^,f the magistrates of Irvine, on the '2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.] AULD NIBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, 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 j Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 0' war'ly cares. ROBERT BURNS. 35 Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle Your auld, gray 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 be licket Until ye fyke ; Sic hauns as you sud ue'er be faiket, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wV drink, Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; Except it be some idle plan 0' 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 nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrieviu'. 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 1 Tho' rough an' raploeh be her measure. She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; But for the Muse she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er so puir, Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door to door. 36 THE POETICAL AV OR KS OF ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. "0 Prince! Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war." — Miltox. [The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes moved the heart of one of the coldest of our critics. "It was, I think," says Gilbert Burns, '• in the winter of 17Si. as we were going with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the > Address to the Deil.' The ide:\ of the address was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august personage."] THOU ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Horuie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Closed 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, E'en 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 keud an' noted is thy name ; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far ; An', faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion. For prey, a' holes an' corners tryiu ; Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks ; Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say. In lanely glens ye like to stray ; Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, R B E R T B D R N S. 37 Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my Grauuie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman I Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin. thro' the boortries comin, Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night. The stars shot down wi' sldentin light, Wi' you, niysel, I gat a fright Ayout the lough ; Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake. Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick — Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter' d, like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags. Tell how wi' you on rag weed 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 an' pain. May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain : For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill ; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 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 cantiip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse. Just at the bit. 38 THE POETICAL WORKS OF When thowcs dissolve the snawy hoord, Au' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction ; An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 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 brother 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 sward. In shady bow'r : Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog ! Ye came to Paradise incog. An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa' !) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruin'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 ? ROBERT BURNS. 39 Aa' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd -his ill tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava ? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechlin fierce. Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, 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 linkiu To your black pit ; But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! r— wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! — / x-^Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — Still hae a stake — , . I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake ! THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED KIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW TEAR. ["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the heart." The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of a knight-errant, and loves his mare aceording to the rules of chivalry ; and well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses : she .ploughed the stifTest land; faced the steepe.st brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness of the loveliness of the load.] A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie : 40 THE rOE TIC AL WORKS OF Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, au' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaeu like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonny 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 Meere ; 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 trottin wi' your minnie : Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny, Ye ne'er was donsie: But haraely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, ^ An' unco sousie. That day ye pranc'd wi* muckle pride. When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : An' sweet and gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air ! Kylp- Stewart I could bragged wide. For sic a pair. EGBERT BURNS. 41 Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, An' wintle like a saumout-coble, That day, ye was a j inker noble, For heels an' win' ! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin' ! When thou an' 1 were young an' skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. How thou wad prance, an' 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 ay like a swallow : At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. For pith an' speed; But every tail thou pay't them hollow. Where'er thou gaed. The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle : Nae whip nor spui', but just a whattle 0' saugh or hazle. 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 ban' For days thegither. Thou never braindg'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' pow'r, 'Till spiritty knowes wad rair't and risket. An' slypet owre. 42 THE POETICAL WORKS OF When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threateu'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, an' 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 thretteeu pund an' twa, The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weaiy warl' fought ! An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat ! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. And 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 ROBERT BURNS. 43 TO A HAGGIS. [The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people : the in- gredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them : the ingredients of the latter are gathered chicQy from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.] Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race ! Aboon them a' ye tak jour place, Paiuch, 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 hiU, Your pin wad 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 slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich ! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Dell 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 o'er his French ragout, Or olio ttat wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner ? Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash. His spindle shank a guid whip-lash. His nieve a nit ; 44 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, how unfit ! But mark the nistic, 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' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. 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' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis ! A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. [*• There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, " that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my for- tune. Jly body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes mo yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following."] 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 disti-est ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest. Sure Thou, Ahuighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! 0, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death I But if I must afflicted be. To suit some wise design ; ROBERT BURNS. 45 Then, man my soul with firm i-esolves To bear aud not repiae ! A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. [I have heard the third Terse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild aud unruly passions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt tlie torrent-strength of pas- sion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful to the errors of one oa whom he had bestowed such o'ermastering gifts.] 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 shuu ; 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 Delio-hteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. [These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls " Misgivings in the ITour o Despondency and Prospect of Deatli." He elsewhere says that they were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder first put nature on the alarm.] Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 46 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 path might go astray ; Again exalt the bi'ute and sink the man j Then how should I for heavenly mercy pi'ay, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn' d, yet to temptation ran? 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; 0, aid me with Thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! A WINTER NIGHT. "Poor naked wretches, whcresoe'er you are That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm! How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and wjndow'd raggedness defend you From seasons such as these?'' — Shakspeake. ["This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, " is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy : his soul rushes forth into all the i-ealms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."] When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; ROBERT BURNS. 47 When Plioobus gies a shoi't-liv'd glow'r Far south the lift, Dim-darkening through tlie flaky show'r, Or whirUng drift : Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. Listening the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ouric cattle. Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 0' winter war. And through 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 cower thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e ? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled Mj heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark mufHed, viewed the dreary plain ; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Hose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole : — " Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost; 48 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF Descend, ye chilly, smotliering; snows ! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined 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 ! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flattery 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 glittering show, A creature of another kind. Some coarser substance, unrefin'd. Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow. The powers 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 prayers ! ■ 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 I 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 satisfied keen nature's clamorous call. Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep. /'.• '..-; .•vt'Vef ie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Jloors. Wilson went afterwards to Gla.sgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial specula- tions, and prospered, and is still prospering.] Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd : Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend. And nail't wi' Scripture. 62 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 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 whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches j An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : To count her horns with a' my pow'r, I set mysel ; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell. I was come round about the hill, And todlin' down on Willie's mill. Setting my staff with a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither ; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. Clear-dangling, hang ; A three-taed 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. ROBERT BURNS. 63 " Guid-een," quo' I; " Friend, hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin ?" £t seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak ; At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back ?" It spak right ho we, — " My name is Death, But be na fley'd."— Quoth I, " Quid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; But tent me, billie; 1 red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See, there's a gully I" " Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, I'm no design' d to try its mettle ; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad nae mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard." ''Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news ! This while ye hae been mony a gate At mony a house." " 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 : 1 Folk maun do something for their bread, V^ An' sae^maun Death. " Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the hutching bred, An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid. To stap or scar me ; Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade. An' faith, he'll waur me. 64 THE POETICAL WORKS OF " Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan ! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan^ An' ither chaps, ' The weans hand out their fingers laughin An' pouk my hips. " See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith not worth a f — t, Damn'd haet they'll kill. " 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 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. And had sae fortified the pavt, 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 nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as weel have tried a quarry 0' hard whin rock. "Ev'n them he canna get attended. Although their face he ne'er had kend it, Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't. 1 Buchau's Domestic Medicine. ROBERT BURNS. 65 And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds 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 and pease, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please. He can content ye. " Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons ; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'dper se; Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mouy mae." " Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole' now/' Quo' I, "If that thae news be true ! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bouicj Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; They'll ruin Johnnie I" The creature gTain'd an eldritch laugh. And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' 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 take my aith. That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. 1 The grave-digger. 66 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF An honest wabster to liis trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend lier bead, When it was sair : V The wife slade cannie to ber bed, But ne'er spake mair. "A countra laird bad ta'en tbe batts, Or some curmurring in bis guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays bim well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets. Was laird himsel. " A bonnie lass, ye kend ber name, Some ill-brewn drink bad bov'd ber wame; Sbe trusts bersel, to bide tbe sbame. In Hornbook's care; Horn sent ber aff to ber lang bame, To bide it tbere. ■ "That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus goes be 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 d-mn'd dirt: " But, hark I I'll tell you of a plot. Though dinna you be speaking o't ; I'll nail tbe self-conceited sot, As dead's a berrin' : 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' tbe bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal. Which 'rais'd us baith : I took the way that pleased mysel', And sae did Death. ROBERT BURNS. 67 THE TWA HERDS: OR, THE HOLY T0LZIE, [The actors in this indecent drama -were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the venemeuce of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns, " with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause."] 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 and crocks, About the dykes ? The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast. These five and twenty simmers past, ! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel. . 0, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle. Ye' 11 see how New-Light herds will whistle And think it fine : The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle Sin' I ha'e min'. 0, sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e 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' Hoodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank ? Nae poison' d sour Arminian stank He let them taste. Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank, — sic a feast ! 68 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel keud his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like Russell tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height, And 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 or the burning dub. Or heave them in. Sic twa — ! do I live to see't. Sic famous twa should disagreet. An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en. While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's lieiu' ! A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,' There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul. But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee. That thou wilt work them, hot and 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 fiei'y flame. ROBERT BURNS. Daliymple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld Wodrow lang has hatch' d mischief, We thought aye death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chiel wha'U soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn-coats amang oursel. There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, An' that ye'll fin'. ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cow the lairds. And get the brutes the powers themsels To choose their herds j Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. And Learning in a woody dance. And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish' d o'er the sea to France : Let him bark there. Then Shaw's atad Dalrymple's eloquence, M'Gill's close nervous excellence, M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, And guid M'Mnth, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff. 69 70 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. " And send the godly in a pet to pray." — Pope. [Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jolly Beggars, in 18(ll. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns ; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and what is known by the name of a "professing Christian." He experienced, however, a " sore fall ;" he permitted himself to bo " filled fou," and in a moment when " self got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.] THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They've done afore thee ! 1 bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night. That I am here afore thy sight, *■ For gifts and grace, A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place. What was I, or my generation. That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation. For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore 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' lake, Whar damned devils roar and yell. Chain' d to a stake. Yet I am here a chosen sample ; To show thy grace is great and ample; ROBERT BURNS. 71 I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock. But yet, Lord ! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; Aud sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust. Vile self gets in ; But thou remembers we are dust, Defiled in sin. Lord ! yestreen thou kens, wi' Meg — Thy pardon I sincerely beg, ! 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' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — But Lord, that Friday I was fou. When I came near her, Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted ; If sae, thy ban' 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. And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes. 72 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Yet has sae monj takia' arts, Wi' grit and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'; "^ An' whan we chasten' d him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar 0' laughin' at us ; — Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes. Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads, Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare. For their misdeeds. Lord my God, that glib-ton gu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin'. To think how we stood groauin', shakin'. And swat wi' dread. While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin', And hung his head. Lord, in the day of vengeance try him. Lord, visit them wha did employ hi;n, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. Nor hear their pray'r j But for thy people's sake destroy 'em. And dinna spare. But, Lord, remember me an' mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nanje. And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen ! ROBERT BURNS. 73 EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. [We are informed bj' Richmond of Mauchline, that when he was clcrli in Gavin Hamil- ton's office, Burns came in one morning and said, "I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it." He repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph i Hamilton came in at the moment, and having read them with delight, ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy AVillie was other than godly : in one of his visits to Mauchline. he drank more than was needful, fell into a ditch on hia way home, and was found dead in the morning.] Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Takes up its last abode ; His saul has ta'en some otter 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 baud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore. For pity ye hae nane ; Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gaen. 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. THE INVENTOKY; IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURTEYOR OF THE TAXES. [We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humorous inventory of his effects, so moved the commissioners of the income tax. that they remitted all claim on him then and for ever; we know not that this very humorous inventory of Burns had any such eff'ect on Mr. Aiken, the surveyor of the taxes. It is dated " Mossgiel, February 22d, 17S6," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the information which it gives us of the poet's habits, household, and agricultural implements.] Sir, as your mandate did request, T send you here a faithfu' list, 74 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 0' glides, an' gear, an' a' my graith, To which I'm clear to gi'c my aith. Imjvimis, then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My lan'-afore's^ a gude auld has been, An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been. ]My lan-ahin's^ a weel gaun fillie. That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,* An' your auld burro' 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, (L — d pardon a' my sins an' that too!) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie. She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. My fur-ahin's* a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, A d — n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie! Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale. As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spared to be a beast. He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. — "Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' two are feckly new ; Ae 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. For men I've three mischievous boys. Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. Wee Davock bauds the nowt in fother. 1 The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. 2 The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough. 3 Kilmarnock. * The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough. ROBERT BURNS. 75 I rule tliem as I ought, discreetly, An' afteu labour them completely; An' aye on Sundays, duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly ; Till, faith, wee Davock's turu'd sae gleo-, Tho' scarcely lauger than your leg. He'll screed you aflf Effectual Calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) I ha'e nae wife — an that my bliss is, An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils darena touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae" than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace ; But her, my bounie sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already. An' gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L — d ! ye'se get them a'thegither. And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license 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 be thankit. The kirk and you may tak' you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your buke. Nor for my ten white shillings luke. This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, The day and date as under noted ; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscri'psi huic Robert Burns. 76 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE HOLY FAIK. A robe of seeming truth and trust . Hid crafty ob?erviition; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation : A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; And for a mantle large and broad, Ho wrapt him in Keligion. — IIypocrist a-la-mode. [The scene of this fine poem is the churchyard of Mauchline, and the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners visible in matters so solemn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. "This was indeed," says Lockbart, "an extra- ordinary performance : no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its pi'incipal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which indivi- duals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest muttcrings of wrath, that nutional manners were once more iu the hands of a national poet." " It is no doubt," says Hogg, " a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever one, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I admire the poem I must regret that is partly borrowed from Fergusson."] 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 furs, 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. Came 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 ony slaes : Page V7 /^ EGBERT BURNS. The third came up, hap-step-au'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, Au' 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 keu me ; < I'm sure I've seen that bounie face. But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' taks me by the hands, " Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. " My name is Fun — your eronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae ; An' this is Superstition here. An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, To spend an hour in daffin : Gin ye' 11 go there, yon runkl'd pair. We will get famous laughin' At them this day." Quoth I, " With 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' monie a wearie body. In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpiu barefit, thrang. In silks an' scarlets glitter; THE POETICAL AV R K S OF Wi' sweet-milk cheese, iu monie 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 blethrin, Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry, There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh— res, Are bliukiu' at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, Wi' heaving breast and 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 clacs ; Ane curses feet tha! fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' scvew'd up grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkin' on the lasses To chairs that day. happy is that man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best. Comes clinkiii' down beside him ; Wi' arm repos'd on the chaiv back, He sweetly does compose him ; ROBERT BURNS. 79 Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Uukenn'd that day. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation : For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him. The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To's aiu het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin' ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stanipin an' he's jumpin' ! His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures. Oh, how they fire the heart devout. Like cantharidian plasters. 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 opens out his cauld harangues, On 2:)ractice 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 pow'rs and reason ? His English style, an' gestures fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan heathen. ?0 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The moral inau lie 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, frae the water-fit. Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-Sense has ta'en the road. An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,^ Fast, fast, that day. Wee Miller, 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, cannily he hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that day. Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators : Here's crying 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 0' wrath that day. Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair Than either school or college : It kindles wit, it waukens lair. It pangs us fou' o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or ony stronger potion, 1 A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchliue. ROBERT BURNS. 81 It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. The lads an' la.sses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table, weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're making observations ; While some are cozie i' the neuk. An' formin' assignations To meet some day. But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts : Black Russell is na' sparin' : His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints and marrow; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our vera sauls does harrow^ Wi' fright that day. A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' 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 monie stories past. An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist : How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amauo; the furms an' benches : Shakspeare's Hamlet. 82 T II E P E T I C A L W R K S F An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, An' dawds that day. In comes a gaucie, 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' gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day. Waesucks ! for him that gets uae lass, Or lasses that hae naething ; Sma' need has he to say a grace Or melvie his braw claithing ! wives, be minfu' ance yoursel How bonuie lads ye wanted. An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let lasses be aifronted 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 monie hearts this day converts 0' 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 j An' monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. ROBERT BURNS. ^o THE ORDINATION. "For sense they little ov>e to frugal hcav'n — To please the mob they hide the little giv'n." [This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1780. That r.'TerenJ person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Li^'hts, hence the hitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have lon^' since past away : MacUiulay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and thouyli unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of t'le powers of the poet.] Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations, Swith to tlie Laigh Kirlc, ane an' a', An' there tak vip 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;^ But Oliphant aft made her yell. An' Russell sair misca'd her; This day Mackinlay taks the flail, And he's the boy will blaud her . V He'll clap a shangau on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. Mak haste an' turn -king David owre. An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 0' 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. 1 Alludini to a scoffinii ballad wliich ^vas made on the admission of the late re-, m-v.ii and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laijih Kirk. b4 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham' leugh at his dad, Which made Canaau a niger ; Or Phiueas^ drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,^ the scauldin' jad. Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks but 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. And toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowte 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 and wale. No gi'en by way o' dainty. But ilka day. 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. An' a' like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day ! J Genesis, ix. 22. 2 Numbers, xxv. 8. 3 Exodus, iv. 25. ROBERT BURNS. 85 Lang Patronage, wi' rod o* airn, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoiu', As lately Feuwick, sair forfairu, Has proven to its ruin : Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin' ; And like a godly elect bairn He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day. Now, Robinson, 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 repair, And turn a carpet-weaver AflF-hand this day. Mutrie 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 ay' he catch'd the tither wretch. To fry them in his caudrons; But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons. Fast, fast this day. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein' through 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 ; 80 T II E P E T I C A L W R K S F Hear, liow he gies the tither yell, Between his twa coiDpanions; See, how she peels the skiu an' fell, As ane were peelin' onions ! Now there — they're packed aff to hell, • And banished our dominions, Henceforth this day. 0, happy day I 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 every New Light^ 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. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. JAKES STEVEN. On his text, Malachi, iv. 2. — " And ye shall go forth, and grow up as Calves of the stall." [Tlie laugh which this littlo poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns com- posed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf^for the name it seems stuck — came to London, where the younger brother of Burns hoard him preach in Coveut Garden Chapel, in 1790.] Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true. Though Heretics may laugh; 1 "New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended. ROBERT BURNS. 87 For instauce ; there's yoursel' just now, God kuows, au unco Calf! And should some pati'ou 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 hea.r you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head — " Here lies a famous Bullock I" TO JAMES SMITH. '■' Friendship! mysterious cement of the soull Sweet'ner of life and solder of society ! I owe thee much! — " — Blair. [The .Tames Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shop- keeper in Maucliline, and the comrade or rather follower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with " Yill-caup commentators." He was present in Poosie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggars first diiwned on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of the poet's heart were not generally very successful in life : Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico- printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous iu 1788: hut this was not to last; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his manners lively and unaffected.'' Df:AR SiMiTii, the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief. 88 THE POETICAL AV OR KS OF Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon Just gaun to see you ; And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature. She's turn'd you afF, a human creature On her first plan ; And in her freaks, on every 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 it up sublime Wi' hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin' ? Some rhyme a neighbour'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 0' countra wit. This while my notion's ta'en a sklent. To try my fate in guid black prent ; But still the mair I'm that way bent. Something cries " Hoolie ! ROBERT BURNS. 89 I red you, honest man, take 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 fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows ! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes IMy rustic sang. I'll wander on, with 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 begin 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, Wi' creepin' pace. 6 90 THE POETICAL WORKS OF When auce life's day draws near the gloamin', Thau fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', An' social noise; An' fareweel dear, deluding woman ! The joy of joys ! 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 the expected warning, To joy and 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 swatj 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 every sinew brace ; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey; Then eannie, 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 ' ROBERT BURNS. Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? E'en let her gang! Beneatli 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, " The' I should wander terra o'er, In all her climes. Grant me but this, I ask no more. Ay rowth o' rhymes. '' Gie dreeping 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 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. " 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, W^i' 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 sori'ow, care, and prose, I rhyme away. ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you ! — fool ! fool ! fool ! How much unlike ! 91 ^- THE POETICAL AVORKS OF Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke ! Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces, In your uuletter'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 tbo' ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad : I see you upward cast your eyes — Ye ken the road — Whilst I — but I shall baud 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 jrane. THE VISION. DUAN FIRST.* [The Vision and the Brigcs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be " the only pieces by Burng which can be classed under the head of pure fiction :" but Tam o' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equal right to be classed with works of fiction. The edition of this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from the edition which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose font was so handsome as to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection triumphed, and .Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.] The sun had clos'd the winter day. The curlers quat their roaring play, An' hunger' d maukiu ta'en her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. 1 Duan. a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See hil " Cath-Loda," vol. ii. of Macpherson'a translation. ROBERT BURNS. 93 The thresher's weary flingin'-tree The lee-Iaug 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 eyed the spewing reek, That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin' ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the rigo-in'. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mused on wastet time. How I had spent my youthfu' prime. An' done nae thing, But stringin' 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 an' clarkit My cash-account : "While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. Is a' th' amount. 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, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath — When, click ! the string the snick did draw : And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; An' by my iugle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin' bright, A tight outlandish hizzie, braw Come full in siuht. 94 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht ; The infout aith, half-form'd, was erusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen ; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And 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 ; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon be broken. A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" Was strongly mai'ked 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 : And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean Could only peer it ; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and 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 tost : Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam ; There,' distant shone Art's lofty boast. The lordly dome. ROBERT BURNS. 95 Here, Doon pouv'd down his far-fetcli'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- By stately tow'r, or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the aii'. 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 wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel In sturdy blows ; While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Their southron foes. His Country's Saviour,^ mark him well ! Bold Richardton's^ heroic swell ; The chief on Sark* who glorious fell, In high command; And He whom ruthless fates expel His native land. 1 The Wallaces. 2 Sir William Wallace. 3 Adam Wallace, of Kichardton, cousin to the immortal preseryer of Scottish indepen- dence. * 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 ol Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. DO THE POETICAL WORKS OF There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade^ Stalk' d round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race portray' d In colours strong; Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along. Thro' nfeny a wild romantic grove,^ Near many a hermit-fancy' d 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. To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore, This, all its source and end to draw ; That, to adore. Brydone's brave ward* I well could spy. Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; Who called on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a Patriot-name on high And hero shone. DtJAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair; A whisp'ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet. When with an elder sister's air She did me greet. 1 Coilas, 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 hurial-place is still shown. " Barskimming, the .scat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk (Sir Thomas Miller of Gleulee, afterwards President of the Court of Session). 8 Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Stewart. * Colonel FuUartou ROBERTBURNS. 97 '/ 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 recking gore. They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; 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, poetic rage In energy. Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. " Hence Fullai'ton, the brave and yoimg; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His ' Minstrel' lays; Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic's bays. 98 THE POETICAL WORKS OF " To lower orders are assign'd The humbler ranks of huinan-kiud, The rustic bard, the lab'riug 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 op' ning 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 pow'r : 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 caroU'd, chiming phrase. In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays Of other times ROBERT BURNS. 99 " I saw tbce seek tlie sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through 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 flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouriug forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. " When ripen'd fields, and azure skies. Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys. And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. a) " 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 100 THE POETICAL AV OR KS OF '' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glowj Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Sheustone's art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow. Warm on the heart. " Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose, The 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. ROBERT BURNS 101 II A L L W E E N.» "Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art." — GoLDsmTH. [This Poem contains a lively and striking picture of some of the superstitions obser- vances of old Scotland: on Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portiun of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fire.side, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including supernumerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engagements of harvest. " I never can help regarding this," says James Ilogg, '-as rather a trivial poem!"] Upon tliat night, when fairies light On Cassilis Dowuans" 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,^ to stray an' rove Amang the rocks an' streams To sport that night. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, Where Bruce* 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' baud their Halloween Fu' blythe that night. The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they're fine ; 1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mi.schief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands: particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary. 2 Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassili.s. 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 favourite haunt of fairies. * The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Kobert, the great deliverer of his country, were Karls of Carrick. 102 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Then- faces blythe, fu' s-weetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kiu' ; The lads sae trig, wi' wooer babs, Weel knotted on their garteii, Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whiles fast at night. Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail, Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance ; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, For muckle anes an' straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, An' wander' d through 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, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've placed them To lie that night. The lasses staw frae mang them a' To pou their stalks o' corn f But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn : 1 The first ceremony of Il.alloween 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 .ind 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 custoc, that is, the he.art of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appel- lation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door: .and the Christiau names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question. 2 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several 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. ROBERT BURNS. 103 He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud skirl'd a' the lasses; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kuittlin' in the fause-house^ Wi' him that night. The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits^ Are round an' round divided, An' monie lads an' lasses' fates Are there tliat night decided : Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride. And jump out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night. 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' Jaen had e'en a sair heart To see't that night. Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; An' Mallie, 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 swoor, by jing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that nit-ht. 1 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., 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. 2 Burning the nuts is a famous charoi. 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 issne of the courtship will be. 104 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Nell had the faiise-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, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou', Fu' cozie in the ueuk for't, Unseen that night. But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, And slips out by hersel' : She through the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then. An' darklius graipit for the banks, And in the blue-clue^ throws then. Right fear't that night. An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin' j 'Till soiuethiug held within the pat, Guid L — d ! but she was quaukiu' ! 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 grannie says " Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? I'll eat the apple" at the glass, I o-at frae uncle Johnnie :" 1 WlKieTer would, vith success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directiong : Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darklinj;, throw into the pot a cluo of blue yarn : wind it in a clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; demand " wha haud.s?" i. e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse. !* Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple before It, and some tradi- tions say, you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. ROBERT BURNS. 105 She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a limt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin', She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night. *' Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! T daur you try sic sportin', As seek the foul Thief onie place, For him to spae your fortune : Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Great cause ye hae to fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An' liv'd an' died deleeret 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 nae past fifteen : The simmer had been cauld an' wat. An' stuff was unco green ; An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat, An' just on Halloween It fell that night. " Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, A clever, sturdy fellow : He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That liv'd in Achmacalla : He gat hemp-seed,' I mind it weel. And he made unco light o't; But monie a day was by himsel', He was sae sairly frighted That vera nicht." 1 steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hempseed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, '• Ilemp-seed, I saw thee ; hemp-seed, T 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 sec the appearance of the person in- voked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, '' Come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and .sav, •• Come after mo, and harrow thee." 106 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swore by bis conscience, Tbat be could saw bemp-secd a peck; For it was a' but nonsense ; Tbe auld guiduaan raugbt down the pock, An' out a handfu' gied bim ; Syne bad bim slip frae 'mang tbe folk, Sometime wben nae ane see'd bim, An' try't tbat nigbt. He marcbes tbro' amang tbe stacks, Tbo' be was sometbing sturtin ; The graip be for a barrow taks. An' baurls at bis 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 tbat night." He whistled up Lord Lennox' march. To keep his courage cheery; Altbo' 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 bis shoutber gae a keek. An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre tbat night. He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. In dreadfu' desperation ! An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out. An' hear the sad narration ; He swoor 'twas bilcbin Jean M'Craw, Or croucbie Merran Humphie, 'Till, stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; An' wha was it but Grumpbie Asteer tbat nigbt I ROBERT BURNS. 107 Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaea, To win three wechts o'naethiug / But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in : She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets. In hopes to see Tim Kipples That vera night. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. An' owre the threshold ventures ; But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. Syne bauldly in she enters : A ratton rattled up the wa', An' she cried, L — d, 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,^ Was timmer-propt for thrawin' j He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak. For some black, grousome carlin ; An' loot a winze, au' drew a stroke, 'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Afi"'s nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlin ; 1 This charm must likewise he performed, unperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, nnd open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being aliout to appear may shut the doors and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dhilect, 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 nt 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. * Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three time.- around. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your .%rms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 108 T II E r E T I C A L W R K S F But, ocli ! that uight ainanp; the shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin' ! She thro' the whins, au' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn/ To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't; Whyles I'ound a rocky scaur it strays, Whyles in a wiel it dinipl't; Whyles glitter' d to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel. Unseen that night Amang the brackens on the brae, Between her an' the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey. Gat up an' gae 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 three''^ are ranged. And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed : 1 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 sleeves before it to dry. liie awake : and, some time near mia- night, 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. - Take three dishes : put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the tliird 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. It is repeated three times, and everj time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. ""' «-. ./ //a// //y/.J //////'/r /^ ^//i^//A/?y. ^^Aj^' i/ Oy ■m^i'^ /yM^AiiT 'V,. fagelOO yV/7,^ /i^r/Ay a^-^/m!^J^^< ^ ". ROBERT BURNS. 109 Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin Mar's-year did desire, Because he gat the toom-disli thrice, He heav'd them on the fire In wrath that night. Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery ; Till butter'd so'ns/ wi' fragrant luut, Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. They parted afi" careerin' Fu' blythe that night. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, A DIRGE. [The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dun lop: "I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the gowl old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of ' The Life and Age of Man.' " From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with '• Man was made to mourn," I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own h;ibitual feelings.] ; When chill November's surly blast I Made fields and forests bare. One ev'niug as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy'd a man whose aged step Seom'd weary, worn with care; . His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. ''Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" '' Began the rev'reud sage; -"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. Or youthful pleasure's rage ? - Soweu.s, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper. 110 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Or hfiply, 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 hibour to support A haughty lordliug's pride : I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return, ^nd ev'ry time has added proofs ! That man was made to mourn. " man ! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Misspending 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 !- Show 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 every land, All wretched and forlorn ! Thro' weary life this lesson learn — That man was made to mourn. ROBEKT BURNS. Ill " Many aud sharp tlie num'rous ills Inwoven witli our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heaven-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, though 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 power 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 best ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born. Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! " Death ! the poor man's dearest friend — The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour, my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! 112 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn ! But, oh ! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn." TO RUIN. [" I have been," says Burns, in his common-place book, '• taking a peep through, a^ Young finely says, 'The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! Wliat a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and fully! my life reminded us of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.] 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 ; Though 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 prayer ! No 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 its 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 113 TO JOHN GOUDIE, OF KILMARNOCK. ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. [This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill contro- versy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beg^'ars, in ISOl ; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the West.] Goudie ! terror of the Whig.s, Dread of black coats aud rev'rend wigs. Sour Bigotry, ou her last legs, Grirniu', looks back, Wishin' the teu Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick. Poor gapin', gloweriu' Superstition, Waes me ! she's in a sad condition : Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician, To see her water : Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion She'll ne'er get better. Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple. But now she's got an unco ripple; Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, Nigh unto death ; See, how she fetches at the thrapple. An' gasps for breath. Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gaen in a gallopin' consumption, Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, Will ever mend hei'. Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her. 'Tis you and Taylor^ are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief, But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel, An' twa red peats wad send relief. An' end the quarrel. 1 Dr. Taylor, of Norwich. 114 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TO J. L APR A IK. an old scottish baed. (first epistle.) r"The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, "was produced exactly on the occa-sion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of meet- ing in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rokea as well as women."] April \st, 1785. While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichiu' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse. This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On Fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin', And there was muckle fun an' 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 aught describ'd sae weel. What geu'rous manly bosoms feel, Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?" They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. ROBERT BURNS. 115 It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, Aud sae about him there I spier' t, Theu a' that ken't him round declar'd He had iujine, That, uane 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' saugs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, 'Tweeu Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and 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 fnie prose. To mak a sang?" But, by your leaves, my learned foes. Ye 're may-be wrang. 116 THE POETICAL WORKS OF What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latia names for horns an' stools ; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars ? Ye'd better ta'en up s^oades 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 though I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee. Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, If I can hit it ! That would be lear enough 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. 1 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 monie still As far abuse me. ROBERT BURNS. 117 There's ae wee fiiut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses — Glide forgie me ! For mouie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair; May be 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, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack ! I dinna like to seeyour 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 grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. Who am, most fervent, Whife I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant. 118 THErOETICALAVORKSOF TO J. LAPRAIK. (second epistle.) [The .lolm Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at Dalfram in the neif;h bourhood of Muirkiik, and was a rustic worshipper of the Muse: he unluckily, however involved himself in that Western bubble, the A3'r Bank, and consoled himself by com- posing in his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, beginning " When I upon thy bosom lean." He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a qviality which proved that the inspir.i tion in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled power of soul.] April 2ls(, 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, wi' weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amaug the naigs Their ten hovirs' bite. My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy. Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy. This month' an' mair, That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie. An' something sair." Her dowff excuses pat me mad : " Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad ! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade. But rhyme it right. " Shall bauW Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, ROBERT BURNS. 119 Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 111 terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to show 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 I" 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 an' warp; She's but a b-tch. She's gien me nionie a jirt an' fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the L — d, 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 upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the liramer Frae year to year; But yet despite the kittle kimmei", I, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 120 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Oi' purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugb to represent A baillie's name ? Or is't tlie 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 ! '' 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 Heav'n, 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, An' none but he I" mandate, glorious and divine ! The followers o' the ragged 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 nievfu' of a soul ROBERT BURNS. 121 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 ! TO J. LAPRAIK, (third epistle.) [I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, " tapetless," " ramfeezled," and " forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.] Sept. l^th, 1785. GuiD speed an' furder to you, Johnny, Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 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 tapmast 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 dark. 122 THE rOE TIC A L WORKS OF 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 uae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskey stills, They are the muses. Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, An' if ye make objections at it. Then ban' in nieve some dny we'll knot it, An' witness take. An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It wiuna break. But if the beast and branks be spar'd Till kye be gauu without the herd, An' a' the vittel in the yard, An' theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night. Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitas Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, Till ye forget ye' re auld an' gatty, An' be as canty. As ye were nine year less than thretty. Sweet aue an' twenty : But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast. An' now the sin keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quat my chanter ; Sae I subscribe myself in haste, Yours, Rab the Banter. ROBERT BURNS. 122 TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, OCHILTREE. [The person to whom this epistle is adih-essed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and after- wards of New Lauark : he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet's com- rades; — of verses which rose not above the harren level of mediocrity : •' one of his poems," Bays Chambers, " was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul." In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are intended to be laughable as well as monitory.] 3Iay, 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; Wi' gratefii' heart I thank you brawlie ; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, All' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. Your fiatterin' 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. (0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts. Ye Enbrugh gentry ! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry !) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed. As whiles they're like to be my dead (0 sad disease \) 124 THE POETICAL WORKS OP I kittle up luy 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 stile ; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans hoil Besouth Magellan. Bamsay an' famous Fergusson Gried Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Boon, Nae body sings. Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' Hue ! 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 moor's red-brown wi' heather bells. Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, ROBERT BURNS. 125 Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy'd. O sweet are Coila's hanghs 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'niug the day. Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive heai'ts 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 trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang ! The war'Iy 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 " i-hymc-composing brither !" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, lu love fraternal ; i6 THErOETICALAVORKSOF May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While Highlandraen hate tolls an' taxes ; While luoorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axes Diurnal turns. Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. 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 viewing, An' shortly after she was done. They gat a new one. This past for certain — undisputed ; It ne'er cam i' their hands to doubt it, 'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. An' ca'd it wraugj An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang. Some herds, wed learn' d upo' the bcuk. Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; ROBERT BURNS. 127 For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affii-ra'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm' d : The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm'd That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform' d Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks, • An' mouie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were haug'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands. An* Auld Light caddies bure sic hands. That, faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, 'Till lairds forbade, 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 every 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 He'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the loons ; Some Auld Lis-ht herds in neibor towns 128 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Are mind't iu things they ca' balloons, To tak a flight, An' stay ae month amang the moons And see them right. Guid observation they will gie them : An' when the auld moon's gauu to lea'e them, The hindmost 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 tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. [This hasty aud not very decorous effusion, was originally entitled " The Poet's Wel- lome; or, Rab the Rhymer's Address to his Bastard Child." A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by Burns himself, in his biographical letter to Moore. " Bonnie Betty," the mother of the " sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Largieside : to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. She lived to be a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet. where she died in 1817. It is said sbe resembled Burns quite as much as any of the rest t f bis children.] Thou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' m'e. If ought of thee, or of thy mammy. Shall ever dauuton me, or awe me, My sweet wee lady. Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tit-ta or daddy. Wee image of my bonny Betty, I, fatherly, will 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' heil. ROBERT BURNS. What tho' they ca' me foruicator, An' tease my name in klntra clatter; The mail- 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. 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. An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, An' tak the counsel I sail gie thee, A lovin' father I'll be to thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, An' think' t weel war'd. Gude grant that thou may ay inherit Thy mither's person, grace an' merit, An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, Without his failins; 'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it Than stOcket mailens. 129 NATURE'S LAW. A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H., ESQ. " Great nature spoke, observant man obey'd." — Pope. [This Poem was written by Burns at Mossgiel, and "humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamil- ton, Esq." It is supposed to allude to his intercourse with Jean Armour, with the cir- cumstances of which he seems to have made many of liis comrades acquainted. These verses wore well known to many of the admirers of the poet, but they remained in manuscript till given to the world by Sir Harris Nicolas, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of the British Poets.] Let other heroes boast their scars. The marks of sturt and strife ; And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life ; 130 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Shame fa' the fun ; wi' sword and gun To slap mankind like lumber ! T 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, iu this hand, 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 through and through ; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due : Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowers, From mildews of abortion ; And lo ! the bard, a great reward, Has got a double portion ! Auld cantie Coil may count the day. As annual it returns, The third of Libra's equal sway, That gave another B[urns], With future rhymes, an' other times. To emulate his sire; To sing auld Coil in nobler style, With more poetic fire. Yo Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes ; ROBERT BURNS. 131 And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys : Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow'r of ancient nations ; And B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing, Thro' endless generations ! TC THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. [Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wotlrow, minister of Tarbol- tou : he was a good preacher, a moderate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coilstield Montgomerys. His dependent condition depressed his spirits : he grew dissipated ; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, and died in a foreign land.] Sqyt. 17(h, 1785. "While at the stock the shearers cow'r To shun tl:e bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r To pass the time. To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet. Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy. That I, a simple countra bardie, Sho.uld meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me. Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces. Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-milG i^iaces^ Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. 132 THE POETICAL WORKS OF There's Gaun/ misca't waur than a beast, Wha has uiair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him? An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him. • See him, the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word an' deed, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums ? Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' tell aloud Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be. But twenty times, I rather wou'd be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, An honest man may like a lass. But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth ; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. For what ? — to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth, To ruin straight. 1 Gavia Hamilton, Esq. ROBERT BURNS. 133 All hail, Religion! maid divine ! Pardon a unise sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line, Thus daurs to name thee ; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotch'd an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train. With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' foes : In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. But hellish spirit. Ayr ! my dear, my native ground. Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; Sir, in that circle you are fani'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. 134 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, KS.i. [This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel : the field is still pointed out: and a man called Blane is still living, who says be was gaudsman to the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plongh-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what hai-m the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, " What think you of our mouse now ?"] Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 0, 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 I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen icker in a thrave 's a sma' request : I'll get a blessiu' wi' the lave, And never miss't ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 0' foggage green ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast. Thou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. ROBERT BURNS. 135 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, lias cost thee uioiiy a weary nibble ! Now thou's tum'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house -or halcl, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain : The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley. An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, eompar'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. SCOTCH DRINK. " Gie him strong diiiik, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; Ah' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers finning o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, Au' minds his griefs no more." Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7. ["T here enclose you," said Burns. 20 JMarch, 1786, to his friend Kennedy, "my Scotch Drink ; I hope some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seein" vou at Kilmarnock: when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkiu stoup."] Let other poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus, An' crabbit names and stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch bear can niak us, In glass or jug. 136 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 0, thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotcli drink ; Whether thro' wiinpliu' worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem. Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name ! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn. An' aits set up their awuie horn, An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain ! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. In souple scones, the wale o' food ! Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' ; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down hill, scrievin', Wi' rattlin' glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil ; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head ; Yet humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. ROBERT BURNS. 137 Thou art the life o' pubHc haunts ; But thee, what were our fairs an' rants ? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspir'cl, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! Or reekin' on a new-year morning 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, rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath I' th' lugget caup ! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev'ry chaup. Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin' weanies see the light. Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name ! Nae howdie gets a social night. Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea. An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree Cement the quarrel ! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. To taste the barrel. 9 138 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Alake ! that e'er my muse has reason To wyte her couutrymen wi' treason ! But monie daily weet their weason Wi' liquors ijice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! Fell source o' moiiie a pain an' brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drukeu hash, 0' half his days ; " An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. Poor plackless devils like mysel', It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 0' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch Wi' honest men ; whiskey ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses 1 Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a — s ! Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, May kill us a' ; For loyal Forbes's charter'd boast Is ta'en awa R B E R T B U R N S. 139 Thae feurst horse-leeches o' th' Excise Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize ! Hand up thy hau', Deil ! aiice, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers ! An' bake them up in bruustane pies For poor d — n'd drinkers. Fortune ! if thou'll but gie nae still Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill. An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak' a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. " Dearest of distillation! last and test! How art fhou lost! "—Parody on Milton. [" Thh roem was written," says Bums, "before the act aneut the Scottish distilleries of session ITSO, for which Scotland and the author return their most -rateful thanks" Before the passing of this lenient act, so sharp was tlie law in the Xorth, that some di.til- Urs relinquished their trade; the price of barley was afTected. and Scotland, already exas- perated at the refusal of a militia, for which she was a petitioner, began to handle her claymore, and was perhaps only hindered from drawing it by the act mentioned by the poet. In an early copy of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh Mont-omerv. after- wards Earl of Eglinton : — " "Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stcnted, If bardies e'er aie represented, I ken if that yere sword were wanted Ye'd lend yere hand ; But when there's aught to say aneut it Yu're at a stand." The poet w^vs not sure that Montgomery would think the compliment to his readv h.n.i an excuse in full for the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the stanza.] ' Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, An' doucely manage our affairs In Parliament, To you a simple Bardie's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honours' hearts wi' grief twad pierce, 140 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF To see her sittia' on her a — e * Low i' the dust, An' scrieehin' out prosaic verse, Au' like to brust ! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On aquavitas j 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 devil blaw ye south. If ye dissemble ! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em : If honestly they cauna come, Far better want 'em. In gath'rin votes you were na slack ; Now stand as tightly by your tack j 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 stoup as toom's a whissle : An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle. Seizin' a stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Or lampit shell. Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, ROBERT BURNS. 141 Au' cheek-for-chow, a cliuiEe viutuer, CoUeaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder' d o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves ? Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' .the mire out o' sight ! But could I like Montgomeries fight. Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your honours, can ye see't. The kind, auld, canty carlin greet, Au' no get warmly on your feet. An' gar them hear it ! An' tell them with a patriot heat. Ye winna bear it ? Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues : Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se wdrran' ; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;^ An' 'that glib-gabbet Highland baron, The Laird o' Graham f An' aue, a chap that's damn'd auldfarreu, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay; 1 Sir Adam Ferguson. 2 The Dulvc of Montrose. 142 THE POETiCAL WORKS OF An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie : An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. To get auld Scotland back her kettle : Or fiith ! 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 ua they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she'd like to rin red-wud About her whiskey. An' L — d, 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' th' first she meets ! For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed. An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him het, my hearty cocks ! E'en cowe the cadie ! An' send him to his dicing box. An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid'bluid o' auld Boeonnock's I'll be his debt twa mashlum bouuocks, ROBERT BURNS. 143 An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's^ Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mistie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your mither's heart support ye. Then, though a minister grow dorty, An' kick your place,; Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. Before his face. God bless your honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o'claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt St. James's, Your humble Poet signs an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starved slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. But blythe and frisky. She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, Tak aff their whiskey. 1 A worthy old hosiers of the author's in M.iuchline, where he sometimes studied poli tics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink. 144 THE POETICAL W R K S OF What tlio' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! When wretches range, in famish' d swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; They downa bide the stink o' powther ; Their bauldest thought's a' hank' ring swither To Stan' or rin. Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throther To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his 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 han' a welcome gies him j An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas ! Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek. An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season ; But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather. Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather Ye tine your dam ; Freedom and whiskey gang thegither ! — Tak aff your dram ! ROBERT BURNS. 145 ADDRESS TO THE UNCO QUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. "My son, these maxims make a rule, / And lump them aj'e thegither; / The Rigid Righteous is a fool, / The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' calT in ; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffiu." Solomon. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. ["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, "has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him ; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never e.xcited his enthusiasm : but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed, ■was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are .some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of m.any of his finest songs! Who, the high, exalted, virtuous dames were to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.] YE wba are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your ueibor's fauts and folly ! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supply'd wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's ebbing still. And still the clap plays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor martals, 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 compar'd, An' 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, y^ IIG THE POETICAL WORKS OF And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragiugs must liis veins convulse, That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. Right on you scud your sea-way j But in the teeth o' baith to sail. It makes an unco lee-way. See social life and glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, 'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown Debauchery and drinking; would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, D-mnation of expenses ! Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A ti'eacherous inclination — But, let me whisper, i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang. To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark. How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone y Decidedly can try us. ROBERT BURNS. 1-17 He knows eacli chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias : Then at the bah^uce let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, / But know not what's resisted. TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.^ " An honest man's the noblest work of God." — Pope. [Tarn Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Klegy : when Tam he.ird of this be waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. ''This poem has always," says Hogg, "been a gre.'tt country favourite : it abounds with happy expressions. ' In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre br.'jid.' icture of a flooded burn ! any other poet would have given us a long description : ishes it down at once in a style so graphic no one can mistake it. 'Perhaps upon his mouldering breast Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.' at sentence who can."] Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? Or great M'Kinlay'" thrawn his heel ? Or Robinson^ again grown weel, To preach an' read ? " Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel, Tam Samson's dead ! Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane. An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an wean. In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead ! 1 When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, '' the last of his fields." 2 A preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vu)e the Ordination, stanza II. 3 Another preacher, an etiual favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For bim see also the Ordination, stanza IX. 148 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The brethren o' the mystic level May hiug their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead ; Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tarn Samson's dead ! When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock ; When' to the lochs the curlers flock, Wi' gleesorae speed, W^ha will they station at the cock ? Tarn Samson's dead ! He was the king o' a' the core. To guard or draw, or wick a bore. Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o' need ; But now he lags on death's hog-score. Tarn Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately sawmont sail. And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. And geds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead. Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, Withouten dread; Your mortal foe is now awa' — Tam Samson's dead ! That woefu' morn be ever mourn' d Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed ; But, och he gaed and ne'er return' d ! Tam Samson's dead ! ROBERT BURNS. In vain auld age his body batters ; In vain the gout bis ancles fetters ; In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Tarn Samson's dead ! Owre many a weary hag he limpit, An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi' deadly feide ; Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet. Tarn Samson's dead ! When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed; '' L — d, five !" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger j Tam Samson's dead ! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; Yon old grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether Tam Samson's dead I There low he lies, in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed ; Alas ! .nae mair he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead ! When August winds the heather wave. And sportsmen wander by yon grave. Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 0' pouther an' lead, 'Till echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead ! 141) 150 T H E P E T I C A L W 11 K S OF Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er he be ! Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what reinead ? Ae social, honest man want we : Tarn 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, Tell ev'ry social honest billie To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg; gullie, Tam Samson's livin'. LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. "Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe." — Home. [The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jeau Armour. " This was a most melancholy affair," says the poet in his letter to Moore, " which I can- not yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal quali- fication.? for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for. say this Poem was " written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham's dar- ling sweetheart slighting him and marrying another :— she acted a wise part." With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited it is needless to say : and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was poiutoj out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.] 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 151 With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan, unwarmiug 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, Piemembrance, cease ! Ah ! inust the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace ! No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lameutiiigs 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 hers alone ! And must I think it ! — is she gone. My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost ? 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 1 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 ? 152 THE rOETICAL AVORKS OF Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy' d, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room ! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. And not a wish to gild the gloom ! The morn, that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe : I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train. Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. 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, lleigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : <^ Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night. ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway I 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 silvei'-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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 153 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. DESPONDENCY. ["I think," said Burns, "It is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied form in verse, which to me is.ever immediate ease." He elsewhere says, " My passions raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme." That eminAt painter, Fuseli, on seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, "Swear, my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it will ease you !" This poem was printed In the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moments experienced by the bard, when lore and fortune alike deceived him.] Oppress'd with grief, oppress' d with care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh : life ! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I ! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear What sorrows, yet may pierce me thro' Too justly I may fear ! Still caring, despairing, IMust 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 deny'd. Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abaudou'd wight, Unfitted with an aim. Meet ev'ry sad returning night And joyless mom the same; 154 THE POETICAL WORKS OF You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless, Find every 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 stretiu, 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 1 those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste. The solitary can despise. Can want, and 3'et be blest ! He needs not, he heeds not. Or human love or hate. Whilst I here, must cry here At perfidy ingrate ! Oh ! enviable, early days. When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, • To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchang'd for riper times. To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own ! ROBERT BURNS. 155 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 ! THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. " Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor."— Gray. [The house of William Burns was the scene of this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William himself was the saint, the father, and the husband, who gives life and sen- timent to the whole. ''Robert had frequently remarked to me," says Gilbert Burns, " that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Let us wor- ship God!' used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing family worship." To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the "Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some little, however, of the inspiration to Fergusson's "Farmer's Ingle," a poem of great merit. The calm tone and holy composure of the Cotter's Saturday Night have been mistaken by Hogg for want of nerve and life. " It is a dull, heavy, lifeless poem," he says, '' and the only beauty it possesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of family picture of the poet's femily. The worst thing of all, it is not original, but is a decided imitation of Fergusson's beautiful pastoral, 'The Farmer's Ingle:' I have a perfect con- tempt for all plagiarisms and imitations." Motherwell tries to qualify the censure of his brother editor, by quoting Lookhart's opinion — at once lofty and just, of this fine picture of domestic happiness and devotion.] 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 feeling strong, the guileless ways j 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 ; 156 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh : The bhxck'uiug 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 thro' To meet their Dad, wi' fiichterin noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 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 sparklin' in her e'e. Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' 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, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd, fleet; Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The Mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; — The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's commands. The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : ROBERT BURNS. 157 " And ! be sure to fear the Lord alwjij ! Aud mind your duty, duly, morn aud night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel aud 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 neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, aud convoy her hame. The wily Mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, With heart-struck ?,i>sious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hi'fflins is afraid to speak • Weel pleas' d the Mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he taks the Mother's eye; Blythe Jenpy sees the visit's no ill ta'en The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, aud kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But Mate, an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' aud sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. happy love ! where love like this is found ! heart-felt raptures ! — bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — '' If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'niug 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 uu,suspectiug youth ? 158 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Ciu-se on his perjured 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 soupe their only hawkie does afford. That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in compli mental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 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 I'ev'rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care; And ' Let us worship God !' he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps Dundee's wild-wai'bling 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 : Corapar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 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 ; ROBERT BURNS. 15 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,'^ 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, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 1 Pope. IGO THE POETICAL WORKS OF Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warni request, That He, who stills the raven's clani'rous uest^ 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 heav'nly 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 ! 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, ! 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. Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart : Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard. In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 1 Pope. ROBERT BURNS. 161 THE FIRST PSALM. [This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet's works. It cannot h^ regarded as one of his happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of SCO land. Burns had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.] The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty, lore ! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that Goi) the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. [The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reasoning as the poem of " Man was made to Mourn." These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition ; and they might have been spared: for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original language of the Pijatmist, how could they he so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary ?] Tnou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place ! 1(32 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Before the mouiitaius 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 ovei'whelming 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. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 17S6. [This was not the original title of this sweet poem: I have a copy in the handwriting Of Burns entitled "The Gowan." This more natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonable cause; and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burness and his poem '■ The Gowan," in the first edition of his works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted with tillage — who think that in time and pl.ice reside the chief charms of verse ; and who feci not the beauty of" The Daisy." till they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with- those who remember only what genius loves to forget.] Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; ROBERT BURNS. 16^} For I maun crusli amang the stoure Thy slender stem : To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast. When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield 0' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed. And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid. Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd. And guileless trust, 'Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard. On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 164 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 every stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, 'Till crush 'd beneath the fuiTow's weight. Shall be thy doom ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. [Andrew Aiken, to whom this poem of good couiiskI is addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Niglit is inscribed. He became a mercliaiit in Liverpool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The poet has been cliargcd with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than truth to his '• Andrew dear ;" but surely to conceal one's own thoughts and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hypocritical: it is, in fact, a version of the celebrated pre- cept of prudence, "Thoughts close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was much respected — his name embalmed, like that of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is not likely soon to perish.] Maij, 1786. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, i Though it should serve nae ither end I 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' 11 try the world soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, ROBERT BURNS. 165 Ye'Il find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attain'd ; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. I'll no say men are villains a' ; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law. Are to a few restricted; 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 should na censure. For still th' important end of life They equally may answer ; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor's part. Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Ay free, afi" 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' uaethini? should divul";e it : I waive the quantum o' the sin. The hazard of concealing ; But, och ! it hardens a' within. And petrifies the feeling ! 166 THE POETICAL WORKS OF To catch darae 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 hand 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 167 In ploughman' phrase, 'God send you speed/ Still daily to grow wiser : And may you better reck the rede Thau ever did th' adviser ! TO A LOUSE, ON SEKING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHDRCH. [A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome : it appeared in the Kilmarnock copj' of his Poems, and remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in Tain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it coarse and vulgar — those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.] Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say 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 dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haflFet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle. In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now baud you there, ye' re out o' sight, Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight; Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 'Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, tow'ring height 0' Miss's bonnet. 1 68 T II E P E T I C A L AV R K S F My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet; for some rank, mercurial rozet. Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum ! 1 wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat ; But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! How daur ye do't ? 0, Jenny, dinna toss your head. An' set your beauties a' abread ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin' ! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin' ! wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others 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 ! EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. [The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adarahill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by w.ny of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree " Brutes ! — damned brutes." "I dreamed that I was dead." said the rustic satirist to his superior, " and condemned for tfie company I kept. When I came to helMoor, where mony of your lord.ihip's friends gang, I chappit, and ' Wha are ye, and where d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name w:is Rankine, and I came frae your lordship's land. ' Awa wi' you,' cried Satan ; ' ye canna come here : hell's fou o' his lordship's damned brutes already.' "] ROUGH, nide, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun an' driukin' ! ROBERT BURNS. 169 There's monie godly folks are thinkin', Your dreams^ an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin' Straught to auld Nick's. Ye hae sa monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, dru'ken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, 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, Kives't afi" their back. Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 0' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen. Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,^ ye'll sen't wi cannie care, And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing; ! o My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring. An' danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, At Bunker's Hill. 1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. ' A song he had promised the author. 11 170 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 'Twas ae night lately, in my fuu, I guecl a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun', A bonnie heu, 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, and by her tail, I vow an' swear The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. For this, uiest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, For my gowd guinea ; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! ROBERT BURNS. 171 It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae niair; But pennyworths again is fair, When times expedient : Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. [Burns in thi« Poem, as well as in others, speaks openly of his tastes and passions : hi, Zu ZlTl "■! r" °" ^'"' ■'''"'"' minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the ZZli:ilTjt\ : ";?""" °' *'^' '^°"f-^--'- "^^ --^ to have been fond of taking himself to task. It was written when "Hungry ruin had him iu the wind,^' and IZZfT 1 ^'''"' '°^''' ""' *'^' °°'^ '■^'"Se which he could think of, or his friends suggest from the persecutions of fortune.] A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi' me Our billie's gien us a' a jink. An' owre the sea ! Lament him a' ye rantin' core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar In social key; For now he's taen anither shore. An' owre the sea ! The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him And in their dear petitions place him ; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea ! O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! Hadst thou taen' off some drowsy bummle 172 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF Wlia can do nouglit but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea, But he was gleg as onie wunible, That's owre the sea ! Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee; He was her laureate monie a year," That's owre the sea ! He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak his heart at last, I'll may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast. An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, ^ Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'r was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding : He dealt it free ; The muse was a' that he took pride in. That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel. An' hap him in a cozie biel ; Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel. And fou o' glee ; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! Your native soil was right ill-willie ; ROBERT BURNS. 17B But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie ! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea ! THE FAREWELL. "The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what does he re^'ard his single woes ? But when, alas? he. multiplies himself. To dearer selves, to the lov"d tender fair, To those whose bliss, whose being hang upon him, To helpless children! then, then! he feels The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. Such, such am I ! undone." — Thomson. [In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the lines to the Scottish bard, are not permitted to mingle, Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any claim. He Feems to have looked on the sea as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.] Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains W here rich ananas blow ! Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! My Jean's heart-rending throe ! Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft Of my parental care, A faithful brother I have left, My part in him thou'lt -share ! Adieu too, to you too, ]My Smith, my bosom frien' ; When kindly you mind me, 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 ; 174 THE POETICAL WORKS OF I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still rcinembei* you ! All-hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! It rustles', and whistles I'll never see thee more ! WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF MY POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. [This is another of the poet's lamentations, at the prospect of "torrid climes" and the roars of the Atlantic. To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise ; and the land of dread, Jamaica ! I found these lines copied by the poet into a volume which he presented to Dr. Geddes : they were afldressed, .t is thought, to the " Dear E." of his earliest correspondence.] Once fondly lov'd and still i-emember'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. A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. [The gentleman to whom these manly lines are addressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous nature : he was one of the first of the gentry of the west to en- courage the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive days ; for having, with- out the fear of God's servant before him, profanely said damn it, in his presence, and for having gallopped on Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the pre.s- byti'rial court. Hamilton was the brother of the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as well as of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edition, but not as an express dedication.] Expect na. Sir, in this narration, A flcechiu', fieth'rin dedication, ROBERT BURNS. 175 To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, Aa' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace; Perhaps related to the race ; Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie. Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig. Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'ria', It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. The Poet, some gnid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill aue skelp him, He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only — he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me,) On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be. He's just — nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain, he winna tak it ; What ance he says, he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 'Till aft his guidness is abus'd; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does ua 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 : 176 THE POETICAL WORKS OF It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : Ye'll get tte best o' moral works, ^Mang black Gentoos aud pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wba nev'ir 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 j It's just a carnal inclination. Mortality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice 1 No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. But point the rake that taks the door ; Be to the poor like onie whunstane. And baud their noses to the grunstane, Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; No matter — stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile pray'rs an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces j Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, Aud damn a' parties but your own ; I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin' ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath. And in the fire throws the sheath; When Kuin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him : ROBERT BURNS. While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ; Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to you : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronize them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o'lj But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r. That kens or hears about you, Sir — " May ne'er misfortune's growling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame. Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. Are frae their nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the ev'uing o' his days ; 'Till his wee curlie John's-ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 178 THE POETICAL WORKS OF I will not wind a lang conclusion, Witli couiplimentary effusion : But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which pow'rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl. Want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him. Make you as poor a dog as I am. Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor ! But by a poor man's hope in Heav'n ! While recollection's pow'r is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognise my Master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then Sir, your hand — my friend and brother. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. [Oromek found these verses among the loose papers of Burns, and printed them in the Heliques. They contain a portion of the character of the poet, record his hahitual care- lessness in worldly affairs, and his desire to be distinguished.] Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, E'er mair come near him. To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, FiXcept the moment that they crush't him; ROBERT BURNS. IT'^ For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, Tho' e'er sae short, Theu wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. And thought it sport. Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, And counted was baith wight and stark, Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man ; But tell him he was learned and dark, Ye roos'd him than ! LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, OF GLENCONNER. [The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent, was a social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp foi the plough : > it as Ellisland was his choice, his skill may he questioned.] x\uLD comrade dear, and brither sinner. How's a' the folk about Glenconner? How do you this blue 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 Siuison, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, An' Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled, An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled. Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, An' in the depth of science mir'd, To common sense they now appeal. What wives and wabsters see and feel. But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly Peruse them, an' return them quickly. For now Pm grown sae cursed douce I pray and ponder butt the house. My shins, my lane, I there sit roastiu'. Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston ; 180 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Till by an' b}', if I baud on, I'll gruut a real gospel groan : Already I begin to try it, To cast my e'en up like a pyet, When by the gun sbe tumbles o'er, Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore: Sae shortly you shall see me bright, A burning and a shining light. My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men : When bending down wi' auld gray hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares. May he who made him still support him. An' views beyond the grave comfort him, His worthy fam'ly far and near, God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he's a parent, lass or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-and-forty years thegither ! An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, I'm tauld he offers very fairly. An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock. An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy ; An' her kind stars ha airted till her A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen' it, To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet ; Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashions ; To grant a heart is fairly civil. But to grant the maidenhead's the devil. An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel'. May guardian angels take a spell. An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : ROBERT BURNS. 181 But first, before you see heaven's glory, May ye get uiouie a merry story, Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink. Now fjire ye weel, an' joy be wi' you. For my sake this I beg it o' you. Assist poor Sirason 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. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. [From letters addressed by Burns to Jlrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this « Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love," was the only son of her dau^'hter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. The mother soon followed the father to the grave : she dietl in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.] Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a pray'r, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair! November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form • And gane, alas ! the shelf ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour. And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw ! May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother-plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late- she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the sun mer-morn : 182 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Now feebly bends she ia the blast, Uushelter'cl 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 ! TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY. ■WRITTEN oy THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. [The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis.] Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming in thy early May, Never raay'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! Never Boreas' hoary path. Never Eurus' poisonous breath, Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights ! Never, never reptile thief Riot ou thy virgin leaf ! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. Richly deck thy native stem : 'Till some evening, sober, calm, Dropping dews and breathing balm. While all around the woodland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. Shed thy dying honours round. And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er o-ave birth. ROBERT BURNS. 183 WILLIE CHALMERS. [Lockhart first gave this poetic cuiiosity to the world : he copied it Irom a small manu- script volume of Poems given by liurns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation in these words : " W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, hut was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows." Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: ladies are seldoit rhymed into the matrimonial snare.] Wi' braw new branks in niickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I'm got astride, And up Parnassus pecbin ; Wbiles owre a bush wi' downward crush The doitie beastie stammers ; Then up he gets and off he sets For sake o' Willie Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name May cost a pair o' blushes ; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet His honest heart enamours. And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' waired on Willie Cbalmcrs. Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, And Honour safely back her, And Modesty assume your air. And ne'er a ane niistak' 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 pouthered priestie, Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. And band upon his breastie : But Oh ! what signifies to you His le.\icons and grammars ; 18i THE POETICAL WORKS OF The feeling heart's the royal blue, And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. Some gapin', glowrin' countra laird, May warstle for your favour ; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And hoast up some palaver. My bonnie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers. Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom, Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, For de'il a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours, — And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers. LYING AT A KEVEREND FKIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. [Of the origin of these verses Gilbert Burns gives the following account. "The first time Kobert he.ird the spinnet played was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and the mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other giu-sts mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world: his mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept."] THOU dread Power, who reign'st above ! I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love I make my prayer sincere. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleased to spare; To bless his filial little flock. And show what good men are. ROBERT BURNS. 185' She who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, 0, 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 — Gruide Thou their steps alway. When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driven. May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in Heaven ! TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE, (hecommending a boy.) [Verse seems to have been the natural language of Burns. The Master Tootie whoso skill he records, lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows; he was an artful and contriving person, great in bargaining and intimate with all the professional tricks by which old eows are made to look young, and six-pint hawkies pass for those of twelve.] Mossgiel, 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 ha'e done't aff han' : But lest he learn the callan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him, Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin' lies about them; 12 *186 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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, Au' 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 haveua only fear. Ye'll catechize 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 have gien, 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, an' praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray'r still, you share still. Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 1 The airles — earnest money. ROBERT BURNS. 187 TO MR. M'ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN. [It seems that Burns, delighted with the praise which the Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses, — probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of AVoodburn, his steward, — poured out this little unpremeditated natural acknowledgment.! Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud ; " See wha tak's notice o' the bard !" I lap and cry'd fu' loud. " Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million : I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan !" 'Twas noble. Sir; 'twas like yoursel', To grant your high protection : A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. Is ay a blest infection. Tho' by his^ banes who in a tub Match' d Macedonian Sandy ! On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand ay. — And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me ; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 0' many flow'ry simmers ! And bless your bonnie lasses baith I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry ! And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country. 1 Diogenes. 188 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. [The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is generally belieTed to have been William Simpson, the schoolmaster of Ochil- tree: the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in which the made poet con- sealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extinguished haif the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the amazed dominie " Strangely fidge and fyke." It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.] What ails ye now, ye lousie b — h, To tliresh my back at sic a pitch ? Lost, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, Your bodkin's bauld, I didna suffer ha'f sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho' at times when I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae ? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, An' jag-the-flae. King David, o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief, As fill'd his after life wi' grief, An' bluidy rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 0' laiig-syue saunts. And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, My wicked rhymes, an' drunken rants, I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts An unco' slip yet, An' snugly sit among the sauuts At Davie's hip yet. But fegs, the Session says I maun Gae fa' upo' anitber plan, ROBERT BURNS. 189 Than garrin lasses cowp the cran Cleaa heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither's ban Afore the howdy. This leads me on, to tell for sport. How I did wi' the Session sort, — Auld Clinkum at the inner port Cried three times — " Robin ! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Ye're blamed for jobbin'." Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, An' snoov'd away before the Session ; I made an open fair confession — I scorn' d to lie; An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me. * * * . * * TO J. RANKIN E. [With the Laird of Adamhill'8 personal character the reader is already acquainted : the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.] I AM a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; Some people tell me gin I fa' Ae way or ither, The breaking of ae point, though sma'. Breaks ae thegither. I hae been in for't ance or twice. And winna say o'er far for thrice, Yet never met with that surprise That broke my rest, But now a ramour's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest. 190 THE POETICAL WORKS OF LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. [The bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came int; the hnnds of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the com- position.] Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, Fell source o' a' my woe an' grief; For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. Fve seen the oppressor's cruel smile Amid his hapless victim's spoil: And for thy poteuce 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. A DREAM. " Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason." On reading in the public papers, the " Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt aslei'p, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following " Address." [The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stall", solicited him in vain to omit it ill the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up : it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.] Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! May Heaven augment your blisses. On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! My hardship 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. ROBERT BURNS. 19] 1 see ye're complimented thrang, By many a lord an' lady ; " God save the king !" 'g a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said ay ; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day. For me, before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winua flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor : So, nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the race. And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, My skill may weel be doubted : But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed : Your royal nest beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted, And now the third part of the string. An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation. Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. To rule this mighty nation. But ftiith ! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps wha, in a barn or byre. Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister; 192 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester ; For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith ! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft son?.;', day I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges,) That he intends to pay your debt. An' lessen a' your charges ) But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 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 royal true affection. To pay your Queen, with due respect. My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! While nobles strive to please ye. Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gi'es ye ? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent. For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; ROBERT BURNS. 193 But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver; So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-claver : There's him at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, He was an unco shaver For monie a day. For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug, Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth ! ye' 11 stain the mitre Some luckless day. Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley,^ stem an' stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter. Then heave aboard your grapple airn. An', large upon her quarter. Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'. Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw. An' gie you lads a-plenty : 1 Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. 194 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF But sneer na British Boys awa', For kings are unco scant ay ; An' German gentles are but sma', They're better just than want ay On onie day. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But ere the course o' life be thro', It may be bitter sautet : An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet'hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day. A BARD'S EPITAPH. [This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition : Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it : '• Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the ' poor inhabitant' it is supposed to be inscribed that ' Thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name!' Who but himself— himself anticipating the but too probable termination of his own course ? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal — a confession at once devout, poetical, and human — a history in the shape of a prophecy ! What more was required of the biographer than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized and that the record was authentic?"] Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near ; And owre this grassy heap sing dool. And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, 0, pass not by ! But with a frater-feeling strong. Here heave a sigh. ROBERT BURNS. ]9^ Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer. Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. Wild as the wave ; Here pause — and, through the starting tear. Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low. And stain'd his name ! Reader, attend — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. [Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed me, that tlie Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, when the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmar- nock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, the printer, with a sasacity common to his profession, said, « The Address to the Deil" and "The Holy Fair" were grand things, but It would be as well to have a calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck with the remark.-and on his way home to Moss^iel com- pleted the roem, and took it next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of " Wee Johnnie." On the 17th of February Burns says to John liichmond, of Mauchline, " I have completed my Poem of the Twa Do-s, but have not shown it to the world." It is difficult to fix the dates with anything like accuracy, to competitions which are not struck off at one heat of the fancy. '■ Luath was one of the poet's dogs, which some person had wantonly killed," says Gilbert Burns; " but Cwsar was merely the creature of the imagi- nation." The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of collies, says that Luath is true to the life, and that many a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark for very joy, when the cottage jhildren were merry.] 'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing through the afternoon, 196 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather' d ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nana o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour earessin', Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,^ Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. Ay gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl. Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; Wi' social nose whyles snuiT'd and snowkit, Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 1 Cuchiilliu's dog in Ossian's Fingal. ROBERT BURNS. 197 Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion ; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation. 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 lived ava. Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; He rises when he likes himsel' ; His flunkies answer at the bell ; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; He draws a bonnie silken purse As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling. At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a' the Ian' ; An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension. LTJATH. Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke. Baring a quarry, and sic like ; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 198 THE POETICAL WORKS OF An' nougbt but his ban' darg, to keep Tbem i-igbt and tigbt in tback an' rape. An' wben they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' bealtb, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; But. how it comes, I never kenn'd yet. They're maistly wonderfu' contented : An' buirdly chiels, an' clever bizzies. Are bred in sic a way as this is. But then to see bow ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff' d, and disrespeckit ! L — d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae. Poor tenant bodies, scant of cash. How they maun thole a factor's snash : He'll stamp an' threaten, curse and swear. He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. An' hear it a', an' fear An' tremble ! I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! LUATH. They're no sae wretched's ane wad think ; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. They're ay in less or mair provided; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. ///>/ ^//A Page 199 ROBERT BURNS. 199 The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives ; The pi-attling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side ; An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy- Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs : They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. . As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns. They get the jovial, ranting kirns. When rural life, o' ev'ry station. Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win's ; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill. Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. The young anes rantin' thro' the house, — My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock 0' decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith I'oot and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin'. For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 200 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ! For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it ! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' saying aye or no's they bid him ; At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading j Or may be, in a frolic daft. To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl. To learn hon 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' newt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting aniang groves o' myrtles ; Then bouses drumly German water. To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter. An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras. For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 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 ! 0, would they stay aback frae courts. An' please themsels wi' countra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better. The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! For thae frank, ran tin', ramblin' billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; Except for breakin' o' their timmer. Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 13 ROBERT BURNS. 201 But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? Nae eauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need ua fear them. L — d, man, wei*e ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. It's true, they needna 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 and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsels to vex them ; An' ay the less they hae to sturt them. In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh. His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel. Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; An' even their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping thro' public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring Niest day their life is past endui-ing. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 202 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, ' They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out o' sight. An' darker gloaming brought the night : The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; When up they gat, and vshook their lugs, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; ^^ An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER. [" The first time I saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, " was on the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauehline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaint- ance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil. Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and thefeelingsof the writer before his name was known to the public." Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Karl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1763, at the family seat of St. Mary's Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died iu his thirty-th/rd year.] This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty- third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner' d wi' a Lord. ROBERT BURNS. 208 I've been at drunken writers' feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests- Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. When mighty squireships of the quorum Their hydra drouth did sloken. But wi' a Lord — stand out, my shin ! A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son ! — Up higher yet, my bonnet ! And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', As I look o'er my sonnet. But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, And how he star'd and stammer'd, When goavan, as if led wi' branks, An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer'd. I sidling shelter'd in a nook. An' at his lordship steal't a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee. An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon. I watch' d the symptoms o' the great, The gentle pride, the lordly state. The arrogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he. Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman. Then from his lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another; Nae honest worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother. 204 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. [" I enclose you two poems," paid Burns to his friend Chalmers, " which I have carded and siiun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, 'Fair B— ,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monhoddo.at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by bis kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread vmder ambrosial lights, and his Fiilernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appear- ance. The "Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.] Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flo'w'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray' d, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labour plies ; There Architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode. 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 I 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 205 Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'u'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 ahirms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold vet' ran, gray in arms, And niark'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 I 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 sov'reign pow'rs ! From mai-king wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray' d, And singing, lone, the ling' ring hours, I shelter in thy honour' d shade. 206 THE POETICAL WORKS OF EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. [Major Logan, of Catnlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Kpistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.] Hail, thairra-inspirin', rattliu' Willie ! Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie. We never heed, But tak' it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter Uphill, down brae, till some 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 0' this wild warl', Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon. Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon 0' 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 207 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 ftiults and failings — granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely. Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly, For our grand fa' ; But still, but still, I like them dearly — God bless them a' !. Ochon ! for poor Castalian drinkers, When they fa' foul o' earthly j inkers. The witching curs'd delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte. And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnan spite. But by yon moon ! — an' that's high swearin' — An' every star within my hearin' ! An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! I'll ne'er forget; 1 hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet. 208 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 V amour! Faites mes haisemains respectueuse, To sentimental sister Susie, An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, ^ Ye may be proud. That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure. An' trowth my rhymin' ware's na 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. KoBERT Burns. Mossgiel, oOth October, 1786. THE BRIGS OF AYR, INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR. [Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causew.^y of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr : he wrote it for the second edition of his Poems, and in compliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. Ballantyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him : others of his friends figure in the scene : Montgomery's courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.] The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green ihorn bush ; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the hill ; ROBERT BURNS. Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field — Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward ! Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace; When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells. The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 209 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap. And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming 'Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, TJnnuuiber'd buds, an' flow'rs' delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : (What wa'rm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings. Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-la ng tree : The hoary morns precede the sunny days, '210 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide blaze, "While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard. Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care. He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson's^ wheel'd the left about : (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether, rapt in meditation high. He wander'd out he knew not where nor why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock,^ had number'd two, And Wallace Tow'r* had sworn the ftict was true : The tide-swol'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. — When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard j Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. Swift as the gos^ drives on the wheeling hare ; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : Our warlock Rhymer iastantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. An ken the lingo of the sp' ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them,) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles gothic in his face : He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 1 A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. « The two steeplei. ' The Oos-hawk or falcon. ROBERT BURNS. 211 New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; lu's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search. Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; — It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en : — AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye're nae sheep-shank, A nee ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see ; There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet — Your ruin'd formless bulk o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream,* Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim. Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk ! pufF'd up wi' windy pride ! — This mony a year I've stood the flood an* tide ; And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter. But twa-three winters will inform ye better. i A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 212 THE POETICAL WORKS OF When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted GarpaP draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes ; While crashing ice borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; And from Glenbuck,^ down to the Ratton-key,' Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea — Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't ! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluriug edifices, Hanging with threat' ning jut like precipices; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest. With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream. The craz'd creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free. Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast j 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 ; 1 The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, Icnown by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit 2 The source of the river Ayr. ^ a small landing-place above the large key. ROBERT BURNS. .213 Fancies that our guid Brugli denies protection ! And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! AULD BUIG. ye, my dear-remember' d ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay • Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners : Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers ; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration ; And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory. In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry. The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs and Harbours ! Now hand 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' jMagistrates might weel be spar'd : To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 214 THE POETICAL WORKS OF In Ayr, wag- wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth ' a citizen,' a term o' scandal ; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street. In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them. Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed. No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd ; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. — had M'Lauchlan,^ thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard, Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc'd in years; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 1 A well known performer of Scottish music on the Tiolin. ROBERT BURNS. 215 Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding coi'n ; Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Next follow' d Courage, with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNISTON, I.ATE LORD PItESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. [At the request of Advocate Hay, Bums composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the hand- writing of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by the following surly note : — " The foregoing Poem ha,s some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, Kurgoon : when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me. than I had b'. en a strolling fiddler who hiid miide free with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dund;is was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Rums was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem wa< first printed by me. in 1834.] Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 216 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; * Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod; Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow. She sunk, abandou'd to the wildest woe Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : See from this cavern grim Oppression rise. And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong : Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale. And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail ! Ye dark waste hills, and brown imsightly plains, To you I sing my grief-inspired stains : Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. ROBERT BURNS. 217 ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR PRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. [John SI'Leod was of the ancient family of Kaza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in the M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris ^'icolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the 'same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.] Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms : Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deck'd -with pearly dew The morning rose may blow ; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung : • So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was wruno'. Were it in the poet's power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella's heart, To give that heart relief ! Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound He gave ; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast ; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. 1 4 218 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ' TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATtAi's poems FOR A NICW YKAR's GIFT. Jan. 1, 1787. [Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Lognn, of Park House, was sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the " sentimental sister Susie," of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet's correspondence.] Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much neai'er Heav'n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail : I send you more than India boasts In Edwin's simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, perhaps, too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you ! THE AMERICAN WAR. A FRAGMENT. [Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were unstatesman-like. and worthy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gires us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics : the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs an'l parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehe- ment Tory : his admiration of " Chatham's Boy," called down on him the dusty indignu/ tion of the republican Eitson.] When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin-pat. And in the sea did jaw, man ; An' did nae less in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. ROBERT BURNS. 219 Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was n%, slaw, man ; Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man ; But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en'mies a', man. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. Was kept at Boston ha', man; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man ; Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to draw, man : But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 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 gave. He hung it to the wa', man. Then Montague, an' Guilford, too. Began to fear a fa', man ; And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure The German Chief to thraw, man ; For Paddy *Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 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 ; 220 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his merffeures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks, An' bore him to the wa', man. Then ckibs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair/a«a; 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 Greenville's gone, A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class, Be-north the Roman wa', man : An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired Bardies saw, man ;) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd "WilHe, rise! Wovild 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, and coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man ; . An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man ; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid To make it guid in law, man. * * * * « * ROBERT BURNS. 221 THE DEAN OF FACULTY. A NEW BALLAD. [The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Erskine, and Robert Dundas : and (heir contention was, as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Faculty of Advo- cates: Erskine was successful. It is supposed that in eharacterizins; Dundas, the poet remembered " the incurable wound which his pride had got" in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Keliques of Burns.] Dire was the liate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry ; And dire the discord Langside saw, For beauteous, hapless Mary : But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, Or were more in fury seen, Sir, Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job— Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. — This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, Among the first was number'd; But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, Commandment tenth remeinber'd. — Yet simple Bob the victory got, And won his heart's desire ; Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, Though the devil p — s in the fire. — 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 open'd yet Till for eloquence you hail him, And swear he has the angel met That met the Ass of Balaam. 222 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TO A LADY, AVITH A PRESENT OF A PAIK OF DPINKING-GLASSES. [To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the drinkkig-glasses alluded to in the Terses : they are, it seems, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high festival indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a draught from them of '-The Wood of Shiraz' scorched vine."] Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, Aud Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses. And fill them high with generous juice, As generous as your mind; And pledge me in the generous toast — " The whole of human kind !" " To those who love us !" — second fill ; Cat not to those whom we love ; Lest we love those who love not us ! — • A third — " to thee and me, love I" TO CLARINDA. [This is the lady of the drinking-glasses ; the Mrs. Mao of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the pout's death, appeared in print without her permission : she obtained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the case of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.] Clarinda, mistress of my soul. The raeasur'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 suu of all his joy. ROBERT BURNS. 228 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 ? VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OP FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT author's works PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY. [Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the portrait and Poems of the ill- fated Fergusson, we hjive not been told. The verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th 1787.] Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 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 ? PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, Monday, 16 April, 1787. [The AVoods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. lie had other claims ou Burns : he had been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th. 1S02.] When by a generous Public's kind acclaim. That dearest meed is granted — honest fame; When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot ; What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow, r)Ut heaves impassion' d with the grateful throe ? 224 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war — Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear ! Before whose sons I'm honour' d to appear ! Where every science — every nobler art — That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, Is known j 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 Shakspeare 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 as in the second place,) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here ! But still the hope Experience taught to live. Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet. With decency and law beneath his feet : Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name ; Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 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. 1 Tbe Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie. ROBERT BURNS. 225 SKETCH. [This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call "The Poet's Pro- d'I!L t •^TT:,"'*:'' '''' ""■'' ^^ '"'"^ '^°"«' f""- '^-^ '"-' - <=°"-ter of opinions, to S of rr :^'^'',^;^^»^°* ^--^'" -'|c ^ >ts * 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 recoucil'd. Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter — rankling wounds : Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. >|; * ;); ^ ;ls VERSES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE PALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. [This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it, tlie Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another fall further up the stream, very wild and savage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deep gulf whwe nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and agitated mist.] Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds, As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep-recoiling surges foam below, ROBERT BURNS. 237 Prone dowu the rock the whiteniug sheet descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, lowr's. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid cauldron boils ***** POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. W. TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. and It IS likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over' a thTTvTe^s t^"" ^7' '"^' ^ ''''''"' ^'^^ ^^'^ ^^''^ ^^ ^-^'^^ ^^^ ^^ '^--ded edition of hpf k'" ^""'■■'»"''"- =^- ""-™-"° -ent in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poefs handwriting.] Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was once mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised 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 as, I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 238 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous ground, AVho knows how the fashions may alter ? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter. I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your carej 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 brioht. VERSES written in friars-carse hermitage, on the banks of nith, june, 1788. [first copy.] [The ioterleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, lias enabled me to present the reader with the rough draught of this truly beautiful Poeui, the first fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nithside.] Thou whom chance may hither lead. Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Day, how rapid in its flight — Day, how few must see the night; Hope not sunshine every hour. Fear not clouds will always lower. Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim. Ambition is a meteor gleam ; Fame, a restless idle dream : ROBERTBURNS. . 239 Pleasures, insects oa the wiug Round Peace, the teuderest flower of Spring; Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own ; Those that would the bloom devour, Crush the locusts — save the flower. For the future be prepar'd. Guard wherever thou canst guard ', But, thy utmost duly done. Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past, give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care : Keep the name of man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart Him whose wondrous work thou art; Keep His goodness still in view, Thy trust — and thy example, too. Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Readsman on Nithside. VERSES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITHSIDE, DECEMBER, 1788. [Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies m his own hand writing: I have seen three. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were written, stood In a lonely plantation belonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Kllisland ; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at ple.H- sure, and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all around liim. The first twelve lines of the Poem were engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the diamond pencil of the bard. On Riddel's death, the Hermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay : I remember in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.] ' Thou whom chance may hither lead Be thou clad in russet weed, • Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 240 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Hope not sunsliiue ev'ry hour, Fear not clouds will always lour. As Youth and Love with sprightly dance Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair : Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits would'st thou scale ? Check thy climbing step, elate. Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinion' d, bold. Soar around each cliffy hold, While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose ; As life itself becomes disease. Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate, with sober thought. On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought j And teach the sportive younkers round. Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true genuine estimate. The grand criterion of his fate. Is not — Art thou high or low ? Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? "Wast thou cottager or king ? Peer or peasant ? — no such thing ! -'■ Did many talents gild thy span ? Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to vice is giv'n. ROBERT BURNS. 241 Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, There solid self-enjoyment lies; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. Thus, resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep j 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. TO CAPTAIN KIDDEL, OF GLENRIDDEL. EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. [Captain Riddell, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was Burns's neighbour at Ellisland : he was a kind, hospitable man, and a good antiquary. The " News and Review" which he sent to the poet contained, I have heard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with hia usual strong sense, set the proper value upon all contemporary criticism ; genius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless " chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his peers, and where were such to be fo{jnd ?] Ellisland, Monday Evening. Your news and review. Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming ; The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir, But of meet or unmeet in ^ fahric 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 ! 242 THE POETICAL WORKS OF A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. ["The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of the Terses now before me. •• n.-ig composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to tlie worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. Stewart, of Afton."] Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, Aud jiierc'd my darling's heart; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour' d laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes. My age's future shade. The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young; So I, for my lost darling's sake. Lament the live day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now, fond I bare ray breast, 0, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest ! FIRST EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAY. [In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says " accompanying a request." What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the leading mea of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman : for this the poet had qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division ill his own neighbourhood. lie was appointed in due time : his division was exteewve aud included ten parishes.] When Nature her great master-piece designed. And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. And merchandise' whole gcuus take their birth: ROBERT BURNS. 24b Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net; The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls. The order' d system fair before her stood, Nciture, well pleas'd, pronouuc'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, 244 THE POETICAL WORKS OF A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham, Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that the friendly e'er should want a friend !" Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) Who make poor will do wait upon I should — We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — Heavens 1 should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; Pity the best of words should be but wind ! So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, But o-rovellino- on the earth the carol ends. ROBERT BURNS. 245 In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front • Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, They persecute you all your future days ! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny fist assume the plough again ; The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before.' Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift ! I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, * My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer jQight. ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. hiildtt*''""' '"',' r.""" ""'^ " "'""' '° ""^ '' ^"'°^'^ memorandum-books : he said he had just composed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were. I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Posthumous Works of the poelj The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkeniug'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 ;^ Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd well,^ Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.^ 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. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form. 1 The King's Paik, at Holyfood-hnuse 2 ■it i tu , ^ 3 St. Authnnv'. n..„.,„, " St. Anthony's Well. ' St. Authony'3 Chapel. 246 THE POETICAL WORKS OF In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : Her form majestic droop' d in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war. Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. That like a deathful meteor gleam' d afar And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. — " My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried; " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch' d to save, Low lies the heart that swell' d with honest pride. " A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh ! " I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. " My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name ? No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. " And I will join a mother's tender cares. Thro' future times to make his virtues last ; That distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. ROBERT BURNS. 247 EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER, [This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the poet's Kilmariiock com- paiiions. Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the subscribers to the Edinburgh edlfion of Burns's Poems: he has been dead many years: the Epistle was recoveriW Auckf y, from his papers, and printed for the first time in 1834.] In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, Nor limpet in poetic shackles : A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, Here, ambush' d by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal : Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters • For life and spunk like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.^ Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! Bowie she saunters down Nithside, And ay a westlin leuk she throws. While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! Was it for this, wi' canny care. Thou bure the bard through many a shire ? At howes or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled ? — had I power like inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation. To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow ; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 1 Ills mare. 248 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his godship's face; For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, And sma', sma' prospect of relief. And nought but peat reek i' my head, How can I write what ye can read ? — Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, Ye'll find me in a better tune ; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle. Robert Burns. LINES INTENDED TO BE WKITTEN UNDER A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE. [Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Gleucairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ellisland : beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused ; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed : a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is now in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years : he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with whom this ancient race was closed.] Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? And whose that eye of fire ? And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire ? Stranger ! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works inspire. Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves ; His guardian seraph eyes with awe The noble ward he loves — Among the illusti'ious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern ; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye — It dwells upon Glencairn. ROBERT BURNS. 249 ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. A SKETCH. [This Poem was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. The poet loved to indulge in such sarcastic sallies : it is full of character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty times.J 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 ! Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou hast left us ! The Spanish empire's tint a head, An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks; The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil : The tither's something dour o' treadin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden — Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit. An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet. For Eight-eight he wish'd you weel An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, For some o' you ha'e tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en. What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. Observe the very nowt an' sheep. How dowf and dowie now they creep ; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. For Embro' wells are grutten dry. Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn I IG 250 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chaii-, Nae hand-cufF'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel' a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ! As muckle better as ye can. January 1, 1789. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE, [" I had intended," says Burns to Creech, 30th May, 1789, " to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent toothache so en- grosses all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense." The poetic Address to the Toothache seems to belong to this period.] My curse upon thy venom' d stang. That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! When fevers burn, or ague freezes. Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan ; But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. Ay mocks our groan ! Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. 0' a' the num'rous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sio-ht to see ! ROBERT BURNS. 251 The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bears't the gree. Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ! — Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache. ODE SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD, OF AUCHENCRniVE. [The origin of this harsh effusion shows under what feelings Burns sometimes wrote He was, he says, on his way to Ayrshire, one stormy day in January, and had made him- self comfortable, in spite of the snow-drift, over a smoking bowl, at an inn at the Sanquhar, when in wheeled the whole funeral pageantry of Mrs. Oswald. He was obliged to mount his horse and ride for quarters to New Cumnock, where, over a good fire, he penned, in [lis very ungallant indignation, the Ode to the lady's memory. He lived to think better of the name.] Dweller in yon dungeon dark. Hangman of creation, mark ! Who in widow-weeds appears. Laden with unhonour'd years, Noosing with dare a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse ? 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'ei-flows. Pity's flood there never rose. 252 THE POETICAL AV R K S OF See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took — but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest — She goes, but not to reahns of everlasting rest ! • ^NTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awhile forbear, ye tort' ring fiends;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. She, tardy, hell-ward plies. And are they of no more avail. Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year ? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here ? 0, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. FRAGMENT. INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON, C. J. FOX. [It was late in life before Burns began to think very highly of Fox: he had hitherto spoken of him rather as a rattler of dice, and a frequenter of soft company, than as a ptates- mau. As his hopes from thi> Tories vanished, he began to think of the Whigs : the first did nothing, and the latter held out hopes ; and as hope, he said, was the cordi.il of the human heart, he continued to hope on.] How wisdom and folly meet, mis, 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 253 But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honour my story. Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right; — A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, For using thy name offers fifty excuses. Good L — d, what is man ? for as simple he looks, Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks; With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hvigely labours, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours; Mankind are his show-bos — 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 comrade you'll find. But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd man. No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, Nor even two different shades of the same, Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse. Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels. Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. 254 THE POETICAL WORKS OF My much-honour'd P.atron, believe your poor poet, Your courage much more than your prudence you show it; In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle ; Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would steal 'em. Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em ; It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FBLLOW HAD JUST SHOT. [This Poem is fouiideJ on fact. A young man of the name of Thomson told me— quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem — that while Burns lived at Ellisland — he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twilight was feeding on his father's wheat-bread. The poet, on observing the hare come bleeding past him, " was in great wrath," said Thomson, " and cursed me, and said little hindered him from throwing me into the Nilh; and he was able enough to do it. though I was both young and strong." The boor of Nithside did not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, used the Poem: when Buros read his remarks he said, '-Gregory is a good man, but he crucifies me!"] Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! The bitter little that of life remains : No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. And curso the ruflSan's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ROBERT BURNS. '^55 TO DR. BLACKLOCK, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. [This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man : he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, promote their famo. and advise that the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Eilinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Black- lock to the last hour of his life. — Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, were his three favourites.] • Ellisland, 2lst Oct. 1789 Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie Wad bring ye to : Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, And then ye'll do. The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! And never drink be near his drouth ! He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter : I lippen'd to the chief in trouth, And bade nae better. But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on, And holy study; And, tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, E'en tried the body. But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye'll now disdain me ! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me. Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies. 256 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Lowp, sing, aud 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 whyles do mair. But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, aud scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life. Mj compliments to sister Beckie ; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckle. As e'er tread clay ! And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I'm yours for ay, Robert Burns. ROBERT BURNS. 257 DELIA.* AN ODE. [These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789. It is said that one dayi a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's Song, by a Person of Quality. " These lines are beyond you," he added : " the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London." Btirns mused a moment, and then recited " Delia, an Ode. "J Fair the fece of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose, But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows. Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; But, Delia, more delightful still Steal thine accents on mine ear. The flow'r-enamour'd busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lips; — ' But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 0, let me steal one liquid kiss ! For oh ! my soul is parch'd with love. TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. [.Tohn M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These linos accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig Castle. " Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day ! No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray ; No wrinkle 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." How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.] O, COULD I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send ! 258 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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. PROLOGUE, spoken at the theatre, dumfries, 1 Jan. 1790. [This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Sir Harris Nicolas, how- ever, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre ! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm !] No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity : Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? Good sense and taste are natives here at home : But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new year ! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : The sage grave ancient cough' d and bade me say, " You're one year older this important day." If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word — ''think !" Ye sprightly youths, quite flush' d with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle. That the first blow is ever half the battle : That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; ROBERT BURNS. 259 That, whether doing, suffeviug, 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 smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important now ! To crown your happiness he asks your leave. And offers bliss to give and to receive. For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours, And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. SCOTS PROLOGUE, FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit night, Dumfries. [Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some Tigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes. — Burns said his players were a very decent set : he had seen them an evening or two.] What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin' ? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported ? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us songs an' plays at hame ? For comedy abroad he need nae toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil ', Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece ; There's themes enough in Caledonian story, Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? Where are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce j 260 THE POETICAL WORKS OF How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword, 'Gainst mighty Enghind and her guilty lord. And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, AVrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil — As able and as cruel as the Devil ! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age : And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas follow' d to the martial strife, Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! As ye hae genei'ous done, if a' the land Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them. And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; And aiblins when they winna stand the test. Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best ! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time, 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 hope ye'll ever find us, For a' the patronage and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks : God help us! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. ROBERT BURNS 261 SKETCH. •new YEAR'S DAY. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [This is a picture of the Duulop family : it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dnnlop, who die! in lSO-1 : Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glast;ow, Esq. Another of the Dunloj s served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General, They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.] This day, Time winds tli' 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 Kachel's care to-day. And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) FrOm housewife cares a minute borrow — — That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver? " Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion ? " The passing moment's all we rest on [" Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will time, amus'd with proverb' d lore, Add to our date one minute more ? A few days may — a few years must — Repose us in the silent dust. 262 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of nature loudly cries, , And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies : That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight : That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone ; Whether as heavenly glory bright. Or dark as misery's woeful night. — Since then, my honour'd, first of friends. On this poor being all depends, Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die. — Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard ; Yourself, you wait your bright reward. TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. [These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were writ- ten. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark : emasculated Italy is still singing ; opera girls are still dancing ; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.] Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. And, faith, to me 'twas really new ! How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; ROBERT BURNS. 263 Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt : If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin' ; How libbet Italy was singin' ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss "Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame. In Britain's court kept up the game : How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin' ; Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin • How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls ; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was tlireshin' still at hizzies' tails ; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. And no a perfect kintra cooser. — A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair' d of. So, gratefu', back your news I send you. And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! Ellisland, Monday Morning , 1790. 2G1 THE POETIC AL W ORKS OF THE KIRK'S ALARM;! A SATERE. [first version.] [The history of this Poem is curious. JI'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Trinity, published " A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. This essay was denoiinced as heretical, by a minister of the name of Peebles, in a sermon preached November 6th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns ■was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with reluctance.] Orthodox, orthodox, Wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : There's a heretic blast Has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense, Dr. Mac,^ Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack. To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. * Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing j Provost John^ is still deaf To the church's relief, And 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 ye, Auld Satan must have ye. For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 1 This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M'Gill's Essay. 2 Dr. M'Gill. 3 John Ballantyne. * Robert Aiken. ^ Dr. Dalrymple. ROBERT BURNS. 265 Kumble John,^ Rumble John, Mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle. And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James,^ Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view ; I'll lay on your head That 'the pack ye' 11 soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawney,'* Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny. Unconscious what evil await ? Wi' a jump, yell, and howl. Alarm every soul. For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld," Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Though ye can do little skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, 'And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. Davie Bluster,^ Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster. The corps is no nice of recruits ; Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast. If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamy Goose,® Jamy Goose, Ye ha'e made but toom roose. In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 1 Mr. Russell. 2 Mr. K'Kinlay. ' Mr. Mcxxly, of Riccarton. * Mr. Auld, of Muuchline. * Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree. • Mr. Young, of Cumnock. 17 266 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But the Doctor's your mark, For the L — d's haly ark ; He has coojDer'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. 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 astride. Ye but smelt, man, the place where he Andro Gouk,^ Andro Gonk, Ye may slander the book. And the book not the waur, let me tell ye ; Ye are rich and look big, But lay by hat and wig, And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steeuie,^ Barr Steenie, W^hat mean ye, what mean ye, If ye'll meddle nae inair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence To bavins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine side,'' Irvine side, Wi' your turkey-cock pride. Of manhood but sma' is your share ; Ye've the figure 'tis true, Even your faes will allow. And your friends they daur grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock,^ Muirland Jock, When the L — d makes a rock To crush Common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 1 Mr. Peebles, Ayr. ^ Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton. * Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr. * Mr. George Smith, of Galston. 6 Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. ROBERT BURNS. 267 Holy Will/ Holy Will, There was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer' d the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye're ta'eu for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual guns. Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuflP, Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire ? Your muse is a gipsie, E'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are THE KIRK'S ALARM. [second VERSION.j [This version is from the papers of Miss Lojan, of Afton. The origin of the Poem is tlius related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself: "Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire which slione so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet, I think you must have heard of Dr. M"GiIl. one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor man ! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I confess, too local: but I laughed my- self at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too." The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cro- mek calls it " A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire."] Orthodox, orthodox, Who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience — • Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline. 268 THE POETICAL WORKS OF There's a heretic blast, Has been blawn i' the wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense, Orthodox, That what is not sense must be nonsense. Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, And strike evil doers wi' terror ; To join faith and sense, Upon any pretence. Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was rash I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; Provost John is still deaf, To the church's relief. And orator Bob is its ruin, Town of Ayr, And orator Bob is its ruin. D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart's like a child. And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Old Satan must have ye For preaching that three's ane an' twa, D'rymple mild For preaching that three's ane an' twa. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powder enough, ROBERT BURNS. 269 And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin's sons, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy eramm'd; Then lug out your ladle. Deal brimstone like aidle. And roar every note o' the damn'd. Rumble John, And roar every note.o' the damn'd. Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames. There's a holier chase in your view ; I'll lay on your head, That the pack ye' 11 soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few, Simper James, For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what danger awaits ? With a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For Hannibal's just at your gates, Singet Sawnie, For Hannibal's just at your gates. Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, Ye may slander the book. And the book nought the waur — let me tell you ; Tho' ye're rich and look big, Yet lay by hat and wig. And ye'll hae a calf 's-head o' sma' value, Andrew Gowk, And ye'll hae a calf 's-herd o' sma' value. 28* 270 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Poet Willie, Poet Willie, Gie the doctor a volley, Wi' your '' liberty's chain" and your wit, O'er Pegasus' side. Ye ne'er laid a stride, Ye only stood by when he , Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he . Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, What mean ye ? what mean ye ? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence, man. • To havius and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie, Wi' people that ken ye nae better. Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, 0' hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the doctor's your mark, For the L — d's holy ark, He has cooper' d and ca'd a wrong pin in't, Jamie Goose, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't. Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster, It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits. Yet to worth let's be just, Koyal blood ye might boast. If the ass were the king o' the brutes, * Davie Bluster, If the ass were the king o' the brutes. Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge. To claw common sense for her sins; ROBERT BURNS. 271 If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit, To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance. Cessuockside, Cessnockside, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 0' manhood but sma' is your share ; Ye've the figure, it's true. Even our faes maun allow, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair. Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ;' Tho' ye downa do skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canua bite ye can bavk, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark. Poet Burns, Poet Purns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns. Why desert ye your auld native shire ? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy. Yet were she even tipsy, She could ca' us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. POSTSCRIPT. Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, When your pen can be spar'd, A copy o' thvs I bequeath. 1 Gafin Hamilton. 272 THE POETICAL WORKS OF On the same sicker score I mention' d before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. PEG NICHOLSON. [These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him an account of the unlooked-for death of his mare. Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acqixired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.] Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on aim j But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o' Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And rode thro' thick an' thin ; But now she's floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest ; But now she's floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And the priest he rode her sair ; And much oppress' d and bruis'd she was; As priest-rid cattle are, &c., &c. ROBERT BURNS. 273 ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HiSLD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. "Should the poor be flattered ?"—Shakspearb. But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless heav'nly light ! [Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and great pro- priety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern and was a member of the CapiUaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, "I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been uni- Tersally liked. « In our travelling party," says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, " was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army ; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson." Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass, p. 17.] Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides ! He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn ' By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd ! Ye hills ! near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. My wailing numbers ! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies, wimplin' down your o-lens Wi' toddlin' diu, -T-l THE POETICAL AVORKS OF Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to liu ! Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head. At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed r th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; Ye whistling plover ; An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood !— He's gane for ever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; Ye fisher herons, watching eels : Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the qua'gmire reels, Rair for his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o'day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, ROBERT BURNS. 275 Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 'Till waukrife mora ! 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 nigljt ! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return. 0, 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 ! 276 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And weep tte ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief, And truth I shall relate, man ; I tell nae common tale o' grief — For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn' d at fortune's door, man, A look of pity hither cast — For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart — For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways. Canst throw uncommon light, man, Here lies wha weel had won thy praise- For Matthew was a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man, Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — For Matthew was a kind man ! If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ain — For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. And ne'er guid wine did fear, man. This was thy billie, dam, and sire — For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, May dool and sorrow be his lot ! For Matthew was a rare man. ROBERT BURNS. 277 THE FIVE CARLINS. A SCOTS BALLAD. ^ane— "Chevy Chase." [This is a local and political Poem composed on the contest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of Westerhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Muggy personates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of Sol wayside, Annan; Whisltey Jean, Kirkcudbright ; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone : the poet's heart was with thelatter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections : after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remem- bered, the Whig interest prevailed.] There were five carlins in the south, Thej fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame. Not only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands there ; And aiblins gowd and honour baith Might be that laddie's share. There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, A dame wi' pride eneugh ; And Marjory o' the mony lochs, A carlin auld and teugh. And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-side ; And Whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide. And black Joan, frae Crichton-peel, 0' 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. 278 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae ; But uae ane could their fancy please, ne'er a ane but twae. The first ane was a belted knight, Bred of a border band ; And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand. And he wad do their errands weel, And meikle he wad say; And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him guid-day. The neist cam in a sodger youth. And spak wi' modest grace. And he wad gae to London town, K sae their pleasure was. He wad na hecht them courtly gifts. Nor meikle speech pretend ; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne'er desert his friend. Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse. At strife thir carlins fell ; For some had gentlefolks to please, And some wad please themsel'. Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, And she spak up wi' pride. And she wad send the sodger youth, Whatever might betide. For the auld gudeman o' London court She didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodgeu youth To greet his eldest son. ROBERT BURNS. 279 Then slow raise Marjory o' the LochS; And wrinkled was her brow ; Her ancient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scotch heart was true. " The London court set light by me — I set as light by them ; And I will send the sodger lad To shaw that court the same." Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, And swore a deadly aith, Says, " I will send the border-knight Spite o' you carlins baith. "For far-oif fowls hae feathers fair, And fools o' change are fain ; But I hae try'd this border-knight, I'll try him yet again." Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, " Ye weel ken, 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 sae wi' whiskey Jean, — We'll send the border-knight." Says black Joan o' Crichton-peel, A carlin stoor and grim, — "The auld guidman, or the young guidman, For me may sink or swim. " For fools will prate o' right and wrang. While knaves laugh in their sleeve ; But wha blaws best the horn shall win, I'll spei: nae courtier's leave." 280 THE POETICAL WORKS OF So how this mighty plea may end There's naebody can tell : God grant the king, and ilka man, May look weel to himsel' ! THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH. [This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry'a opinions, when he supported the right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness, in 1788.] The laddies by the banks o' Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie. Up and waur them a', Jamie, Up and waur them a' ; The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't, Ye turncoat Whigs, awa'. The day he stude his country's friend, Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie : Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie. But wha is he, his country's boast ? Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; There's no a callant tents the kye. But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,* Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie j And Maxwell true o' sterling blue : And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 1 Birkwbistle : a Galloway laird, and elector. ROBERT BURNS. 281 EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAY: ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. [•'I am too little a man,'" said Burns, in the note to Fintiay, which accompanied this poem, " to have any political attiichmeut : I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest Tencration tor individuals of both parties : but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot spe ik of with piiticiice." This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families tlie poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.] FiNTRAY, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am ? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg. O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him. I'll sing the zeal Drumlaurig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlins ; And, bent on winning borough towns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, And kissing barefit carlins. Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions ; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd. And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd To every Whig defiance. But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding : But left behind him heroes bright. Heroes in Caesareah fight. Or Ciceronian pleading. ! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; 18 282 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Tloroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics, To win immortal honour. 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, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and lasses. Craigdarroch^ led a light-arm'd corps, Tropes, metaphors, and figui-es pour. Like Hecla streaming thunde.': Glenriddel,^ skill'd in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory's dark designs. And bar'd the treason under. In either wing two champions fought. Redoubted Staig* who set at nought The wildest savage Tory : And Welsh,* who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, High-wav'd his magnura-bonura round With Cyclopean fury. Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation ! While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 'Mid Lawson's® port intrench' d his hold, And threaten'd worse damnation. To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. With these what Tory warriors clos'd. Surpasses my descriving : Squadrons extended long and large. With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving. 1 ,Tohn M'Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig. ' Fergusson of Craigdarroch. 8 Riddel of Friars-Carse. * Provost Staig of Dumfries. B Sheriff Welsh. ^ A wine-merchant in Dumfrii'S ROBERT BURNS. 283 What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie ! Grim Horror grinn'd — pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, And hell mix'd in the brulzie. As highland crags by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle : As flames among a hundred woods ; As headlong foam a hundred floods ; Such is the rage of battle ! The stubborn Tories dare to die ; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before the approaching fellers : The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers. Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. And think on former daring : The muffled murtherer^ of Charles The Magna Charta flag unfurls, All deadly gules it's bearing. Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. Bold Scrimgeour^ follows gallant Grahame,' 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 : • The executioner of Charles I. was masked. - Scrimgeour, Lor J Dundee. ' Grahame, Marquis of Montrose. '-84 THE POETICAL WORKS OF For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas ! can do but what they can ! The Tory ranks are broken. 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 countiy by the names Friend, patron, benefactor ! Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! And Ilopeton 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! How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! And Burke shall sing, 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. 1 Stewart of HUlside. ROBERT BURNS. 285 ON CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OP THAT KINGDOSI. ana wme. He was well acquamted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons Tiwi^ L , J' •? •'"'■''' " '""■■'^ •'' Glennddei •' for the first time saw Burns. ahl.ngl,shm.au heard, :t .s said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent burst o. he >nsp,red Scot who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulene and 1 stened w.th pleasure to the independent sentiments and humorous turns ^coi 2d t^ri ^"^•°r/"'"''^'^'"''°- '"'-'' ^'°- -- ^-^-^ f-" Of the inter.iewrand is eaid that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal.] Hear, Land o' Cake.s, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's • It there s a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it : A chiel'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 slight, 0' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riffoin, It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L— d save's ! colleaguin' At some black art. Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, And you deep read in hell's black grammar. Warlocks and witches; Ye'li quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight b s ! It's tauld he was a sodgor bred And ane wad rather fa'n than fled • 286 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towraont guid; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets. Afore the flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender; That which distingviished the gender 0' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Forbye, he'll shape you alF, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg : The knife that nicket Abel's craig He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gully. — But wad ye see him in his glee, For meiklo glee and fun has he, Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him ; And port, port ! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him ! Now by the powr's o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, 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 ' ROBERT BURNS. 287 WEITTEN IN A WRAPPER, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE, [Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary memoranda, respecting certain ruin^ m Kyle, and enclosed them in a sheet of a paper to Cardonnel, a northern antiquary As his mmd teemed with poetry he could not, as he afterwards gaid, let the opportunity pass of sending a rhyming inquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the condolina inquiry oTer the North— " Is he slain by Ilighlan' bodies ? And eaten like a wether-haggis?"] Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? Igo and ago, If he's amang his friends or foes ? Irani, coram, dago. Is he south or is he north ? Igo and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? Igo and ago, And eaten like a wether-hago-is ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? Igo and ago, Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? Iram, coram, dago. Where'er he be, the L— d be near him ! Igo and ago, As for the deil, he daur na steer him ! Iram, coram, dago. But please transmit the enclosed letter, Igo and ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor, Iram, coram, dago. So may ye hae auld stanes in store, Igo and ago. The very stanes that Adam bore, Iram, coram, dago. 288 THE POETICAL WORKS OF So may ye get iu glad possession, Igo and ago, The coins o' Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. TAM 0' SHANTER. "Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke." — Gawin Douglas. [This a Westrcountry legend, embellished by genius. No other Poem in our language displays such v.ariety of power, in the same number of lines. It was written as an induce- ment to Grose to admit Alloway-Kirk into his work on the Antiquities of Scotland ; and written with such ecstasy, that the poet shed tears in the moments of composition. The walk in which it was conceived, on the braes of Ellisland, is held in remembrance in the vale, and pointed out to poetic inquirers: while the scene where the poem is laid — the crumbling ruins— the place where the chapman perished iu the snow — the tree on which the poor mother of Mungo ended her sorrows — the cairn where the murdered child was found by the hunters — and the old bridge over which Maggie bore her astonished master when all hell was in pursuit, are first-rate objects of inspection and inquiry iu the " Land of Burns." "In the inimitable tale of Tam o' Shanter," says Scott, "Burns has left us sufficient evidence'of his ability to combine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions."] When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet. As market-days are wearing late. An' folk begin to tak' the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy. An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles. The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. That lie between us and our hame. Where sits our sulky sullen dame. Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny la.sses.) ROBERT BURNS. 289 O Tarn ! liadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'eii thy aiii wife Kate's advice I She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bletheriug, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober j That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, IIow mony lengthen' d sage advices. The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : — Ae market night. Tarn had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And ay the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tarn 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 — Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 1 V.VRIATION. The cricket raised ifs cheering cry. The kittlea chas'd its tail In joy. -90 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'eu drown'd himself amang the nappy ! As bees flee hame wi' hides o' treasure. The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread. You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : That night, a child might understand, The De'il had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — ROBEKT BURNS. 291 By this time he was cross the foord, Whare iu 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 murdoi-'d bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where IMungo'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 1 Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 'Till, by the heel and hand admonish' d, She ventur'd forward on the light; And wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels : A winnock-bunker in the east. There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge ; He screw' d the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — Coffins stood round, like open presses; That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses : 292 THE POETICAL WORKS OP And by some clevilish cautvip slight Each in its caiild hand held a light — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A mvirderev's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa spau-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi,' bluid red-rusted ; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft. The gray hairs yet stack to the heft •} Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious. The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekit, 'Till ilka carliu swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, Tam ! had thae been queans A' plump and strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flanneu. Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen, Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 1 VABIATION. Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout ; And priests' hearts rotten black as muck, Lay stinking vile, in every neuk. ROBERT BURNS. 293 But wither' d beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad speaa a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was a winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And p^MJsh'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty. It was her best, and she was vauntie. — Ah ! little kenn'd 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 I But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang,) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch' d, And thought his very een enrich'd ; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 'Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither. And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" And in an instant all was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. When plundering herds assail their byke ; 294 THE POETICAL WORKS OF As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tarn ! Ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane^ of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross ! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest. And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale. But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 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 like- wise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with hogJes, whatever danger there may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. r^,K. y^ym y-//0 /y // / / <- "^i^/^ty M/i/^n -K-r/'/r \ ///7/7(7/^'.A/l^it/::^ ROBERT BURNS. 295 ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. [This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, "To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalb ine, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 2.3d of May last, at the Shakspeare. Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were in- formed by Mr. M , of A s. were .so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of.Canada, in search of that fiintastic thing — LiBBRTY.'' The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, iu Ayrshire.] Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes — as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and A s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight; I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better Then let them ance out owre the water; Then up amang the lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please; Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery fearless lead them. Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed — Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire ! Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance, To cowe the rebel generation, An' save the honour o' the nation ? They an' be d d ! what right hae they To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 296 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, But what your lordship likes to gie them ? But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna' say. but they do gaylies ; They lay aside a' tender mercies, An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, Let them in Drury-lane be lesson' d ! An' if the wives an' dirty brats E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese, Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, The langest thong, the fiercest growler, An' gar the tatter' d gypsies pack Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you, An' in my house at hame to greet you ; Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, The benmost neuk beside the ingle. At my right han' assign'd your seat 'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate, — Or if you on your station tarrow, Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; An' till ye come — Your humble servant, Beelzebub June \st, Anno Mundi 5790. ROBERT BURNS. 297 TO JOHN TAYLOR. [Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with difTiculty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of in- fluence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his inter- fernnoe: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had "never been well paid\)ut ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in ver.se."] With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Througli frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying. Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker. Obliging Vulcan fell to work. Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol's business in a crack ; Sol paid him with a sonnet. Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster ; My Pegasus is poorly shod — I'll pay you like my master. Egbert Burns. Ramages, 3 d clock, (no date.) LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. [The poet communicated this "Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Slary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling ^he Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives.] Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every bloomius tree, 19 J ^ > 298 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 lav'roeks 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' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been ; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reigu o' Scotland, And mouy a traitor there ; Yet here I lie in foreign bands. And never-eYiding 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. ROBERT BURNS. 299 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! ! soon, to me, may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn ! Nae mail', to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the naiTow house o' death Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave I THE WHISTLE. [■'As the authentic prose history," says Burns, "of the 'Whistle' is curious, I shal here give it. In the train of Anne of Dcnmarii, when she came to Scotland with ou. James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and greal prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, whiib at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whi.-,<> » , , . ' zj;;°:::{' "-• °"' "» "- "'» — •""». -^ »..".;£•„": Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf This natal morn ; I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half worn. VARIATION. 1 Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-facM Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel aula, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. 312 THE POETICAL WORKS OF This day thou metes three score eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven "Will yet bestow it. If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure — But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, May coutMe 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 Bail he daur na steer ye ; Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye ; For me, shame fa' me, If niest my heart I dinna wear ye While Burns they ca' me ! Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792. THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, Not. 26, 1792. [Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses whom Williamson, the manager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries : she was young and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumour added, perhaps maliciously, levities of action. The Rights of Man had been advocated by Paine, the Rights of Woman by Mary Wolstonecroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regeneration of the world. The line "But truce with kings and truce with constitutions," got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audience. The words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on them.] While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things. The fate of empires and the fall of kings j ♦ ROBERT BURNS. 