening Murray’s crimes.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Murray’s
fragments o’ the ten commands;
Gifted by black Jock
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, &c.
The Toast
Fill me with the rosy
wine,
Call a toast, a toast
divine:
Giveth me Poet’s
darling flame,
Lovely Jessie be her
name;
Then thou mayest freely
boast,
Thou hast given a peerless
toast.
The Menagerie
Talk not to me of savages,
From Afric’s burning
sun;
No savage e’er
could rend my heart,
As Jessie, thou hast
done:
But Jessie’s lovely
hand in mine,
A mutual faith to plight,
Not even to view the
heavenly choir,
Would be so blest a
sight.
Jessie’s illness
Say, sages, what’s
the charm on earth
Can turn Death’s
dart aside!
It is not purity and
worth,
Else Jessie had not
died.
On Her Recovery
But rarely seen since
Nature’s birth,
The natives of the sky;
Yet still one seraph’s
left on earth,
For Jessie did not die.
O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass
Chorus—O
lay thy loof in mine, lass,
In mine, lass, in mine,
lass;
And swear on thy white
hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my
ain.
A slave to Love’s
unbounded sway,
He aft has wrought me
meikle wae;
But now he is my deadly
fae,
Unless thou be my ain.
O lay thy loof, &c.
There’s mony a
lass has broke my rest,
That for a blink I hae
lo’ed best;
But thou art Queen within
my breast,
For ever to remain.
O lay thy loof, &c.
Chorus—Here’s
a health to ane I loe dear,
Here’s a health
to ane I loe dear;
Thou art sweet as the
smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting
tear—Jessy.
Altho’ thou maun
never be mine,
Altho’ even hope
is denied;
’Tis sweeter for
thee despairing,
Than ought in the world
beside—Jessy.
Here’s a health,
&c.
I mourn thro’
the gay, gaudy day,
As hopeless I muse on
thy charms;
But welcome the dream
o’ sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt
in thine arms—Jessy.
Here’s a health,
&c.
I guess by the dear
angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling
e’e;
But why urge the tender
confession,
’Gainst Fortune’s
fell, cruel decree?—Jessy.
Here’s a health,
&c.
O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast
O wert thou in the cauld
blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder
lea,
My plaidie to the angry
airt,
I’d shelter thee,
I’d shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune’s
bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around
thee blaw,
Thy bield should be
my bosom,
To share it a’,
to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest
waste,
Sae black and bare,
sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there,
if thou wert there;
Or were I Monarch o’
the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign,
wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel
in my Crown
Wad be my Queen, wad
be my Queen.
On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes,
presented to her by
Burns. ^1
Thine be the volumes,
Jessy fair,
And with them take the
Poet’s prayer,
That Fate may, in her
fairest page,
With ev’ry kindliest,
best presage
Of future bliss, enroll
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.
Dumfries, June 26, 1769.
[Footnote 1: Written
for music played by Miss Lewars, who
nursed him in his last
illness.]
Tune—’Rothiemurchie.”
Chorus—Fairest
maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding
Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown
aside,
And smile as thou wert
wont to do?
Full well thou know’st
I love thee dear,
Couldst thou to malice
lend an ear!
O did not Love exclaim:
“Forbear,
Nor use a faithful lover
so.”
Fairest maid, &c.
Then come, thou fairest
of the fair,
Those wonted smiles,
O let me share;
And by thy beauteous
self I swear,
No love but thine my
heart shall know.
Fairest maid, &c.
Glossary
A’, all.
A-back, behind, away.
Abiegh, aloof, off.
Ablins, v. aiblins.
Aboon, above up.
Abread, abroad.
Abreed, in breadth.
Ae, one.
Aff, off.
Aff-hand, at once.
Aff-loof, offhand.
A-fiel, afield.
Afore, before.
Aft, oft.
Aften, often.
Agley, awry.
Ahin, behind.
Aiblins, perhaps.
Aidle, foul water.
Aik, oak.
Aiken, oaken.
Ain, own.
Air, early.
Airle, earnest money.
Airn, iron.
Airt, direction.
Airt, to direct.
Aith, oath.
Aits, oats.
Aiver, an old horse.
Aizle, a cinder.
A-jee, ajar; to one
side.
Alake, alas.
Alane, alone.
Alang, along.
Amaist, almost.
Amang, among.
An, if.
An’, and.
Ance, once.
Ane, one.
Aneath, beneath.
Anes, ones.
Anither, another.
Aqua-fontis, spring
water.
Aqua-vitae, whiskey.
Arle, v. airle.
Ase, ashes.
Asklent, askew, askance.
Aspar, aspread.
Asteer, astir.
A’thegither, altogether.
Athort, athwart.
Atweel, in truth.
Atween, between.
Aught, eight.
Aught, possessed of.
Aughten, eighteen.
Aughtlins, at all.
Auld, old.
Auldfarran, auldfarrant,
shrewd, old-fashioned, sagacious.
Auld Reekie, Edinburgh.
Auld-warld, old-world.
Aumous, alms.
Ava, at all.
Awa, away.
Awald, backways and
doubled up.
Awauk, awake.
Awauken, awaken.
Awe, owe.
Awkart, awkward.
Awnie, bearded.
Ayont, beyond.
Ba’, a ball.
Backet, bucket, box.
Backit, backed.
Backlins-comin, coming
back.
Back-yett, gate at the
back.
Bade, endured.
Bade, asked.
Baggie, stomach.
Baig’nets, bayonets.
Baillie, magistrate
of a Scots burgh.
Bainie, bony.
Bairn, child.
Bairntime, brood.
Baith, both.
Bakes, biscuits.
Ballats, ballads.
Balou, lullaby.
Ban, swear.
Ban’, band (of
the Presbyterian clergyman).
Bane, bone.
Bang, an effort; a blow;
a large number.
Bang, to thump.
Banie, v. bainie.
Bannet, bonnet.
Bannock, bonnock, a
thick oatmeal cake.
Bardie, dim. of bard.
Barefit, barefooted.
Barket, barked.
Barley-brie, or bree,
barley-brew-ale or whiskey.
Barm, yeast.
Barmie, yeasty.
Barn-yard, stackyard.
Bartie, the Devil.
Bashing, abashing.
Batch, a number.
Batts, the botts; the
colic.
Bauckie-bird, the bat.
Baudrons, Baudrans,
the cat.
Bauk, cross-beam.
Bauk, v. bawk.
Bauk-en’, beam-end.
Bauld, bold.
Bauldest, boldest.
Bauldly, boldly.
Baumy, balmy.
Bawbee, a half-penny.
Bawdrons, v. baudrons.
Bawk, a field path.
Baws’nt, white-streaked.
Bear, barley.
Beas’, beasts,
vermin.
Beastie, dim. of beast.
Beck, a curtsy.
Beet, feed, kindle.
Beild, v. biel.
Belang, belong.
Beld, bald.
Bellum, assault.
Bellys, bellows.
Belyve, by and by.
Ben, a parlor (i.e.,
the inner apartment); into the parlor.
Benmost, inmost.
Be-north, to the northward
of.
Be-south, to the southward
of.
Bethankit, grace after
meat.
Beuk, a book: devil’s
pictur’d beuks-playing-cards.
Bicker, a wooden cup.
Bicker, a short run.
Bicker, to flow swiftly
and with a slight noise.
Bickerin, noisy contention.
Bickering, hurrying.
Bid, to ask, to wish,
to offer.
Bide, abide, endure.
Biel, bield, a shelter;
a sheltered spot.
Biel, comfortable.
Bien, comfortable.
Bien, bienly, comfortably.
Big, to build.
Biggin, building.
Bike, v. byke.
Bill, the bull.
Billie, fellow, comrade,
brother.
Bings, heaps.
Birdie, dim. of bird;
also maidens.
Birk, the birch.
Birken, birchen.
Birkie, a fellow.
Birr, force, vigor.
Birring, whirring.
Birses, bristles.
Birth, berth.
Bit, small (e.g., bit
lassie).
Bit, nick of time.
Bitch-fou, completely
Ca’, call, knock,
drive.
Cadger, a hawker (especially
of fish).
Cadie, caddie, a fellow.
Caff, chaff.
Caird, a tinker.
Calf-ward, grazing plot
for calves (i.e., churchyard).
Callan, callant, a stripling.
Caller, cool, refreshing.
Callet, a trull.
Cam, came.
Canie, cannie, gentle,
tractable, quiet, prudent, careful.
Cankrie, crabbed.
Canna, can not.
Canniest, quietest.
Cannilie, cannily, quietly,
prudently, cautiously.
Cantie, cheerful, lively,
jolly, merry.
Cantraip, magic, witching.