313 While quacks of state must each produce his plan. And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First on. the sexes' intennix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate. Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. Our second Right — but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough, rude man had naughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest. That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration. Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; There taste that life of life — immortal love. — Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions. Let majesty your first attention summon. Ah ! §a ira ! the majesty of woman ! 20 ol4 THE POETICAL WORKS OF MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. [The heroine of this rough hvmpoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodlcigh Park : a lady young and gay, much of a wit. and something of a poete.s."!, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself She pulled his displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some '■ epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes designated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen m account of her last interview with the poet, written with great beauty and feeling.] How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten' d ! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! If sorrow and angui.sh their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou lived.st unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But coine all ye offspring of Folly So true, And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect, * Want only of goodness denied her esteem. ROBERT BURNS. 315 EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. [Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition : it is printed from the Poet's own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on pei'- 6ons who. in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to contempt and laughter : the satirist celebrates her " Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed ;" and has a passing hit at her '■ Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."'] From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more ; Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing. Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. " Alas ! I feel I am no actor here I" '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 bai-ber 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. 316 THE POETICAL WORKS OF I sec 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, \ndi, vici, is his way ; The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks* Though there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — And pours his vengeance in the burning line, Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine; The idiot strum of vanity bemused. And even th' abuse of poesy abused ! W^ho call'd her verse, a parish workhouse made For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?) A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! In durance vile here must I wake and weep. And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin' d gipsies litter' d heretofore. Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour ? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. And make a vast monopoly of hell ? Thou know' St, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, The vices also, must they club their curse 1 Captain Gillespie. ^ Colonel Jlacdouall. ROBERT BURNS. 317 Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; lu 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. POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. [Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem beinn- bv hi, hrMy. hough Robert Chambers CeCares that be "has s.....^y . aouZiZ^ulZX'Z' S^ sh>re Bard," I must print it as his, fur I have no doubt on the subject. It was fotnd rooug the papers Of the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the four h and "e o eluding verses bear the Burns stamp, which no one has been successful in ouuter fe t^ng: they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers has compa ed them «, intle as the cry of the eagle resembles the chirp of the wren.J '=°'"P'''«1 them, as 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 alaug, To death or marriage ; Scarce aue has tried the shepherd-sang" But wi' miscarriage ? 318 THE POETICAL WORKS OF lu Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; Wee Pope, tlie knurlin, 'till him rives Horatiau 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 0' heathen tatters; I pass by huuders, 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 avild nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines. Her griefs will tell ! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. ROBERT BURNS. '^19 Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 0' witchin' love; That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. [Burns was fond of a stiunter in a leafless wood, when tbe winter storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruius of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.] Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough j Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign. At thy blythe carol clears his furrow' d brow. So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart. Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part. Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear, • I thank Thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied. Thy boon was purer joys. What wealth could never give nor take away. Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 'J'he mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share 320 THE POETICAL WORKS OF SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF GLENRIDDEL, April, 1794. [The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland, been his neighbour, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with tliose of literature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what the rustics of the vale called '• queer quairns and swine-troughs," is now scattered or neglected : I have heard a competent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland.] No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole. More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier : The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. R 'S BIRTHDAY. [By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart which his verses 'On a Lady famed for her Capi'ice" inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Kiddel.] Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, — What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. ROBERT BURNS. 321 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 rejoic'd in glory. LIBERTY. A FRAGMENT. [Fragments of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose papers of the poet These lines formed the commeucemeut of an ode commemorating the achievement ol liber'.y for America, under the directing genius of Washington and Franklin.] Thee, Caledonia, thy wild Iieaths among, Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song. To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Immingled with the mighty dead ! Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies ! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, Nor give the coward secret breath. Is this the power in freedom's war, That wont to bid the battle rage ? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. Crushing the despot's proudest bearing ! VERSES TO A YOUNCx LADY. [This young lady was the daughter of the poet's friend, Graham of Fintray ; and the gift alluded to was a copy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs: a work which owes many attractions to the lyric genius of Burns.] Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers juin'd. 822 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Accept the gift; — tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful uiiud. So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, Or Love ecstatic wake his seraph song ! Or Pity's notes in luxury of tears, As modest Want the tale of woe reveals ; While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals. THE VOWELS. [Burns admired genius adorned by learning; but mere learning without genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him with writing obscure language iu questionable grammar, he said, ■• Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker between vowels anl consonants!"] 'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to account — First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! His twisted head look'd backward on the way, And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted ai! Reluctant, E stalk' d in ; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face ! That name! that well-worn name, and all his 0W6, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; ROBERT BURNS. 323 And uext the title following close behind, He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigu'd. The cobweb' d gothic dome resounded Y ! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain' d reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And kuock'd the groaning vowel to the ground I In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; Th' Inquisitor of Sjiain the most expert Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art; So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scai'cely knew ! As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, In helpless infants' teai's he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE. [With the " rough, rude, reatly-witted Kankine," of Adam-hill, in Ayrshire, Burns kep' ap a will o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death : these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, hut always witty. It is supposed that these lines were suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged recruits : — "I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat!"] Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl. Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad. And mony a guilt-bespotted lad Black gowns of each denomination. And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter. To him that wintles in a halter : Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches. He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, " By G — d, I'll not be seen behint them. Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, 324 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this d — d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, " L — d G — d !" quoth he, "I have it now, There's just the man I want, i' faith \" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. ON SENSIBILITY. TO MY DEAH and much HONOURTiD FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. [These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some .sentiments contained an a commuuiea tion from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he appears to .allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to, " Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell !" und so transferring the whole to another heroine.] Sensibility how charming. Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : But distress with horrors arming, Thou hast also known too well. Fairest flower, behold the lily. Blooming in the sunny ray : Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought, the hidden treasure Finer feeling can bestow; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe. ROBERT BURNS. 325 LINES SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. [The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel opcasionod these repentant strains : they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet had. it seems, not only spoke of nlere titles and rank with disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary Wolstonecroft an 1 her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Kiddol affected to be grievously offended.] The frieiid 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. ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. [This address wag spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries Theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.] Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; Said nothing like his works was ever printed ; And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted ! " Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, " I know your bent — these are no laughing times : Can you — but, Miss, I own I have my fears. Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence. Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell llepentauce ; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, AVaving on high the desolating brand, Callin.fj the storms to be;ir him o'er a guilty land ?" >-6 T HE POETICAL WO II K S F 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 hve : Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; Who, 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 their follies — laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific. And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we're merry, may we still be wise. ON SEEING MISS EONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE . CHARACTER. [The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of her personations he alludes ; she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.] Sweet naivete of feature. Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to nature. Thou art acting but thyself. ROBERT BURNS. 327 Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. Spurning nature, torturing art; Loves and graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'dst act a part. R. B. TO CIILORIS. [Chloris was a Nithsdale beauty. Tx)ve and porrow were strongly mingled :n her o.aily history : tliat she did not look so lovely in other eyes as she did in those of Sums is well known: but he had much of the taste of an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the harmony of her motion, as much as he did her blooming face and sweet voice.] 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing muse. Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the word adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) To join the friendly few. Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lower; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) Since life's gay scenes must charm" no more, . Still much is left behind ; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — The comforts of the mind ! Thine is the self-approving glow. On conscious honour's part; And, dearest gift of heaven below, Thine friendship's truest heart. The joys refin'd of sense and taste, With every muse to rove : And doubly were the poet blest. These joys could he improve. •328 THE POETICAL WORKS OF POETICAL INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. [It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French Revolution to plant trees of liberty, and raise altars to Independence. Heron of Kerroughtree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage in an election contest, and these noble lines served the purpose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on freedom.] ' Tiiou 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. THE HERON BALLADS. [ballad first.] [This is the first of several party ballads which Burns wrote to serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtrce, in two elections for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which he was opposed, first, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and secondly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a personal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle with the strains in which the poet recorded the contest between Miller and Johnstone. They are printed here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will be displeased, and some will smile.] Whom will you send to London town. To Parliament and a' that ? Or wha in a' the country round The best deserves to fa' that ? For a' that, and a' that, Thro' Galloway and a' that ; Where is the laird or belted knight That best deserves to fa' that ? 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, an' a' that. ROBERT BURNS. 329 Tho' wit and worth iu eitlier sex, St. Mary's Isle can sliaw that; Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, And weel does Selkirk fa' that. > For a' that, an' 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 it's against the law that; For why, a lord may be a gouk, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that ! A loi'd may be a lousy loun, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that; But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, A man we ken, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that ! For we're not to be bought an' sold Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that. Then let us drink the Stewartry, Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, Our representative to be. For weel he's worthy a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that, A House of Commons such as he. They would be blest that saw that. 21 330 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE HERON BALLADS. [ballad second.] [In this ballad the poet gathers together, after the manner of "Fy! let us a' to the bridal," all the leading electors of the Stewartry, who befriended Heron, or opposMd him; and draws their portraits in the colours of light or darkness, according to the complexion of their politics. lie is too severe in mo.'^t instances, and in some he is venomous. On the Earl ly nalloway's family, and on the Murrays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on Bushby of Tinwaldowns, he pours his hottest satire. lUit words which are unjust, or undeserved, fall off their victims like rain-drops from a wild duck's wing. The Murrays of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of Prince Charles Stewart: from such infamy the family is wholly free: the traitor, Murray, was of a race now extinct; and while he was betraying the cause in which so much noble and gallant blood was shed, Murray of Broughton and Caillie was performing the duties of an honourable and loyal man: he was, like his great-grandson now, repre-. senting his native district in parliament.] THE ELECTION. Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin' there; For Murray's' light horse are to muster, And 0, how the heroes will swear ! An' there will be Murray commander, And Gordon'^ the battle to win ; Like brothers they'll stand by each other, Sae knit in alliance an' kin. An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,* The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; An' he get na hell for his haddin' The deil gets na justice ava' ; An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, A boy no sae black at the bane. But, as for his fine nabob fortune, We'll e'en let the subject alaue. An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, • But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? An' there will be Cardoness,* Esquire, Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 1 Jlurray, of Broughton and Cailli» 2 Gordon of Balmaghie. * Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. * .Maxwell, of Cardoness. ROBERT BURNS. 331 A wiglit that will weather damnation, For the devil the prey will despise. An' there will be Douglasses' doughty, New christ'ning towns far and near; Abjuring their democrat doings, By kissing the — o' a peer ; • 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 to'the firm. But we winna mention Redcastle,* The body, e'en let him escape ! He'd venture the gallows for siller, An' 'twar na the cost o' the rape. An' where is our king's lord lieutenant, Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? The billie is gettin' his questions. To say in St. Stephen's the morn. An' there will be lads o' the gospel, Muirhead/ wha's as gude as he's true; An' there will be Buittle's* apostle, Wha's more o' the black than the blue; An' there will be folk from St. Mary's,® A house o' great merit and note, The deil ane but honours them highly, — The deil ane will gie them his vote ! An' there will be wealthy young Richard," Dame Fortune should hing by the neck ; For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, His merit had won him respect : An' there will be rich brother nabobs, Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first, * The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle-Douglas. * Gordon, afterwards Viscount Kenmore. ^ Laurie, of Redcastle. * Morchead, Minister of Urr. 5 xhe Minister of Buittle. 6 Earl of Selkirk's family. ' Oswald, of Auchuncruive. 332 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF An' there will bo Collieston's^ whiskers, Au' Quiutiii, o' lads not the worst. An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie/ Tak' tent how ye purchase a dram ; An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam ; An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree,' Whose honour was ever his law, If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, His worth might be sample for a'. An' can we forget the auld major, Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, Him only 'tis justice to praise. An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, And also Barskimming's gude knight. An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, Wha luckily roars in the right. An' there, frae the Niddisdale borders. Will mingle the Maxwells in droves; Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Walie, That griens for the fishes an' loaves ; An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,* Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there. An' also the wild Scot of Ghilloway, Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. ^ Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, In Sodom 'twould make him a king; An' hey for the sanctified M y, Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; He founder'd his horse among harlots. But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 1 Copland of Collieston and Blackwood. • .Tohn Symo, of the Stamp-oflSce. 3 Heron, of Kerroughtree. ^ Colonel Macdouall, of Logan. ROBERT BURNS. 333 THE HERON BALLADS. [ballad third.] [This third and last ballad was written on the contest between Heron and Stewart, «Tliich toUowed close on that with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was unseated t.v the decision of a Committee of the House of Commons: a decision which it is said he ti-^!s so much to heart that it affected bis health, and shortened his life.] AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. Tune — " Buy broom besoms," Wha will buy my troggiu, Fiiie election ware ; Broken trade o' Broughton, A' in high repair. Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o' Dee ; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me. There's a noble Earl's^ 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 ee ; Here's a reputation Tint by Balmaghie. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's an hone.st conscience Might a prince adorn ; Frae the downs o' Tiuwald — ^ So was never worn. Buy braw troggin, &c. 1 The Earl of Galloway. 2 Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. ' Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. 334 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Here's its stuflF and lining, Cardoness'^ head ; Fine for a sodger 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 armorial bearings Frae the manse o' Vrrf The crest, an auld crab-apple Rotten at the core. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Satan's picture, Like a bizzard gled. Pouncing poor Redcastle,* Sprawlin' as a taed. 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 Murray's fragments 0' the ten commands; Gifted by black Jock" To get them aflF his hands. Buy braw troggin, &c. 1 Maxwell of Cardoness. - The Minister of Cuittle. 3 Moi-ehead, of Urr. * Lawne. of Kudcastle. 6 Coplaud, of CoUleston and Blackwood. « Jobn Bush by, of Tinwald-downs. ROBERT BURNS. 335 Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? If to buy ye're slack, Hornie's turniu' chapman, He'll buy a' the pack. Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o' Dee; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me. POEM ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, collector of excise. Dumfries, 1796. [The gentleman to whom this very modest, and, under the circumstances, most affect- ing application for his salary was made, filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and generous nature : but few were aware that the poet wa>« Bufifering both from ill-health and poverty.] Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alake, alake, the meikle deil Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, In my poor pouches ! I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. That one pound one, I sairly want it, If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, It would be kind ; And while my heart wi' life-blood duuted I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin To thee and thine; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hale design. 336 THE POETICAL WORKS OF POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, And by fell death was nearly nicket; Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk ; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, A tentier way : Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't. For ance and aye ! TO MISS JESSIE LEWARS, ■WITH JOHNSON'S ' MUSICAL MUSEUM.' [Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reyerence of a daughter : for this she has the silent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns ; she has received more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined soon to die.] Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the Poet's prayer; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth and spotless fame, And wakeful caution still aware Of ill — ^but chief, man's felon snare; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward ; So prays thy faithful friend. The Bard. June 26, 1796. ROBERT BURNS. 337 POEM ON LIFE, addressed to colonel de peyster. Dumfries, 1796. [This i« supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or conceived by the muse o, Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the Gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfnes, .n whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided h.mself on bavmg defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Lerl- cans. He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sciences : he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verses.] My honour'd colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal ; Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus, pill, And potion glasses. what a canty warld were it. Would pain and care and sickness spare it ; And fortune favour worth and merit, As they deserve ! (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne, wha wad starve ?) •Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow-wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches, like baudrous by a ratton. Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er east saut on — He's aff like fire. Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. First showing us the tempting ware. 338 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Bright wines and bonnie lassfcs rare, To put us daft; Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare 0' hell's damn'd waft. Poor man, the flie, aft hizzes bye. And aft as chance he conies thee nigh, Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure ; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker tneasure ! Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs. And like a sheep head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murd'ring wrestle, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil. To plague you with this drauuting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen : The Lord preserve us frae the devil. Amen ! Amen ! ROBERT BURNS. 339 EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, ETC., ETC. ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. [William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he was an example of piety, patience, and fortitude.] YE wliose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious reA''rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that feared no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; " For ev'n his failings leau'd to virtue's side." ON R. A., ESQ. [Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom "The Cotter's Saturday Night" is addressed: a kind and generous man.] Know thou, stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. ON A FRIEND. [The name of this friend is neither mentioned nor alluded to in any of the poet's productions.] An honest man here lies at rest As e'er God with his image blest ! 340 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The friend of man, the friend of truth ; The friend of age, and guide of youth; Few hearts like his, with virtue warni'd, Few heads with knowledge so inforni'd : If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; If there is none, he made the best of this. FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. [These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured for presuming to rida on Sunday, and say, " damn it," in the presence of the minister of Mauchline.] The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd : But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damn'd ! ON WEE JOHNNY. HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. [Wee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns's Poems : he doubted the success of the speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of their meaning.] Whoe'er thou art, reader, know. That death has murder' d Johnny ! An' here his body lies fu' low — For saul he ne'er had ony. ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. [John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Blauchline : his religion is made to consist of ti comparative appreciation of the liquors he kept.] Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; What was his religion ? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl. For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! ROBERT BURNS. 341 Strong ale was ablution — Small beer, persecution, A dram was memento mori ; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving bis soul, And port was celestial glory. ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. [This laborious and useful wag was the " Dear Smith, thou sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest epistles : he died in the AVest Indies.] Lament bim, Maucbline husbands a', He aften did assist ye ; For had ye staid whole weeks awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Maucbline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thegitber, tread ye lightly on his grass, — Perhaps he was your father. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. [Souter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his impertinent inquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of Burns.] Here souter Hood in death does sleep ; — To b-11, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll baud it weel thesither. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. [This noisy polemic was a ma.son of the name of James Humphrey: he astonished Oro mek by an eloquent dissertation on free j^race, effectual-calling, and predestination.] Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : Death, it's my opinion, Tbovi ne'er took such a blethrin' b — cb Into thy dark dominion ! 342 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ON MISS JEAN SCOTT. [The heroine of these complimentary lines lived in Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks.] Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, Been Jeany Scott, as thou art, The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward ! ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. [Though satisfied with the severe satire of these lines, the poet made a second attempt.] As father Adam first was fool'd, A case that's still too common, Here lies a man a woman rul'd, The devil rul'd the woman. ON THE SAME. [The second attempt did not in Burns's fancy exhaust this fruitful subject: he tried his hand again.] DEATH, hadst thou but spared his life Whom we this day lament. We freely wad exchang'd the wife, And a' been weel content ! Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff. The swap we yet will do't ', Take thou the carlin's carcase aflF, Thou'se get the soul to boot. ON THE SAME. [In these lines he bade farewell to this sordid dame, who lived, it is said, in Nether- place, near Mauchline.] One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well. ROBERT BURNS. 343 In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. • But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion, When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction. Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pretence. Not to show her respect, but to save the expense. THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. [B'lrns took larewell of the hospitalities of the Scottish Highlands in these happy lines.] When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come ; In Heaven itself I'll ask no more Than just a Highland welcome. ON WILLIAM SMELLIE. [Smellie, author of the Philosophy of History ; a singular person, of ready wit, and Qegligent in nothing save his dress.] Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same ; His bristling beai*d 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. VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. [These lines were written on receiving what the poet considered an uncivil refusal to look at the works of the celebrated Carron foundry.] We came na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, 344 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise : For whan we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us ; Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us ! THE BOOK-WORMS. FBurns wrote this reproof in a Shakspeare, which he found splendidly hound and gilt, but unread and worm-eaten, in a noble person's library.] Through and through the inspir'd leaves. Ye maggots, make your windings ; But oh ! respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings. LINES ON STIRLING. [On visiting Stirling, Burns was stung at beholding nothing but desolation in the palaces of our princes and our halls of legislation, and vented his indignation in these uuloyal lines : some one has said that they were written by bis companion, Nicol, but this wants confirmation.] Here Stuarts once in glory reign' d,. And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd ; But now unroof 'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands ; The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne ; An idiot race, to honour lost ; Who know them best despise them most. THE REPROOF. [The imprudence of making the lines written at Stirling public was hinted to Bums by a friend ; he said, " Oh, but I mean to reprove myself for it," which he did in thcsa Kash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; ROBERT BURNS. 34^ Does not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Sajs the more 'tis the truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel ? THE REPLY. [The minister of Gladsmuir ,yrote a censure on the Stirling lines, intimating, as a prie.t *a Burns s race was nigh run, and as a prophet, that oblivion awaited his muse The poet replied to the expostulation.] Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel All others' scorn — but damn that ass's heel. LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED MISS BURNS. [The Miss Burns of these lines was well known in those days to the bucks of the Scot- tsh metropolis : there is still a letter by the poet, claiming from the magistrates of Edin- burgh a liberal interpretation of the laws of social morality, in behalf of his fair namesake ] Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, Lovely Burns has charms — confess : True it is, she had one foiling — Had a woman ever less ? EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. [These portraits are strongly coloured with the partialities of the poet: Dundas haa offended his pride, Erskine had pleased his vanity; and as he felt he spoke.] LORD ADVOCATE. He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. He quoted and he hinted, 'Till in a declamatiom-mist His argument he tint it : He gaped for't, he grap'd for't. He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short He eked out wi' law, man. 22 346 THE POETICAL WORKS OF MR. UUSKINE. Collected Harry stood awee, Then opeu'd out liis arm, man : His lordship sat wi' rueful e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man; Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail. Or torrents owre a linn, man ; The Bench sue wise lift up their eyes, Half-waukeu'd wi' the din, man. THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. ^A lady who expressed herself with incivility about her husband's potations with Burns was rewarded by these sharp lines.] Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! Who has no will but by her high permission ; Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell ! Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. WRITTEN AT INVERARY. [Neglected at the inn of luverary, on account of the presence of .some northei'n chiefs, and overlooked by his Grace of Argyll, the poet let loose his wrath and his rhyme: tradi- tion speaks of a pursuit which took place on the part of the Camplji-U, when he was told of his mistake, and of a resolution not to be soothed on the part of the bard.] Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case. Unless he's come to wait upon The Lord their God, his Grace. There's naething here but Highland pride, And Highland cauld and hunger; ROBERT BURNS. 347 If Providence has sent me here, 'Twas surely in his anger. ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATIONS OF MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. [Burns thus relates the origin of this sally : — " Stopping at a merchant's shop in Edinburgh, a friend of mine one day put Elphin- Btone's translation of Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. I asked per- mission to write my opinion on a Wank leaf of the book; which being granted, I wrote this epigram.] THOU, whom poesy abhors. Whom prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan ? proceed no further; 'Twas laurell'd Martial roarino- murther ! INSCRIPTION, ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON. [Some social friends, whose good feelings were better than their taste, have ornamented with supplemental iron work the headstone which Burns erected, with this inscription to the memory of his brother bard, Fergusson.] ■ Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet. Born, September 5, 1751 ; Died, Oct. 15, 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, " No storied urn nor animated bust ;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. ON A SCHOOLMASTER. I The Millie Mirhie of this epigram was, it is said, schoolmaster of the parish of Cleish, in Kl.'Vshiru: he met Burns during his first visit to Edinburgh.] Here lie Willie Michie's banes ; O, Satan ! when ye tak' him, Gi'e him the schoolin' o' your weans. For clever de'ils he'll niak' them. 348 THE POETICAL WORKS OP A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. [This was an extempore grace, pronounced by the poet at a dinner-table, In Dumfries: he w.-is ever ready to contribute the small cliange of rhyme, for either the use or amuse- ment of a company.] O Thou, who kindly dost provide For every creature's want ! We bless thee, God of Nature wide, For all thy goodness lent : And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But, whether granted or denied, Lord bless us with content ! Amen. A GRACE BEFORE MEAT. [Pronounced, tradition says, at the table of Mrs. Kiddel, of Woodleigh-Park.] Thou in whom we live and move, Who mad'st the sea and shore, Thy goodness constantly we prove. And grateful would adore. And if it please thee. Power above, Still grant us with such store, The friend we trust, the fair we love, And we desire no more. ON WAT. [The name of the object of this fierce epigram might be found, but in gratifying curi osity, some pain would be inflicted.] Sic a reptile was Wat, Sic a miscreant slave, That the very worms damn'd him When laid in his grave. ROBERT BURNS. 349 " In his flesh there's a famine," A starv'd reptile cries; " An' his heart is rank poison," Another replies. ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE. i'rhis was a festive sally : it is said tliat Grose, who was very fat, though he joined in the laugh, did not relish it.] The devil got notice that Grose was a-djing-, So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he appvoach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, '^ By , I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load !" IMPROMPTU, TO MISS AINSLIE. [These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to which the poet and Miss Ainslie of 8errywell had listened, during his visit to the border.] Fair maid, you need not take the hint. Nor idle texts pursue: — 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant. Not angels such as you ! THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. [One rough, cold day. Burns listened to a Fermon, bo little to his liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydesdale, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.j As cauld a wind as ever blew, As caulder kirk, an in't but few; As cauld a minister's e'er spak. Ye' so a' be het ere I come back. 350 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. [In answer to a gentleman, who called the solemn League and Coyenant ridiculous and fanatical.] The solemn League and Covenant Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears ; But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — If tliou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, IN THE INN AT MOFFATT. [A friend asked the poet why God made 5Iiss Davies so little, and a lady who was with ber, so large: before the ladies, who had just passed the window, were out of sight, the following answer was recorded on a pane of glafs.] Ask why God made the gem so small, And why so huge the granite ? Because God meant mankind should set The higher value on it. SPOKEN, ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. [Burns took no pleasure in the name of ganger : the situation was unworthy of him, und he seldom hesitated to say so.] Searching auld wives' barrels, Och — hon ! the day ! That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; But — what'll ye say ! These moviu' things ca'd wives and weans Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE. [The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box in the Dumfries Theatre, in the wintet »f 1794 : he was much moved by Mrs. Kemble's noble and pathetic acting."] Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod ; ROBERT BURNS. 351 At Yarico's sweet notes of grief The rock with tears had flow'd. TO MR. SYME. [John Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and a gentleman of education and intenigence, was, while Burns resided in Dumfries, his chief companion : he was bred to the law.] No more of your gxiests, be they titled or not, And cook'ry the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse, and wit, Is proof to all other temptation. TO MR. SYME. ■WITH A PRESENT OP A DOZEN OP PORTER. [The tavern where these lines were written was kept by a wandering mortal of the nama of Smith; who, having visited in some capacity or other the Holy Land, put on his sign, "John Smith, from Jerusalem." He was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.] 0, 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. A GRACE. 1 This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where to the best cookery was added th i'liest wine, as well as the rarest wit : Hyslop was a distiller.] Lord, we thank and thee adore. For temp'ral gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no more, Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 352 THE POETICAL WORKS OF INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. [Written on a dinner-goblet by the band of Burns. Pyme, exMsperatcd at bavinsr hU set of crystal defaced, tbrew the goblet under the grate: it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.] There's death iu the cup — sae beware ! Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; But wha can avoid the fell snare? The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! THE INVITATION. [Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civilities: these lines were written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochrutton, enclosed an invitation to dinner.] The King's most humble servant I, Can scarcely spare a minute; But I am yours at dinner-time, Or else the devil's in it. THE CREED OF POVERTY. [When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that he was to act, and not to think ; he took out his pencil and wrote " The Creed of Poverty."] In politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind — be deaf and blind ; Let great folks hear and see. WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. [That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with those who were warring in its cause^ these lines, and hundreds more, sufficiently testify.] Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were. ROBERT BURNS. 