Cants, merry stories,
canters or sprees or merry doings.
Cape-stanc, copestone.
Capon-castrate.
Care na by, do not care.
Carl, carle, a man,
an old man.
Carl-hemp, male-hemp.
Carlie, a manikin.
Carlin, carline a middle-aged,
or old, woman; a beldam, a witch.
Carmagnole, a violent
Jacobin.
Cartes, playing-cards.
Cartie, dim. of cart.
Catch-the-plack, the
hunt for money.
Caudron, a caldron.
Cauf, calf.
Cauf-leather, calf-leather.
Dad, daddie, father.
Daez’t, dazed.
Daffin, larking, fun.
Daft, mad, foolish.
Dails, planks.
Daimen icker, an odd
ear of corn.
Dam, pent-up water,
urine.
Damie, dim. of dame.
Dang, pret. of ding.
Ear’, early.
Earn, eagle.
Eastlin, eastern.
E’e, eye.
E’ebrie, eyebrow.
Een, eyes.
E’en, even.
E’en, evening.
E’enin’,
evening.
E’er, ever.
Eerie, apprehensive;
inspiring ghostly fear.
Eild, eld.
Eke, also.
Elbuck, elbow.
Eldritch, unearthly,
haunted, fearsome.
Elekit, elected.
Ell (Scots), thirty-seven
inches.
Eller, elder.
En’, end.
Eneugh, enough.
Enfauld, infold.
Enow, enough.
Erse, Gaelic.
Ether-stane, adder-stone.
Ettle, aim.
Evermair, evermore.
Ev’n down, downright,
positive.
Eydent, diligent.
Fa’, fall.
Fa’, lot, portion.
Fa’, to get; suit;
claim.
Faddom’d, fathomed.
Fae, foe.
Faem, foam.
Faiket, let off, excused.
Fain, fond, glad.
Fainness, fondness.
Fair fa’, good
befall! welcome.
Fairin., a present from
a fair.
Fallow, fellow.
Fa’n, fallen.
Fand, found.
Far-aff, far-off.
Farls, oat-cakes.
Fash, annoyance.
Fash, to trouble; worry.
Fash’d, fash’t,
bothered; irked.
Fashious, troublesome.
Fasten-e’en, Fasten’s
Even (the evening before Lent).
Faught, a fight.
Fauld, the sheep-fold.
Fauld, folded.
Faulding, sheep-folding.
Faun, fallen.
Fause, false.
Fause-house, hole in
a cornstack.
Faut, fault.
Fautor, transgressor.
Fawsont, seemly, well-doing;
good-looking.
Feat, spruce.
Fecht, fight.
Feck, the bulk, the
most part.
Feck, value, return.
Fecket, waistcoat; sleeve
waistcoat (used by farm-servants as both
vest and
jacket).
Feckless, weak, pithless,
feeble.
Feckly, mostly.
Feg, a fig.
Fegs, faith!
Feide, feud.
Feint, v. fient.
Feirrie, lusty.
Fell, keen, cruel, dreadful,
deadly; pungent.
Fell, the cuticle under
the skin.
Felly, relentless.
Fen’, a shift.
Fen’, fend, to
look after; to care for; keep off.
Fenceless, defenseless.
Ferlie, ferly, a wonder.
Ferlie, to marvel.
Fetches, catches, gurgles.
Fetch’t, stopped
suddenly.
Fey, fated to death.
Fidge, to fidget, to
wriggle.
Fidgin-fain, tingling-wild.
Fiel, well.
Fient, fiend, a petty
oath.
Fient a, not a, devil
a.
Fient haet, nothing
(fiend have it).
Fient haet o’,
not one of.
Fient-ma-care, the fiend
may care (I don’t!).
Fier, fiere, companion.
Fier, sound, active.
Fin’, to find.
Gab, the mouth.
Gab, to talk.
Gabs, talk.
Gae, gave.
Gae, to go.
Gaed, went.
Gaen, gone.
Gaets, ways, manners.
Gairs, gores.
Gane, gone.
Gang, to go.
Gangrel, vagrant.
Gar, to cause, to make,
to compel.
Garcock, the moorcock.
Garten, garter.
Gash, wise; self-complacent
(implying prudence and prosperity);
talkative.
Gashing, talking, gabbing.
Gat, got.
Gate, way-road, manner.
Gatty, enervated.
Gaucie, v. Gawsie.
Gaud, a. goad.
Gaudsman, goadsman,
driver of the plough-team.
Gau’n. gavin.
Gaun, going.
Gaunted, gaped, yawned.
Gawky, a foolish woman
or lad.
Gawky, foolish.
Gawsie, buxom; jolly.
Gaylies, gaily, rather.
Gear, money, wealth;
goods; stuff.
Ha’, hall.
Ha’ folk, the
servants.
Haddin, holding, inheritance.
Hae, have.
Haet, a thing.
Haffet, hauffet, the
temple, the side of the head.
Haffets, side-locks.
Hafflins, half, partly.
Hag, a moss, a broken
bog.
Haggis, a special Scots
pudding, made of sheep’s lungs, liver and
I’, in.
Icker, an ear of corn.
Ier-oe, a great-grandchild.
Ilk, ilka, each, every.
Ill o’t, bad at
it.
Ill-taen, ill-taken.
Ill-thief. the Devil.
Ill-willie, ill-natured,
niggardly.
Indentin, indenturing.
Ingine, genius, ingenuity;
wit.
Ingle, the fire, the
fireside.
Ingle-cheek, fireside
(properly the jamb of the fireplace).
Ingle-lowe, ingle-low,
flame of the fire.
I’se, I shall,
or will.
Itsel’, itself.
Ither, other, another.
Jad, a jade.
Janwar, January.
Jauk, to trifle, to
dally.
Jauner, gabber.
Jauntie, dim. of jaunt.
Jaup, splash.
Jaw, talk, impudence.
Jaw, to throw, to dash.
Jeeg, to jog.
Jillet, a jilt.
Jimp, small, slender.
Jimply, neatly.
Jimps, stays.
Jink, the slip.
Jink, to frisk, to sport,
to dodge.
Jinker, dodger (coquette);
a jinker noble; a noble goer.
Jirkinet, bodice.
Jirt, a jerk.
Jiz, a wig.
Jo, a sweetheart.
Jocteleg, a clasp-knife.
Jouk, to duck, to cover,
to dodge.
Jow, to jow, a verb
which included both the swinging motion and
pealing
sound of a large bell
(R. B.).
Jumpet, jumpit, jumped.
Jundie, to jostle.
Jurr, a servant wench.
Kae, a jackdaw.
Kail, kale, the colewort;
cabbage; Scots’ broth.
Kail-blade, the leaf
of the colewort.
Kail-gullie, a cabbage
knife.
Kail-runt, the stem
of the colewort.
Kail-whittle, a cabbage
knife.
Kail-yard, a kitchen
garden.
Kain, kane, rents in
kind.
Kame, a comb.
Kebars, rafters.
Kebbuck, a cheese; a
kebbuck heel = the last crust of a cheese.
Keckle, to cackle, to
giggle.
Keek, look, glance.
Keekin-glass, the looking-glass.
Keel, red chalk.
Kelpies, river demons.
Ken, to know.
Kenna, know not.
Kennin, a very little
(merely as much as can be perceived).
Kep, to catch.
Ket, the fleece on a
Laddie, dim. of lad.
Lade, a load.
Lag, backward.
Laggen, the bottom angle
of a wooden dish.
Laigh, low.
Laik, lack.
Lair, lore, learning.
Laird, landowner.
Lairing, sticking or
sinking in moss or mud.
Laith, loath.
Laithfu’, loathful,
sheepish.
Lallan, lowland.
Lallans, Scots Lowland
vernacular.
Lammie, dim. of lamb.
Lan’, land.
Lan’-afore, the
foremost horse on the unplowed land side.
Lan’-ahin, the
hindmost horse on the unplowed land side.
Lane, lone.
Lang, long.
Lang syne, long since,
long ago.
Lap, leapt.
Lave, the rest.
Laverock, lav’rock,
the lark.
Lawin, the reckoning.
Lea, grass, untilled
land.
Lear, lore, learning.
Leddy, lady.
Lee-lang, live-long.
Leesome, lawful.
Leeze me on, dear is
to me; blessings on; commend me to.
Leister, a fish-spear.
Len’, to lend.
Leugh, laugh’d.
Leuk, look.
Ley-crap, lea-crop.
Libbet, castrated.
Licks, a beating.
Lien, lain.
Lieve, lief.
Lift, the sky.
Lift, a load.
Lightly, to disparage,
to scorn.
Lilt, to sing.
Limmer, to jade; mistress.
Lin, v. linn.
Linn, a waterfall.
Lint, flax.
Lint-white, flax-colored.
Lintwhite, the linnet.
Lippen’d, trusted.
Lippie, dim. of lip.
Loan, a lane,
Loanin, the private
road leading to a farm.
Lo’ed, loved.
Lon’on, London.
Loof (pl. looves), the
palm of the hand.
Loon, loun, lown, a
fellow, a varlet.
Loosome, lovable.
Loot, let.
Loove, love.
Looves, v. loof.
Losh, a minced oath.
Lough, a pond, a lake.
Loup, lowp, to leap.
Low, lowe, a flame.
Lowin, lowing, flaming,
burning.
Lown, v. loon.
Lowp, v. loup.
Lowse, louse, to untie,
Mae, more.
Mailen, mailin, a farm.
Mailie, Molly.
Mair, more.
Maist. most.
Maist, almost.
Mak, make.
Mak o’, make o’,
to pet, to fondle.
Mall, Mally.
Manteele, a mantle.
Mark, merk, an old Scots
coin (13 1-3d. sterling).
Mashlum, of mixed meal.
Maskin-pat, the teapot.
Maukin, a hare.
Maun, must.
Maunna, mustn’t.
Maut, malt.
Mavis, the thrush.
Mawin, mowing.
Mawn, mown.
Mawn, a large basket.
Mear, a mare.
Meikle, mickle, muckle,
much, great.
Melder, a grinding corn.
Mell, to meddle.
Melvie, to powder with
meal-dust.
Men’, mend.
Mense, tact, discretion,
politeness.
Menseless, unmannerly.
Merle, the blackbird.
Merran, Marian.
Mess John, Mass John,
the parish priest, the minister.
Messin, a cur, a mongrel.
Midden, a dunghill.
Midden-creels, manure-baskets.
Midden dub, midden puddle.
Midden-hole, a gutter
at the bottom of the dunghill.
Milking shiel, the milking
shed.
Mim, prim, affectedly
meek.
Mim-mou’d, prim-lipped.
Min’, mind, remembrance.
Mind, to remember, to
bear in mind.
Minnie, mother.
Mirk, dark.
Misca’, to miscall,
to abuse.
Mishanter, mishap.
Mislear’d, mischievous,
unmannerly.
Mistak, mistake.
Misteuk, mistook.
Mither, mother.
Mixtie-maxtie, confused.
Monie, many.
Mools, crumbling earth,
grave.
Moop, to nibble, to
keep close company, to meddle.
Mottie, dusty.
Mou’, the mouth.
Moudieworts, moles.
Muckle, v. meikle.
Muslin-kail, beefless
broth.
Mutchkin, an English
pint.
Na, nae, no, not.
Naething, naithing,
nothing.
Naig, a nag.
Nane, none,
Nappy, ale, liquor.
Natch, a notching implement;
abuse.
Neebor, neibor, neighbor.
Needna, needn’t.
Neist, next.
Neuk, newk, a nook,
a corner.
New-ca’d, newly
driven.
Nick (Auld), Nickie-ben,
a name of the Devil.
Nick, to sever; to slit;
to nail, to seize away.
Nickie-ben, v.
Nick.
Nick-nackets, curiosities.
O’, of.
O’erword, the
refrain; catchword.
Onie, any.
Or, ere, before.
Orra, extra.
O’t, of it.
Ought, aught.
Oughtlins, aughtlins,
aught in the least; at all.
Ourie, shivering, drooping.
Outler, unhoused.
Owre, over, too.
Owsen, oxen.
Owthor, author.
Oxter’d, held
up under the arms.
Pack an’ thick,
confidential.
Paidle, to paddle, to
wade; to walk with a weak action.
Paidle, nail-bag.
Painch, the paunch.
Paitrick, a partridge;
used equivocally of a wanton girl.
Pang, to cram.
Parishen, the parish.
Parritch, porridge.
Parritch-pats, porridge-pots.
Pat, pot.
Pat, put.
Pattle, pettle, a plow-staff.
Paughty, haughty.
Paukie, pauky, pawkie,
artful, sly.
Pechan, the stomach.
Pechin, panting, blowing.
Penny-fee, wage in money.
Penny-wheep, small beer.
Pettle, v. pattle.
Philibeg, the Highlander’s
kilt.
Phraisin, flattering,
wheedling.
Phrase, to flatter,
to wheedle.
Pickle, a few, a little.
Pint (Scots), three
imperial pints.
Pit, put.
Placads, proclamations.
Plack, four pennies
(Scots).
Plackless, penniless.
Plaiden, coarse woolen
cloth.
Plaister, plaster.
Plenish’d, stocked.
Pleugh, plew, a plow.
Pliskie, a trick.
Pliver, a plover.
Pock, a poke, a bag,
a wallet.
Poind, to seize, to
distrain, to impound.
Poortith, poverty.
Pou, to pull.
Pouch, pocket.
Pouk, to poke.
Poupit, pulpit.
Pouse, a push.
Poussie, a hare (also
a cat).
Pouther, powther, powder.
Pouts, chicks.
Pow, the poll, the head.
Pownie, a pony.
Pow’t, pulled.
Pree’d, pried
(proved), tasted.
Preen, a pin.
Prent, print.
Prie, to taste.
Prief, proof.
Priggin, haggling.
Primsie, dim. of prim,
precise.
Proveses, provosts.
Pu’, to pull.
Puddock-stools, toadstools,
mushrooms.
Puir, poor.
Pun’, pund, pound.
Pursie, dim. of purse.
Pussie, a hare.
Pyet, a magpie.
Pyke, to pick.
Pyles, grains.
Quat, quit, quitted.
Quean, a young woman,
a lass.
Queir, choir.
Quey, a young cow.
Quietlin-wise, quietly.
Quo’, quod, quoth.
Rab, rob.
Rade, rode.
Raep, a rope.
Ragweed, ragwort.
Raibles, recites by
rote.
Rair, to roar.
Rairin, roaring.
Rair’t, roared.
Raise, rase, rose.
Raize, to excite, anger.
Ramfeezl’d, exhausted.
Ramgunshoch, surly.
Ram-stam, headlong.
Randie, lawless, obstreperous.
Randie, randy, a scoundrel,
a rascal.
Rant, to rollick, to
roister.
Rants, merry meetings;
rows.
Rape, v. raep.
Raploch, homespun.
Rash, a rush.
Rash-buss, a clump of
rushes.
Rashy, rushy.
Rattan, rattoon, a rat.
Ratton-key, the rat-quay.
Raucle, rough, bitter,
sturdy.
Raught, reached.
Raw, a row.
Rax, to stretch, to
extend.
Ream, cream, foam.
Ream, to cream, to foam.
Reave, to rob.
Rebute, rebuff.
Red, advised, afraid.
Red, rede, to advise,
to counsel.
Red-wat-shod, red-wet-shod.
Red-wud, stark mad.
Reek, smoke.
Reekie, reeky, smoky.
Reestit, scorched.
Reestit, refused to
go.
Reif, theiving.
Remead, remedy.
Rickles, small stacks
of corn in the fields.
Rief, plunder.
Rig, a ridge.
Riggin, the roof-tree,
the roof.
Rigwoodie, lean.
Rin, to run.
Ripp, a handful of corn
from the sheaf.
Ripplin-kame, the wool
or flax comb.
Riskit, cracked.
Rive, to split, to tear,
to tug, to burst.
Rock, a distaff.
Rockin, a social meeting.
Roon, round, shred.
Roose, to praise, to
flatter.
Roose, reputation.
Roosty, rusty.
Rottan, a rat.
Roun’, round.
Roupet, exhausted in
voice.
Routh, v. rowth.
Routhie, well-stocked.
Row, rowe, to roll;
to flow, as a river; to wrap.
Rowte, to low, to bellow.
Rowth, plenty, a store.
Rozet, resin.
Run-deils, downright
devils.
Rung, a cudgel.
Runkl’d, wrinkled.
Runt, a cabbage or colewort
stalk.
Ryke, to reach.
Sab, to sob.
Sae, so.
Saft, soft.
Sair, sore, hard, severe,
strong.
Sair, to serve.
Sair, sairly, sorely.
Sairie, sorrowful, sorry.
Sall, shall.
Sandy, Sannack, dim.
of Alexander.
Sark, a shirt.
Saugh, the willow.
Saul, soul.
Saumont, sawmont, the
salmon.
Saunt, saint.
Saut, salt.
Saut-backets, v. backets.
Saw, to sow.
Sawney, v. sandy.
Sax, six.
Scar, to scare.
Scar, v. scaur.
Scathe, scaith, damage;
v. skaith.
Scaud, to scald.
Tack, possession, lease.
Tacket, shoe-nail.
Tae, to.
Tae, toe.
Tae’d, toed.
Taed, toad.
Taen, taken.
Taet, small quantity.
Tairge, to target.
Tak, take.
Tald, told.
Tane, one in contrast
to other.
Tangs, tongs.
Tap, top.
Tapetless, senseless.
Tapmost, topmost.
Tappet-hen, a crested
hen-shaped bottle holding three quarts of
claret.
Tap-pickle, the grain
at the top of the stalk.
Topsalteerie, topsy-turvy.
Targe, to examine.
Tarrow, to tarry; to
be reluctant, to murmur; to weary.
Tassie, a goblet.
Tauk, talk.
Tauld, told.
Tawie, tractable.
Tawpie, a foolish woman.
Tawted, matted.
Teats, small quantities.
Teen, vexation.
Tell’d, told.
Temper-pin, a fiddle-peg;
the regulating pin of the spinning-wheel.
Tent, heed.
Tent, to tend; to heed;
to observe.
Tentie, watchful, careful,
heedful.
Ulzie, oil.
Unchancy, dangerous.
Unco, remarkably, uncommonly,
excessively.
Unco, remarkable, uncommon,
terrible (sarcastic).
Uncos, news, strange
things, wonders.
Unkend, unknown.
Unsicker, uncertain.
Unskaithed, unhurt.
Usquabae, usquebae,
whisky.
Vauntie, proud.
Vera, very.
Virls, rings.
Vittle, victual, grain,
food.
Vogie, vain.
Wa’, waw, a wall.
Wab, a web.
Wabster, a weaver.
Wad, to wager.
Wad, to wed.
Wad, would, would have.
Wad’a, would have.
Wadna, would not.
Wadset, a mortgage.
Wae, woful, sorrowful.
Wae, wo; wae’s
me = wo is to me.
Waesucks, alas!
Wae worth, wo befall.
Wair, v. ware.
Wale, to choose.
Wale, choice.
Walie, wawlie, choice,
ample, large.
Wallop, to kick; to
dangle; to gallop; to dance.
Waly fa’, ill
befall!
Wame, the belly.
Wamefou, bellyful.
Wan, won.
Wanchancie, dangerous.
Wanrestfu’, restless.
Ware, wair, to spend;
bestow.
Ware, worn.
Wark, work.
Wark-lume, tool.
Warl’, warld,
world.
Warlock, a wizard
Warl’y, warldly,
worldly.
Warran, warrant.
Warse, worse.
Warsle, warstle, wrestle.
Wast, west.
Wastrie, waste.
Wat, wet.
Wat, wot, know.
Water-fit, water-foot
(the river’s mouth).
Water-kelpies, v. kelpies.
Wauble, to wobble.
Waught, a draft.
Wauk, to awake.
Wauken, to awaken.
Waukin, awake.
Waukit (with toil),
horny.
Waukrife, wakeful.
Waulie, jolly.
Waur, worse.
Waur, to worst.
Waur’t, worsted,
beat.
Wean (wee one), a child.
Weanies, babies.
Weason, weasand.
Wecht, a measure for
corn.
Wee, a little; a wee
= a short space or time.
Wee things, children.
Weel, well.
Weel-faured, well-favored.
Weel-gaun, well-going.
Weel-hain’d, well-saved.
Weepers, mournings (on
the steeve or hat).
Werena, were not.
We’se, we shall.
Westlin, western.
Wha, who.
Whaizle, wheeze.
Whalpet, whelped.
Wham, whom.
Whan, when.
Whang, a shive.
Whang, flog.
Whar, whare, where.
Wha’s whose.
Wha’s, who is.
Whase, whose.
What for, whatfore,
wherefore.
Whatna, what.
What reck, what matter;
nevertheless.
Whatt, whittled.
Whaup, the curlew.
Whaur, where.
Wheep, v. penny-wheep.
Wheep, jerk.
Yard, a garden; a stackyard.
Yaud, an old mare.
Yealings, coevals.
Yell, dry (milkless).
Yerd, earth.
Yerkit, jerked.
Yerl, earl.
Ye’se, ye shall.
Yestreen, last night.
Yett, a gate.
Yeuk, to itch.
Yill, ale.
Yill-Caup, ale-stoup.
Yird, yearth, earth.
Yokin, yoking; a spell;
a day’s work.
Yon, yonder.
’Yont, beyond.
Yowe, ewe.
Yowie, dim. of ewe;
a pet ewe.
Yule, Christmas.