353 THE PARSON'S LOOKS. [Some sarcastic person said, in Buriis"s hearing, that there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside's loolvs: the poet mused for a moment, and replied in lines which have less of truth tlian point.] That there is falsehood iu his looks I must and will deuy; They say their master is a knave — And sure they do not lie. THE TOAD-EATER. [This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of dukes with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped.] What of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? Lord ! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse. Though it crawl on the curl of a queen. ON ROBERT RIDDEL. [I copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friars-Carse Hermitage, on which they bad been traced with the diamond of Burns.] To Riddel, much-lamented man, This ivied cot was dear • Reader, dost value matchless worth ? This ivied cot revere. THE TOAST. [Burns being called on for a song, by his brother volunteers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast] Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ! — That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, that we found; For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 354 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The next in succession, I'll give you — the King ! Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ; And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd; And who would to liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. ON A PERSON NICKNAMED ' THE MARQUIS.' [In a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence, this person, who kept a rt'spect able public-house in Dumfries, desired Burns to write his epitaph.] Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd; If ever he rise, it will be to be dainn'd. LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, [Burns traced these words with a diamond, on the window of the King's Arms TaTern, Dumfries, as a reply, or reproof, to one who had been witty on excisemen.] Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hearing ; What are you, landlords' rent-rolls ? teasing ledgers : What premiers — what ? even monarchs' mighty gangers : Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen ? LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. [The Globe Tavern was Burns's favourite '• HowfT," as he called it. It had other attrac- tions than good liquor ; there lived " Anna, with the golden locks."] The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, Give me with gay Folly to live ; ROBERT BURNS. 355 I grant him his calm-blooded^ time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give. THE SELKIRK GRACE. [On a Tisit to St. Mary's Isle, Burns was requested by the noble owner to say grace at dinner; he obeyed in these lines, now known in Galloway by the name of "The Selkirk Grace."] Some hae meat and eanna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat. And sae the Lord be thankit. TO DR. MAXWELL, ON JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. [ JIaxwell was a skilful physician ; and Jessie Staig, the Provost's eldest daughter, was a young lady of great beauty : she died early.] Maxwell, if merit here you crave. That merit I deny ; You save fair Jessie from the grave ? — An angel could not die. EPITAPH. [These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a goblet belonging to Gabriel Richard- son, brewer, in Dumfries : it is carefully preserved in the family.] Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct. And empty all his barrels : He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink — In upright virtuous morals. 356 THE POETICAL WORKS OF EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. [Nicol was a scholar of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.] Ye maggots, feast ou Nicol's brain, For few sic feasts ye've gotten ; And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, For deil a bit o't's rotten. ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO. [When visiting with Synie at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap-dog.] In wood and wild, ye warbling throng. Your heavy loss deplore ; Now half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more. Ye jarring, screeching things around. Scream your discordant joys; Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies. ON A NOTED COXCOMB. [Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have eonte.'?ted the honour of producing the person on whom these lines were written: — coxcombs are the growth of all di.stricts.] Light lay the earth on Willy's breast, His chicken-heart so tender ; But build a castle on his head. His skull will prop it under. ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY. [This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrown .imid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble' house.] What dost thou in that mansion fair ? — Flit, Galloway, and find ROBERT BURNS. 357 Some narrow, dirty, dungeou cave, The picture of thy mind ! ON THE SAME. No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts all were brave ; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, Not one of them a knave. ON THE SAME. Bright ran thy line, Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! So ran the far-fam'd Roman way. So ended in a mire. TO THE SAME, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, In quiet let me live : I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to' give. ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. [Mr. Maxwell of Cardoness, afterwards Sir Darld, exposed himself to the rhyming wrath 3f Burns, by his actiyity in the contested elections of Heron.] Bless Jesus Christ, Cardoness, With grateful lifted eyes, Who said that not the soul alone, But body too, must rise : )58 T H E P E T I C A L W R K S F For had he said, '■'■ the soul alone From death I will deliver ;" Alas ! alas ! Cardoness, Then thou hadst slept for ever. ON JOHN BUSIIBY. [Burns, in his harshest lampoons, always admitted the talentsof Bushhy : the peasant ry, vho hate all clever attorneys, loved to handle his character with unsparing severity.] Here lies John Bushby, honest man ! Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can. THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES. [At a dinner-party, where politics ran high, lines signed by men who called themselves the true loyal natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns: he took a pencil, and at once wrote this reply.] Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of contempt ? ON A SUICIDE. [Burns was ob.served by my friend, Dr. Copland Hutchison, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grave of a person who had committed suicide : on the paper these lines were pencilled.] Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble — Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble. ROBERT BURNS. 359 EXTEMPORE, PINNED ON A LADY'S COACH. (•'Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "from a copy in Burns's handwriting," a slight ftltei-atidii in the last line is made from an oral version.] If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, Your speed will outrival the dart : But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road If your stuff has the rot, like her heart. LINES TO JOHN RANKINE. [Those lines were said to have been written by the poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward them when he died.] He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; Alas ! alas ! a devilish chaus-e indeed. JESSY LEWARS. [Written on the blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhibiting in Dumfries. "Now," said the poet, who was then very ill, " it is fit to be presented to a lady."] Talk not to me of savages From Afric's burning sun, No savage e'er could rend my heart As, Jessy, thou hast done. But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, A mutual faith to plight, Not even to view the heavenly choir Would be so blest a sight. THE TOAST. [One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, he observed Jessy Lewars mov ing about the house with a light step lest she should disturb him. He took a crystal goblet containing wiue-and-water for moistening his lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and presented it to her.] Fill me with the rosy wine. Call a toast — a toast divine ; S60 THE rOETlCAL WORKS OF Give the Poet's darling flame, Lovely Jessy be the name ; Then thou may est freely boast, Thou hast given a peerless toast. ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. [The constancy of her attendance on the poet's sick-bed and anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. " Yovi must not die yet," said the poet : " give me that goblet and I shall prepare you for the worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, and said, " That will be a companion to ' The Toast.' "J Say, sages, what's the charm on earth Can turn Death's dart aside ? It is not purity and worth, Else Jessy had not died. R. B. ON THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS. [A little repose brought health to the young lady. '•' I knew you would not die," obser\'ed the poet, with a smile : " there is a poetic reason for your recovery :" he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.] But rarely seen since Nature's birth, The natives of the sky ; Yet still one seraph's left on earth, For Jessy did not die. R. B. TAM, THE CHAPMAN. [Tarn, the chapman, is said by the late William Cobbett, who knew him, .to have beeR a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the west ot Scot- land. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet, in 1834 : it is perhaj.' enough to say that the name of the one was Thomas and the name of tb.j/'tl ir J'hn.J 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 uae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, ROBERT BURNS. 361 Wha cheerfully lays down the jjack, 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 takes him hame to gie him quarters. [These lines seem to owe their origin to the precept of Mickle — " The present moment is our ain, The next we never saw."] Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! vVhat wad you wish for mair, man ? Wha kens before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man ? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man ! Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not ay when sought, man. [The sentiment which these lines express, was one familiar to Burns, in the early, aa well as concluding days of his life.] Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me. Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, But if success I must never find. Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 23 362 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TO JOHN KENNEDY. [The John Kennedy to whom thcso verses and the succeeding lines were addressed, lived, in 179(1, at Dumfries-house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet, that he sub- mitted his "Cotter's Saturday Nis,'ht" and the " Mountain Daisy" to his judjsment : he seems to have been of a social disposition.] Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross, L — d, man, there's lasses there wad force A hermit's fancy, And down the gate in faith they're worse And mair unchancy. But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews. Till some bit callan bring me news That ye are there, And if we dinna hae a bouze • I'se ne'er drink luair. It's no I like to sit an' swallow, • Then like a swine to puke and wallow. But gie me just a true good ftillow, Wi' right ingine. And spunkie ance to make us mellow. And then we'll shine. Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, An' sklent on poverty their joke Wi' bitter sneer, Wi' you nae friendship I will troke, Nor cheap nor dear. But if, as I'm informed weel. Ye hate as ill's the very deil The flinty heart that canna feel — Come, Sir, here's tae you ! Hae, there's my haun, I wiss you weel, And gude be wi' you. Robert Burness. Mox.yiW, 3 March, 178G. ROBERT BURNS. 333 TO JOHN KENNEDY. Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit you, And 'mang her favourites admit you ! If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him ! And ony deil that thinks to get you. Good Lord deceive him ! ^., R. B. Kilmarnock, August, 1786. (Cromek found these characteristic lines among the poet's papers.] There's naethin' like the honest nappy! Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, Or women, sonsie, saft an' sajijiy, 'Tween morn an' morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn ? I've seen me daezt upon a time ; I scarce could wink or see a styme ; Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, Ought less is little, TVm back I rattle on the rhyme, As gleg's a whittle. OV Ti„, Br,4NK LEAF OF A WORK BY HANNAH MORE, PRESENTED BY MRS. C . Tplou flattering work of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor • Though sweetly female every part, Yet such a head, and more the heart, Does both the sexes honour. 364 THE POETICAL WOllKS OF She show'd her taste refined and just, When she selected thee, Yet deviating, own I must, For so approving me ! But kind still, I'll mind still The giver in the gift; I'll bless her, and wiss her A Friend above the Lift. Mossgiel, April, 1786. TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN OF THE MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLTON. Within your dear mansion may vrayward contention, Or withering envy ne'er enter: May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre. Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787. IMPROMPTU. I The tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of Bums, found ita way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now among the treasures of Abbotsford.] You're welcome, Willie Stewart, You're welcome, Willie Stewart; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art. Come bumpers high, express your joy, The bowl we maun renew it ; The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben, To welcome Willie Stewart. May foes be straing, and friends be slack, Ilk action may he rue it. May woman on him turn her back. That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart. ROBERT BURNS. 365 PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR. [The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, tbe maidservant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call "the deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the poet's bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, e.xecuted a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through the village, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood : an unpleasant ceremony, vul- garly called " Riding the Stang." This was resented by Geordie and Nanse, the girl's master and mistress : law was resorted to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was eettli'd, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these home- comings he met Burns, who laughed when he heard the story, and said, "You have need of some one to pray for you." "No one cau do that better than yourself," was the reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the Instant, and, as it is said, "clean off loof.'' From .\dam Armour I obtained the ver.arts the hare To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews he maun repair — The oard'ner wi' his paidle. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws of nature's rest, He flies to her arms he lo'es best — The gard'ner wi' his paidle. BLOOMING NELLY. Tune — " On a hunk of flowers,' [One of the lyriis of .Mian Kamsay's collection seems to have been in the mind of Burns when he wrote this: the words and air are in the Museum.] 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'riug 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. R B E R T- B U R N S. 425 Her dosed eyes, like weapons sheatli'd, Were seal'd in soft repose; Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd, It richer dy'd the rose. The springing lilies sweetly prest, Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'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-inspir'd wings, So Nelly, starting, half awake. Away affrighted springs : But Willie follow'd, as he should, He overtook her in a wood; He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid Forgiving all and srood. THE DAY RETURNS. Tune— " Seventh of November." •[The seTenfh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Jlr. and Mrs. Paddel, of Friars-Carse, and these verses were composed in compliment to the day.] 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; 27 426 THE rOETlCAL WORKS OP Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven 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. ^ MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. Tune — " Ladi) Bandinscoth's Reel." [These verses had their origin in an olden strain, equally lively and less delicate: some of the old lines keep their place : the title is old. Both words and air are in the Musical Museum.] 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 so saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, ; I rue the day I sought her, ; Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, ! Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; Gi-ae seek for pleasvire where ye will, But here I never miss'd it yet. We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. ROBERT BURNS. 427 JAMIE, COME TRY ME. Tune — " Jamy, come try me." [Burns in these verses caught up the startiug note of an old song, of which little more than the starting words deserve to be remembered : the words and air are in the Musical Museum.] CHORDS. 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 wiu my love, Jamie, come try me. If thou should kiss me, love, Wha could espy thee ? If thou wad be my love, Jamie, come try me. Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me ; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me. MY BONNIE MARY. Tune — " Go pitch to me a pint o' loine." [Concerning this fine song, Burns in his notes s.iyB, " This air is Oswald's : the first half- stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine." It is believed, however, that the whole of the eong is from his hand: in Ilogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, the starting lines are supplied from an olden strain : but some of the old strains in that work are to be regarded with suspicion.] Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, ^A service to my bonnie lassie; 428 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wiud blaws frae the ferry j The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar. The battle closes thick and bloody ; It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. THE LAZY MIST. Tune—'- The Laxij Misi." [All that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy Mist, is. " This song is mine." The air, which is by Oswald, together with the words, is in the Musical Jluseuui.] 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 have I 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. ROBERT BURNS. 429 THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. Tune — " mount and tjo." [Part of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, witti the same title: it was com- municated, along with many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to tlie Musical Museum.] CHORUS. 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 shall sit in state, And see thy love in battle. When the vanquish'd foe Sues for peace and quiet, To the shades we'll go, And in love enjoy it. mount and go. Mount and make you ready; mount and go, And be the Captain's Lady. OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Tune— "ilA'ss Admiral Gordon's Strath8j)ey." [Burns wrote this charming song in honour of Jean Armour: he archly says in his notes, " P. S. it was during the honey-moon." Other versions are ahrcid; this one is from the manuscripts of the poet.] Op a' the airts the vnn^ can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mouy a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. 430 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF I see bor 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 bonuie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green. There's not a bonnie bird that sings, . But minds me o' my Jean. blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees, Wi' balmy gale,, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and vows araang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa ! How fond to meet, how wae to part, That night she gaed awa ! The powers aboon can only ken. To whom the heart is seen. That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean ! FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE. Tune — " Whistle o'er the lave o't." [Tbo air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, musician : the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the Museum.] First when Maggy was my care. Heaven, I thought, was in her air; Now we're married — spier nae mair — Whistle o'er the lave o't. — ROBERT BURNS. 431 Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature's 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. WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. . Tune — " 3Iy love is lost to me" [The poet welcomed with this exquisite song Ms wife to Nithsdale: the air is one of )sw aid's.] O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! Or had of 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 bonnie sel' : On Corsincon I'll glow'r 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 coudna sing, I coudna say, Mow 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 ; 432 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And aye I muse and sing thy name — I only live to love thee. The' I were doom'd to wander ou Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run ; Till then — and then I love thee. THERE'S A YOUTJI IN THIS CITY. To a Gaelic Air. ["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old : the rest is mine." They are both in the Museum.] There's a youth in this city, It were a great pity That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa : For he's bonnie an' braw, Weel-favour'd an' a', And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. His coat is the hue Of his bonnet sae blue ; His feck it is white as the new-driven suaw; 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-featured, wecl-tocher'd, weel-mountcd and braw; But chiefly the siller, That gars him gang till her. The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. There's Meg wi' the mailen That fain wad a haen him ; And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha' ; There's laug-tocher'd Nancy Maist fetters his fancy — But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. ROBERT BURNS. 488 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. Tune — " Failte na Blioscj." [The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were contributed by Eurns. lie says, in his notes on that collection, '-The first half stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.] My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here • My heart's in the Highhxnds a-chasing the deer ; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 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. Farewell to the mountains high eover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 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. JOHN ANDERSON. Tune — "John Anderson, mif jo." [Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayr- shire bard ; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand. " John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-piece was man ; And you among them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe. She proved to be nae journeywork, John Anderson, my jo.] John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; 484 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But uow 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 mouy a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR. Tune — " Awa, Whigs, awa." [Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bit- terest bits : the second and fourth verses are wholly his.] CHORUS. Awa, Whigs, awa! Awa, Whigs, awa ! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye' 11 do nae gude at a'. Our thrissles flourish' d fresh and fair, And bonnie bloom'd our roses; But Whigs came like a frost in June, And wither' d a' our posies. Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; And write their names in his black beuk, Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. Our sad decay in Church and State Surpasses my descriving : The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we hae done wi' thriving. ROBERT BURNS. 435 Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, But we may see him wauken ; Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin. Awa, Whigs, awa! Awa, Whigs, awa ! Ye' re but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae gude at a'. CA' THE EWES. Tune—" Ca' the eices to the knoioes." JZlV^ '""'TT* '"''"™' '' "' °*'^"' "'''''' ^•'^^ '^^^'^ '^^^'^^ emendations, aiid added the conclud.ng verse. He afterward., it will be observed, wrote for Thomson a second version of the subject and the air.] CHonus. Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows Ca' them whare the buruie rowes, My bonnie dearie ! As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie. 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. I was bred up at nae sic school," My shepherd lad, to play the fool, And a' the day to sit iu dool, And naebody to see me. Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And iu my arms ye'se lie and sleep. And ye sail be my dearie. 436 THE POETICAL WORKS OF If ye' 11 but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad. And ye may rowe me in your plaid, And I sail be your dearie. While waters wimple to the sea ; While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 'Till clay-cauld death sail blin' my e'e. Ye sail be my dearie. Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie. MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE. Tune — "Lord Brendnlbane's 3Iarch." [Part of this song is old : Sir Harris Nicolas says it does not appear to be iu the Museum ; let him look again.] MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle, And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle. And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer. An' a' the lang night am as happy's a king. Bitter in dool I lickit my wiunins, 0' mai'rying Bess to gie her a slave : Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens. And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, An' come to my arms and kiss me again ! Drunken or sober, here's to thee Katie ! And blest be the day I did it again. ROBERT BURNS. 437 THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. Tune—" The Brace o' BaUochmyle." [Mary Whitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, was the heroine of this o„g : U was written when that ancient fen,i.y left their aneien inheritance tisTnth Museum, with an air by Allan Masterton.] ^ The Catrine woods were yellow seen The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sieken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' BaUochmyle ! 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 bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet BaUochmyle ! TO MAKY IN HEAVEN. ^ '^■^nn—" Denth of Captnin Cook." [This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by Burns in one of his fits of melancholy on the anniversary of Highland Mary's death. A,, the day he had been thoughtfu and a evening he went out. threw himself down by the side of one of his corn-ridi and wUh cjz L^ in"f ' ^:^"*'>,r'''^"'-" ^*"" •" ^"^ '^"'^'^ ^'^ ''- -^«' -'^^ with 'diti': y brought h.m n from the ch.ll midnight air. The .song was already composed and he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared in the Museum.] P°s«<>> and he had Thou liug'ring star, with less'ning ray. That lov'st to greet the early morn Again thou usher'st in the day My IMary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 438 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Seest 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 cannot eflPace 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 wildwoods, thick' ning green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene; The flow'rs 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 sti'eams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? EPPIE ADAIR. Tune — "My Eppie." I [" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " wliich has been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the Musical Museum without any name." It is partly an old strain, cor- rected by Burns: he communicated it to the Museum.] An' ! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie ! Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair? ROBERT BURNS. 439 By love, and by beauty, By law, and by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair ! An' ! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie ! Wha wadua be bappy Wi' Eppie Adair? A' pleasure exile me, Dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile thee. My Eppie Adair ! THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. Tune — " Cameronian Rant." [One Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, wrote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the battle of Sheriff-muir : Burns was in nowise pleased with the way in which the reverend rhymer handled the Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved version.] " CAM ye here the fight to shun. Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?" I saw the battle, sair and tough, And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 0' clans frae woods, in tartau duds, Wha glaum' d at kingdoms three, man. The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades. 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 Argyll led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles. 440 THE POETICAL WORKS OF They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash' d, 'Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man ; When in the teeth they dared our Whigs And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed 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 doos, man. " how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man ; ^ And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might. And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man !" My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good-will That day their neebors' blood to spill ; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose — they scar'd at blows, And so it goes, you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man ! I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. Or fallen in Whisrgish hands, man : J ROBERT BURNS. 441 Now wad ye sing this double figtt, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; And mony bade the world guid-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. YOUNG JOCKEY. Tune — " Yoxmg Jockey." [With the exception of three or four lines, this song, though marked in the Museum as an old song with additions, is the work of Burns. He often seems to have sat down to amend or modify old verses, and found it easier to make verses wholly new.] Young Jockey was the blythest lad In a' our town or here awa : Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, He roos'd my waist sae genty sma', And ay my heart came to my mou' When ne'er a body heard or saw. My Jockey toils upon the plain. Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain. When Jockey's owsen hameward 3a', An' ay the night comes round again, When in his arms he taks me a'. An' ay he vows he'll be my ain. As lang's he has a breath to draw. 28 442 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 0, WILLIE BREW'D. Tune — "Willie brew'd a peck o' maitt," [The scene of this song is Laggan, in Nithsdale, a small estate which Nicol bought by the advice of the poet. It was composed in memory of the house-heating. "We had such a joyous meeting,-' s.ays Burns, "that Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, to celebrate the business." The Willie who made the browst was, therefore, William Nicol ; the Allan who composed the air, Allan Masterton ; and he who wrote this choicest of con- vivial songs, Robert Burns.] 0, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan cam to see : Three blither hearts, that lee-laug night, Ye wad na find in Christen die. We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; 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 ! 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 ! Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loon is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. He is the king amang us three ! We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw. And aye we'll taste the barley bree. ROBERT BURNS. 443 WHARE IIAE YE BEEN. Tune — " Killiecrunlcie." [" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the Museum witliout Burns's name." It was composed by Bums on tbe battle of Killiekrancie, and sent in his own handwriting to Jolinson: be puts it into the mouth of a Whig.] Whare hae ye been sae bravv, lad .? Whare hae ye been sae brankie, ? 0, wbare hae ye been sae braw, lad ? Cam ye by Killiecrankie, ? An' ye had been whare I hae been, Ye wad na been so cantie, ; An' ye had seen what I hae seen, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. I fought at land, I fought at sea ; At hame I fought my auntie, ; But I met the Devil an' Dundee, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. An' Clavers got a claukie, ; Or I had fed on Athole gled. On the braes- o' Killiecrankie, 0. I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN. Air — " Tl\e hlae-cycd lass." [This blue-eyed Inss was Jean Jeffery, daughter to the minister of Loehmaben : she wsif then a rosy girl of seventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. She is now Mrs. Renwiek, and lives in New York.] I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearlie rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white — It was her een sae bonnie blue. 4W THE POETICAL WORKS OF She talk'd, elio siuil'd, my heart she wyl'd; She charm'd my soul — I wist na how : And ay the stound, the deadly wouud, Cam frae her een sae bonnie 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 bouuie blue. THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune — " Rdhie donna Gorach." [The command which the Comyns held on the Nith was lost to the Douglasses: the Nithsdale power, ou the downfall of that proud name, was divided ; part went to the Cliar- teris's and the better portion to the Maxwells : the Johnstoues afterwards came in for a Bhare, and now the Scotts prevail.] The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand ; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me. Where Comyns ancc 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 spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days ! ROBERT BURNS. 445 MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIE. Tune—" Tarn Glen." [Tam Glen is the title of an oM Scottish song, and older air : of the former all that ri'juains is a portion of the chorus. Burns when he wrote it sent it to the Museum.] My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie ! Some counsel unto me come leu', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Gleu ? I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might make a feu' ; What care I in I'iches to wallow, If I mauuua marry Tam Glen ? There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, " Gude day to you, brute I" he comes beu : He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Gleu ? My minnie does constantly deave me. And bids me beware o' young men ! • They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think so o' Tam Glen ? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordain' d I maun take him, wha will I got but Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; For thrice' I drew aue without failing, And thrice it was wi'itten — Tam Glen. The last Halloween I lay waukiu My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 111 gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad that I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 446 THE POETICAL WORKS OF FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. Air — " Carron Side." [Burns says, "I added the four last lines, hy way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is." The rest of the song is supjiosed to Im from the same hand : the lines are not to be found in earlier collections.] Frae the friends and land I love, Driv'n fey fortune's felly spite, Frae my best belov'd I rove, Never niair to taste delight j 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 appeal". Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, uae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore; Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, Bring our banish'd hame again ; And ilka loyal bonnie lad Cross the seas and win his aiu. SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING. Tune — " Gruigie-hwn-ioood." [This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorinier, of Keuimis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for some time lived on the banks of Craigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, who was in love with her- but it did not prevail, for she married an ofiicer of the name of Whelpdale, lived with him for a month or so: reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation necessary ; she then look up her residence in Dumfries, where she had many opportunities of seeing the poet. She lived till lately.] CHORUS. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And 0, to be lying beyond thee ; sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, x\nd blithely awaukens the morrow ; ROBERT BURNS. 447 But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood, Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 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. I canna tell, I maunna tell, I darena for your anger; But secret love will break my heart. If I conceal it langer. I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, I see thee sweet and bonnie ; But oh ! what will my torments be. If thou refuse thy Johnnie ! To see thee in anither's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen. My heart wad burst wi' anguish. But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say, thou lo'es nane before me; And a' my days o' life to come I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And 0, to be lying beyond thee; sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. Tune — " Cock up your beaver." [•' Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in the Slusical Museum, but not with Burns's name." It is an old song, eked out and amended by the poet : all the last verse, save the last line, is his; several of the lines too of the first verse, have felt his amending hand; b.o communicated it to the Museum.] When first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town, 448 THE POETICAL WORKS OF He had a blue bonnet That wanted the crown; But now he has gotten A hat and a feather, — Hey, brave Johnnie \nd. 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 Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver ! MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE. Tune — " 3fi/ tocher's the jeioel." [These verses were written by Burns for the Museum, to an air by Oswald : but he wished them to be sung to a tune called "Lord Elcho's favourite," of which he was an admirer.] 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 hiney 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 airl-penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be crafty, I am cunniu', Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' you rotten wood, Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree, Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread. And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. I ROBERT BURNS. 449 GANE IS THE DAY. Tune — "Gudeto'/e count the lawin." [The air as well as words of this song were furnished to the Museum hy Burns. " The charus," he says, "is part of an old song."] Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, For ale and brandy's stars and moon. And blude-red wine's the rising sun. Then gudewife count the lawin, Tlie lawin, the lawin ; Then gudewife count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair ! There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. And simple folk maun fight and fen ; But here we're a' in ae accord. For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o' ^care and dool ; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. Then gudewife count the lawin j The lawin, the lawin. Then gudewife count the lawin. And bring a cosgie mair ! THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. Tane — " There arc few gude fellows when Willie's awa." [The bard was in one of his Jacohitical moods when he wrote this song. The air is a well known one, called " There's few gude fellows when Willie's awa." But of the old words none, it is supposed, are preserved.] By yon castle wa' at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray j And as he was singing the tears down came. There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 450 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! My seven braw sons for Jamie drew ^word, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since 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 ! HOW CAN I BE BLYTIIE AND GLAD? Tune — " The hunnie lad that's far awa." [This lamentation was written, it is said, in allusion to the sufferings of Jean Armour, when her correspondence with Burns was discovered by her family.] HOW can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa ? When the bonnie 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 ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa. But ay 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 bonnie lad that's far awa. But I hae ane will tak' my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa. ROBERT BURNS. 451 A pair o' gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa. And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa, weary winter soon will pass, And spring will deed the birken shaw; And my young babie will be born, And he'll be harae that's far awa. And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa. I DO CONFESS THOU ART SxiE -FAIR. Tune— " I do con/csn thou art sae fair." oi£' Vh *^'°';'." ''^' ^"'■"'' '° """■'''°« ^° *^"'^ ^^°g' ''tJ^'^t I J^ave improyed the simpli- c ty of the sentiments by giving them a Scottish dress." The original song is of great elegance and beauty: it was written by Sir Robert Aytoun, secretary to Anne of Den- mark, Queen of James I.] I DO confess thou art sae fair, I wad 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 sae thriftless o' thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind. That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rose-bud, rich in. dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it ti^es its scent and hue When pou'd and worn a common toy ! Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside Like ouy common weed and vile. 452 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. Tune — " Yon wild moshy mountains." [" This song alludes to a part of my private history, which It Is of no consequence to the wortd to know." These are the words of Burns: he sent the song to the Musical Museum; the heroine is supposed to he the " Nannie," who dwelt near the Lugar.] 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 tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Not Growrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae th^ charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; For there, by a lauely and sequester' d stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream. Resides 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 flee the swift hours o' love. For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. While o'er us, unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; 0' 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. 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 flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. I ROBERT BURNS. 453 But kindness, sweet kiuduess, 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, 0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. Tune — "The llaid's Com])laint." [Burns fovmd this song in English attire, bestowed a Scottisli dress upon it, and published it in the Museum, together with the air by Oswald, which is one of his best.] It is ua, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho' thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awake 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 ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than, if I canna mak 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. WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. [These verses were in latter years expanded by Burns into a song, for the collection of Thomson : the song will be found in its place: the variations are worthy of preservation.] When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 454 THE roETiCAL works of 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 was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. [This presents another version of the song called "Simmer's a Pleasant Time," on page 422. Variations are to a poet what changes are in the thoughts of a painter, and speak of fertility of sentiment in both.] Whan I sleep I dream When I wauk I'm eerie, Sleep I canna get. For thinking' o' my dearie. Lanely night comes on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on the bonnie lad That has my heart a keeping. Ay waukin O, waukin ay and wearie. Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' my dearie. Lanely nights come on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on my bonnie lad, ' An' I blear my een wi' greetin'. Ay wauking, &c. I MURDER HATE. [These Terses are to he found in a volume which may be alluded to without being named, in which many of Burns's strains, some looser than these, are to be found.] I MURDER hate by field or flood, Tho' glory's name may screen us : ROBERT BURNS. 455 In wars at haiue I'll spend ray blood, Life-giviug wars of Veuus. 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. GUDE ALE COMES. [Theso Terses are in the Museum : the first two are old. the conclucling one is by Burns.] 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. 1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, They drew a' weel eneugh, I sell'd them a' just aue by ane; Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. Gude ale bauds me bare and busy. Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, Stand i' the stool when I hae done, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. gude ale comes, &c. ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. [This is an old chaunt, out of which Burns brushed some loose expressions, added the third and fourth verses, and sent it to the Museum.] 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. 456 THE POETICAL WORKS OF At his daddie's yett, W ha met me but Robin. Was na Robin bauld, Tho' I was a cotter, Play'd me sic a trick, And me the eller's doehter ? Robin shure in hairst, &c. Robin promis'd me A' my winter vittle ; Fient haet he had but three Goose feathers and a whittle. Robin shure in hairst, &c. BONNIE PEG. [A fourth verse makes the moon a witness to the endearments of these lovers ; but that planet sees more indiscreet matters thaii it is right to describe.] As I came in by our gate end, As day was waxin' weary, wha came tripping down the street, But Bonnie Peg my dearie ! Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting; The Queen of Love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting. Wi' linked hands, we took the sands A-down yon winding river; And, oh ! that hour and broomy bower, Can I forget it ever ? ROBERT BURNS. 457 GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. [This song in other days was a controversial one, and contained some sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome and her brood of seven sacraments, five of whom were illegitimate. Burns changed the meaning, and published his altered version in the Museum.] GuDEEN to you, Kimmer, And how do ye do ? Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, The better that I'm fou. We're a' noddiu, nid nid noddin, We're a' noddia, at our house at hame. Kate sits i' the neuk, Suppin heu broo; Deil tak Rate An' she be ua noddin too ! We're a' noddin, &c. How's a' wi you, Kimmer, And how do ye fare ? A pint o' the best o't, And twa pints mair. We're a' noddin, &c. How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye thrive ; How many bairns hae ye ? Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. We're a' noddin, &c. Are they a' Johnie's ? Eh ! atweel na : Twa o' them were gotten When Johnie was awa. We're a' noddin, &c. Cats like milk. And dogs like broo j Lads like lasses weel, And lasses lads too. We're a' noddin, &c. 29 ' 458 THE r E T I C A L AV R K S OF AH, CIILORIS, SINCE IT MAY NA BE. Tune — "Major Graluuii." [Sir Harris NicolMS found tlipsp linos on Cliloris among the papers of Burns, and printinl them in his late edition of the poefs works.] Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear ; If from the lover thou mauu 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%ell. 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 DEARIE. Tune — " Eppic 3facii(ib." ["Published in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "without any name." Burns corrected some lines in the old song, wliicli had more wit, he said, than decency, and addej others, and sent his amended version to .Johnson.] SAW ye my deai-ie, my Eppie M'Nab? saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? She's down in the yard, she's kissiu' the laird. She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. What says she, niy dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Eab. ROBERT BURNS. 459 had I ne'er seen thee, uiy Eppie M'Nab ! had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Kab. WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER-DOOR? Tune — "Lass, an I come near thee." [The " Auld Man and the Widow," iu Ramsay's collection, is said, hy Gilbert Burns, tc have suggested this song to his brother: it first appeared in the Mu&um.] Wha is that at my bower-door ? 0, 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? come and sec, quo' Findlay; Before the morn, ye' 11 work mischief; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. Gif I rise and let you in ? Let me iu, quo' Findlay; Ye'll keep ine waukin wi' your din ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my bower if you 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' Fiudlay. 460 THE POETICAL WORKS OF WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. Tune — "What can a young lassie do ivi' an aulil man." [In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the heroine threatens only to adorn her husband's brows : Burns proposes a system of domestic annoyance to breali his heart.] What cau a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a, young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! He's always compleenin' frae moruin' to e'euiu', He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang ; He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 0, 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 and jealous of a' the young fellows : 0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break hiti And then his auld brass will buy uie a new pan. I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him. And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. THE BONNIE WEE THING. Tune — "Bonnie wee thing." ["Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, the charming, lovely DaTles."] Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, ROBERT BURNS. 461 I wad wear thee ia my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look aud languish In that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stouuds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty In a constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty. Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine ! THE TIT HER MORN. To a Highland Air. [" The tune of this song," says Burns, " is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which was not by any means a lady's song." " It occurs," says Sir Harris Nicola.';, "in the Museum, without the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's own handwriting to Johnson, aud is believed to be his composition.] The tither morn, When I forlorn, Aneath an oak sat moaning, I did na trow I'd see my Jo, Beside me, gain the gloaming. But he sae trig, Lap o'er the rig. And dawtingly did cheer me. When I, what reck. Did least expec', To see my lad so near me. His bonnet he, A thought ajee, Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; 462 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF And I, I wat, Wi' fainness grat, While iu his grips he press' d me. Deil tak' the war ! 1 late and air Hae wish'd since Jock departed; But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, As short syne broken-hearted. Fu' aft at een Wi' dancing keen, When a' were blythe and merry, I car'd na by, Sae sad was I In absence o' my dearie. But praise be blest, My mind's at rest, I'm happy wi' my Johnny: At kirk and fair, I'se ay be there, And be as canty's ony. AE FOND KISS. Tune — " Ronj Ball's Port." [BelieveiJ to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. " These exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, " contain the essence of a thousand love-tales." They are in the Museum.] Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then 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 cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. ROBERT BURNS. 463 I'll ne'er blanie my partial fancy, Naethiug 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 I Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then" we sever; Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warrins; siahs and groans iMl wa2;e thee ! LOVELY DA VIES. Tune — " Miss 3fuir." [Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handsome, the lovely, and unfor^ tunate Miss Davies.] - HOW shall I, unskilfu', try The poet's occupation. The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, That whispers inspiration ! Even they maun dare an effort mair. Than aught they ever gave us. Or 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 ev'ry flower The garden is adorning. As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is; 464 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Sae droops our heart when we maua part Frae charming lovely Davies. Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes j A scepter'd 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 pow'rs 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. THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. Tune — " The weary Pund o' Tow." ['• This song," says Sir Harris Nicnltis, " is in the Musical Museum; hut it is not attri- buted to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningliam does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might have, if he had pleased, stated similar ohjections to many songs which he took without scruple from my edition, where they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as it hap- pens, did not claim the song wholly for the poet : I said '• the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words." It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own haud- writing.] 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, ^B Is ae poor pund o' tow. ^| A ROBERT BURNS. ■IBS There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont tbe iugle. low, And ay she took the tither souk, To drouk the stowrie tow. 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. 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, the weary pund. The weary pund o' tow ! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. NAEBODY. Tune — " Naehody." [Burns had built his house at EUisland, sowed his first crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope was high; no wonder that he indulged in this independent strain.] I HAE a wife o' my ain — I'll partake wi' naebody; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody. I hae a penny to spen, There — thanks to naebody; I hae naethiug to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody. I am naebody's lord — I'll be slave to naebody; I hae a guid 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'll care for naebody. 466 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 0, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM! Tune — " The Moudiewort." [In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Burns says simply, "This song is mine." The air for a century before had to hear the burthen of very ordinary words.] cnoRus. An 0, for ane-aucl-twenty, Tarn, An' hey, sweet aue-and-twenty, Tarn, I'll learn my kiu a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. They snool me sair, and hand me down, And gar me look like bluutie. Tarn ! But three short years will soon wheel roun' — And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tarn. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 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-and-twenty, Tam. An 0, for ane-and-twenty, Tam \ An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam ! I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang. An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. Tune — " Kenmure's on and awa, Willie," [The second and third, and concluding verses of this Jacobite strain, were written by Burns: the whole was sent in his own handwriting to the Museum.] Kenmure's on and awa, Willie ! » Kenmure's on and awa ! And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, . That ever Galloway saw. ROBERT BURNS. 467 Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! Success to Kenmure's band • There's no a heart that fears a Whif^, That rides by Kenmure's hand. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line. Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! Kenmure's lads are men ; Their hearts and swords are metal true And that their faes shall ken. They'll live or die wi' feme, Willie ! They'll live or die wi' feme; But soon wi' sounding victorie, May Kenmure's lord come hame. Here's him that's fer awa, Willie ! Here's him that's fer awa; And here's the flower that I love best The rose that's like the snaw ! MY COLLIER LADDIE, Tune—" The Collier Laddie." » [The Collier Laddie was communicated by Burns, and in his handwriting, to the Mu- scum : It IS chiefly his own composition, though coloured by an older straiuj Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? An' tell me what they ca' ye ; My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier Laddie. My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier Laddie. See you not yon hills and dales, The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 468 THE POETICAL WORKS OF They a' are mine, and they shall he thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Grin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 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 on every hand. Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 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 on you and it a'. And embrace my Collier Laddie. I can win my five pennies a day, And spen't at night fu' brawlie ; And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, And lie down wi' ray Collier Laddie. And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. Luve for luve is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should baud me ; And the world before me to win my bread. And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. And the world before me to win my bread. And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. NITHSDALE'S WELCOME HAMB. [These verses were written lay Burns for the Museum: the Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants of the Earls of Nlthsdale.] The noble Maxwells and their powers Are coming o'er the border, And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, An' set them a' in order. ROBERT BURNS. 469 Aud they declare Terreagles fair, For their abode they chuse it ; Thiere's no a heart in a' the hind, But's hghter 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 joyful morrow ; So dawning day has brought relief — Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! AS I WAS A-WAND'RING. Tune — " Miiin l/evdial mo Ilhealladh." [The original song In the Gaelic language was translated for Burns by an Inverness shire lady ; he turned it into Terse, and sent it to the Museum.] As I was a-wand'riug ae midsummer e'enin', The pipers and youngsters were making their game ; Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover. Which bled a' the wound o' my dolour again. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him ; I may be distress' d, but I wiuna complain; I flatter my fancy I may get anither. My heart it shall never be broken for ane. I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin', The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain : Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, For, oh ! luve forsakeu's a tormenting pain. Although 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. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; 47C THE POETICAL WORKS OF I fintler my fancy I may get anitlier, My heart it shall never be broken for ane. BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL. Tune — " The sweet lass that lo'es me." [There are several variations of tliis song, but tliey neither affect the sentiment, noi afford matter for quotation.] LEEZE me on my spinning wheel, leeze me on the rock and reel ; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, And haps me fiel 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 spinning-wheel ! On ilka hand the burnies trot. And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented bii'k 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 biel', Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu' tale ; The lintwhitcs in the hazel braes. Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the c ov r hay. The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great ? ROBERT BURNS. 471 Amid their flariug, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, diusome ]oys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. Tune—" Tl,e Posie." [•'The Posie is my composition," says Burns, in a letter to Thomson. "The air wa. tuken down from Mrs. Burns's voice." It was first printed in the Museum.] LUVE will venture in Where it daurna weel he seen ; luve will venture in Where wisdom ance has been. But I will down 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 i\Iay. I'll pu' the budding rose, When Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss • 0' her sweet bonnie 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. 472 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF And ill 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 of 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 e'en sae clear; The violet's for modesty, Which weel she fti's to wear, And a to be a posie To my 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 of life The band shall ne'er remove, And this will be a posie To my ain dear May. ROBERT BURNS. 473 COUNTRY LASSIE. Tune — " The Country Lass." [A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's handwriting, presents two or three imma- terial variations of this dramatic song.] 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 bield; Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says — I'll be wed, come o't what will; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 0' guid 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; Tak this frae me, my bonnie 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 luve to spare for me : But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; The canniest gate, the strife is sair; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best. An 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. 30 •J74 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 0, gear will buy me riji'S o' Land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesorae luve, The gowd and siller canna buy ; We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and luve brings peace and joy — What mair hae queens upon a throne ? FAIR ELIZA. A Gaelic Air. FTlie name of the heroine of this song was at first Rabina: but Johnson, the pubhshw, alarmej at admitting something new into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted ; which was a positive fraud ; for Rabina was a real lady, and a lovely one. and Eliza one of air.] Turn again, thou fair'Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise! Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? The offence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine wad 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' sunny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy. All beneath the simmer moon; i I ROBERT BURNS. 475 Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me. YE JACOBITES BY NAME. Tune — " Ye Jacobites by name." [" Ye Jacobites by name," appeared for the first time in the Museum : it was sent in he handwriting of Burns.] 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, fam'd afar, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife ? To whet th' assassin's knife. Or hunt a parent's life Wi' bluidie war. 'T'5^en let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state ; T'li.eu let your schemes alone in the state ; Tbei let your schemes alone. Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone To his fate. -IT6 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE BANKS 0' DOON. [first version.] [An Ayrshire legend says tbe heroine of this affecting song was Jliss Kennedy, of Dal« garrock, a young creature, beautiful and accomplished, ■who fell a victim to her love foi her kinsman, McDoual, of Logan.] Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair; ow can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care ! Thou'U break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause love was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie 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 bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love ; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree ; And my fause luver staw the rose. But left the thorn wi' me. THE BANKS 0' DOON. [second version.] Tune — "Caledonian Hunt's DeJifjht." [Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by adapting it to a not/ air, acd' dentally composed by an amateur who was directed, if he desired to create *. f tottish air. to keep his fingers to the black keys of the harpsichord and preserve r'ny'ihjB ] Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; ROBERT BURNS. 477 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 bonuie 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 my fause luver stole my rose. But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. WILLIE WASTLE. Tune — " The ei;jlit Men of Moidart.' [The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevation of heroine of this song, wal^,it is ?aid. a farmer's wife of the old school of domestic care and uncleanness, who lived nigh the poet, at Ellislaud] Willie "Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca'd it Linkum-doddie, Willie was a wabster guid, Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; He had a wife was dour and din, Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; Sic a wife as Willie had, 1 wad nae 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 wad nae gie a button for her. 478 THE POETICAL WORKS OF She's bow hough'd, she's hem shinn'd, A limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter ; She's twisted right, she's twisted left. To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther — Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her. Auld baudrans 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 wad nae give a button for her. LADY MARY ANN. Tune — " Cralgtown's growing.' [The poet sent this song to the Museum, in his own handwriting: yet part of it is believed to he old; how much cannot be well known, with such skill has he made his interpolations and charges.] Lady Mary Ann Looks o'er the castle wa', She saw three bonnie boys Playing at the ba' : The youngest he was The flower araang them a' — My bonnie laddie's young, But he's growin' yet. father ! 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, , ROBERT BURNS. 479 And that will let tliein ken He's to marry yet. Lady Mary Ann Was a flower i' the dew, Sweet was its smell, And bonnie was its hue; And the langer it blossom'd The sweeter it grew ; For the lily in the bud Will be bonnier yet. Young Charlie Cochran Was the sprout of an aik , Bonnie and bloomin' And straught was its make: The sun took delight To shine for its sake, And it will be the brag 0' 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 bonnie laddie's young. But he's growin' yet. SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION. Tune — " A 2^aycel of royuea in a nation." I^This song was written by Burns in a moment of honest indignation at the northern Fcoundrels who sold to those of the south .the independence of Scotland, at the time of the Union.] Fareweel, to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory, Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. 480 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Now Scirk rius o'er the Solway sands, And Tweed rins to the ocean, To mai'k 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 traitors' wages. The English steel we could disdain ; Secure in valour's station ; But English gold has been our bane — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. would, or I had seen the day That treason thus could sell us. My auld gray 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. THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. • Tune — " Kellyhurn Braes." [Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running her finger over the long list of lyrics which her husband had written or amended for the Museum, " Robert gae ihii one a terrible brushing." A considerable portion of the old still remains.] There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen ?" And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. KOBERT BURNS. 481 '' I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint; (Hey, and tlie rue grows bouuie wi' thyme), For, saving 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, (Iley, and the rue grows bonnie 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." " welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), " But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor 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 bonnie 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 bonnie wi' thyme). Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e. 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 bonnie wi' thyme). Turn out on her guard in the clap of 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 bonnie wi' thyme), Whare'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 devil looks over the wa' ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), " 0, help, master, 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 bonnie wi' thyme), 482 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 bounie wi' thyme), He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; And the thyme it is withei''d, and rue is in prime. Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie 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 bonnie 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." JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. Tune — "Jockey's ta'en tJie jyui'tinrj kiss." [Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said nothing of its origin : and he il silent about it in his memoranda.] Jockey's ta'en 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 luve, ye winds that blaw, Flashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my luve, thou feathery 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 blithe 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 at hame. ROBERT BURNS. 483 LADY ONLIE. Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." [Oonimuiiicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not much, is beliaved to be old.] A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step ia an' tak' a pint Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 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 dainty chucky ; And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 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. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. Tune — "Captain O'Kean." [■'Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, "at the desire of a friend who had an equcl enthusiasm for the air and the subject." The friend alluded to is supposed to be Kobert i'leij;horn: he loved the air much, and he was much of a Jacobite.] The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; The hawT-horn trees blow in the dew of the morning. And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. While the lingering moments are number'd by care; No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 484 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The deed that I dared, could it raorit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? Fis right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none ; But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn; My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I mourn ; Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial — Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! SONG OF DEATH. Tune — " Oran an Doig." ["I have just finished the following sons;," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a laJy, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology."] Sane — A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victo- rious army are supposed to join in the following song : Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright 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, Oh ! who would not die with the brave ! ROBERT BURNS. 485 FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. Tune — "Aflon Water." fThe scenes on Af ton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, as well as the generous kiii'lness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-lodge, when he wrote this sweet pastoral.] Flow gently, sweet Afton I among 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, cli.sturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the elen • . i e 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 evening 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 flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton ! among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ! My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — Flow gently, sweet Aftou ! disturb not her dream ! 486 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE SMILING SPRING. Tune—" The Bonnie Bell." [" Bonnie Bell." was first printed in the Museum: who the heroine was the poet h.i! neglected to tell us, and it is a pity.] The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonni^ blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The evening gilds the ocean's swell; All creatures joy in the sun's returning, And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, And 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 bonnie Bell. THE^ CARLES OF DYSART. Tune — " Hey ca' thro'." [Communi;ated to the Museum by Burns in bis own handwriting: part of it is his ooni pcsition, and some believe the whole.] Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, And the lads o' Buckhaven, And the kimmers o' Largo, And the lasses o' Leven. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. For we hae raickle ado ; Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado. ROBERT BURNS. 487 We hae tales to tell, And we hae sangs to sing; We hae pennies to spend, And we hae pints to bring. We'll live a' our days, And them that come behin', ,Let them do the like, And spend the gear they win. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado, Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. For we hae mickle ado. THE GALLANT WEAVER. Tune — " The Weavers' March." [Pent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradition nor criticism has noticed it, but the song is popular among the looms, in the west of Scotland.] Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh, I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; And I was fear'd my heart would tine, And T gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign'd my tocher-band. To gle the lad that has the land ; But to my heart I'll add my hand, And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; While bees delight in op'ning flowers; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver. 488 THE rOETICxVL WORKS OF THE BAIRNS GAT OUT. Tune — " The denies dany o'er my daddie." [Burns found some of tbe sentiments and a few of the -words of this song in a strain, rather rough and homespun, of Scotland's elder day. lie communicated it to the Museum.] The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The deuks dang o'er my daddie, ! The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirie auld wife, He was but a paidlin body, ! He paidles out, an' he paidles in, An' he paidles hate an' early, ! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side. An' he is but a fusionless carlie, ! 0, baud your tongue, my feirie auld wife, O, baud your tongue, now Nausie, I I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wadna been sae donsie, ! I've seen the day ye butter' d my brose, And cuddled me late and early, ! But downa do's come o'er me now. And, oh ! I feel it sairly, ! SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. Tune — " She's fair and fcinse." [One of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of the songs of the North : the air it almost as happy as the words.] 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 bonnie lass gang. ROBERT BURNS. 489 Whae'er ye be ttat woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind. woman, lovely woman fair ! An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair — I mean an angel mind. THE EXCISEMAN. Tune — " The Deil cam' fiddling through the town." [Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meeting of the excisemen of the Dumfries district.] The deil cam' fiddling through the town, And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o' the prize, man !" 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, we'll brew our drink. We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land Was — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 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. 31 490 THE roKTiCAL works of THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. Tune — "Lass of Inverness." [As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Cullodon, in one of his Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of Inverness, it is said, rose on his fancy : the first four lines are partly old.] The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! And ay 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 growing 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 hast made sair. That ne'er did wrona: to thine or thee. A RED, RED ROSE. Tune — " Graham's Strathspey." [Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing the sentiments of this song in certain street ballads: it resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a dropripe damson.] 0, MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June : 0, my luve's like the melodic. That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. So deep in luve am I : And I will luve thee still, my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry. ROBERT BURNS. 491 'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the focks melt wi' the sun : 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' it were ten thousand mile. LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. Tune — "Louis, what reck I hy thee." [The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, is Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from the earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.] Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean ? Dyvor, beggar loons to me — I reign in Jeanuie'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 ! HAD I THE WYTE. Tune — "Had I the icj/te she hade me." [Rnrns in evoking this song out of the old verses did not cast wholly out the spirit o( ancient license in which our minstrels indulged. lie sent it to the Museum.] 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 and state been in the gate, I lighted when she bade me. Jr92 THE r E T I C A L W R K S OF Sae craftille she took me ben, Aud bade me make na clatter; '■'■ For our ramgunshocb, glum gudeman Is out and owre the water :" AVhac'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 refused her ? And wadna manhood been to blame, Had I unkindly used her " He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame, And blue and bluidy bruised her; When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but had excused her ? I dighted ay her een sae blue, And bann'd the cruel randy; And weel I wat her willing mou' Was e'en like sugar-candy. A gloamin-shot it was I wot, I lighted on the Monday; But I cam through the Tysday's dew, To wanton Willie's brandy. COMING THROUGH THE RYE. Tune — " CoiiiiiKj th.OHgh the rije." [The poet in this song removed some of the coarse chaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, where it was first printed.] Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Jenny's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. ROBERT BURNS. 493 Gin a body meet a body — Comiag through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body — Need a body cry ? Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body— ^ Need the warld ken ? Jenny's a' wat, poor body: Jenny's seldom dry ; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. Tune — '• The Cat-Un o' the Glen." .ijent to the Museum by Burns iu his own handwriting : part only is thought to he his.J 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 briers j 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 torment see, And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair. Forbids me e'er to see her mair ! 494 THE POETICAL WORKS OF OUT OVER THE FORTH. Tune — " Charlie Gordon's Welcome Hame." [In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated llth March, 1791, Bui-ns quoted the four last lines of this tender and gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.J 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 wild 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 lo'e best. The lad that is dear to my babie and me. THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. Tune — " Jacly Latin." [Burns in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan, was amused with a rough old district song, which some one sung: he rendered, at a leisure moment, the language BM>re delicate and the sentiments less warm, and sent it to the Museum.] Gat ye me, gat ye me, gat ye me wi' naethiug ? Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, A mickle quarter basin. Bye attour, my gutcher has A hich house and a laigh ane, A' for bye, my bonnie sel', The toss of Ecclefechan. baud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, baud your tongue and jauner; 1 held the gate till you I met. Syne I began to wander : I tint my whistle and my sang, 1 tint my peace and pleasure : But your green grafF, now, Luckie Laing, Wad airt me to my treasure. ROBERT BURNS. 495 THE COOPER 0' CUDDIE. Tatie—" Bab at the Bowster." [The Tvit of this song is better than its delicacy: it is printed in the Museum, with the Lame of Burns attached.] The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, Aud ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — And our gude-wife has gotten a ca' That anger'd the silly gude-man, 0. We'll hide the cooper behind the door; Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, 0. He sought them out, he sought them in, Wi' deil hae her ! and, deil hae him ! But the body was sae doited and blin', He wist na where he was gaun, 0. They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn ; On ilka brow she's planted a horn. And swears that they shall stan', 0. We'll hide the cooper behind the door, Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, 0. SOMEBODY. Tnne— "For the sake of somebody." [Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lines of this lyric from Ramsay: he sent It to the MuMum.] 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. 496 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody ! Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 0, sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not ? For the sake o' somebody ! THE CARDIN' O'T. Tune — " Salt-fish and ditmplings." ["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Museum, but not with Bufus's name to it." It was given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.] I COFT a'stane o' haslock woo'. To make a wat to Johnny o't ; For Johnny is my only jo, I lo'e him best of ony yet. 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 though his locks be lyart gray, And tho' his brow be held aboon ; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a' the parishen. 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. ROBERT BURNS. 497 WHEN JANUAR' WIND. Tune — " The lass that made the bed for me," [Burns found an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, recording an adventure which Charles the Second, while under Presbyterian rule in Scotland, had with a young lady of the house of Port Letham, and exercis^ing his taste and skill upon it, produced the pre- s^nt— still too free song, for the Museum.] When Januar' wind was blawing eauld, As to the nortli I took my way, The mirksome night did me enfauld, I knew nae where to lodge till day. By my good 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, And bade her mak a bed to me. She made the bed baith large and wide, Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; She put the cup to her rosy lips. And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye soun'." 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. " Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, " And dinna sae uncivil be : If ye hae onie love for me, wrang nae my virginitie !" 498 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her teeth ivere like the ivorie ; Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, The lass that made the bed to me. Her bosom was the driven snaw, Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; Her limbs the polish' d marble staue, The lass that made the bed to me. I kiss'd her owre and owre again, And ay she wist not what to say ; I laid her between me and the wa' — The lassie thought ua lang till day. Upon the morrow when we rose, 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 clasp' d her waist, and kiss'd her syne, While the tear stood twinklin in her e'e; I said, "My lassie, dinna cry. For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." She took her mither's Holland sheets, And made them a' in sarks to me: Blythe and merry may she be. The lass that made the bed to me. The bonnie 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 499 SAE FAR AWA. Tune — " Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." [This song was sent to the Museum by Burns, in his own handwriting.] 0, SAD and heavy should I part, But for her sake sue far awa j Uukuowiug what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa. Thou that of a' things Maker art, That form'd 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 true desert. So love to her, sae far awa : And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, While, oh ! she is sae far awa. Nane other love, nana other dart, I feel but hers, sae far awa ; But fairer never touch'd a heart Than hers, the Fair sae far awa. I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. Tune — " I'll gae nae mair to yon town." [.lean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harris Nicolas says it is printed in !"ri mek's Reliques: it was first printed in the Museum.] I'll ay ea' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess. What brings me back the gate again; But she my fairest faithfu' lass, And stowulins we sail meet again. 500 THE POETICAL W il K S OF She'll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin-tiine draws near again ; And when her lovely form I see, haith, she's doubly dear again ! I'll ay ca' in by yon town. And by yon garden green, again ; I'll ay ca' in by you town. And see my bonnie Jean again. 0, WAT YE AVIIA\S IN YON TOWN. Tune — " I'll ay ca' in hy yon town." [The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song: it was not, however, composed expressly in honour of her charms. "As I was a good deal pleased," he says in a letter to Syme, "with my performance, I, iu my first fervour, thought of sending ic to Mrs. Oswald." He sent it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.] CHORUS. 0, wat ye wha's in yon town. Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'enin sun is shining on. Now haply down you gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spi'eading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! How blest ye birds that round her sing, x\nd welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear. The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; But my delight in you town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the chai'ms 0' Paradise could yield me joy; ROBERT BURNS. 501 But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Laplaud's dreary sky ! My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flowei', That I wad tent and shelter there. sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon ; A fairer than's in yon town His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fixte is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear; 1 careless quit all else below, But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear ! For while life's dearest blood is warm, A thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she — as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart ! 0, wat ye wha's in yon town. Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? The fairest dame's in yon town That e'enin sun is shinins; on. MAY, THY MORN, Tune — " 3lay, tluj morn." [Our lyrical U>sends assign the inspiration of thi5 strain to the accomplished Clarinda. It lias been omitted by Chambers in his "People's Edition" of Burns.] May, thy morn was ne'er sae 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 ay remember. And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember. 502 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And liei'e'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 them ! 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 ! LOVELY POLLY STEWART. Tune — " Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." [The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind seems to have been with Chai-lie Stewart, and the Jacobite ballads, when he penned these words; — they are in the Museum.] LOVELY Polly Stewart ! charming Polly Stewart ! There's not a flower that blooms in May That's half so fair as thou art. The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, And art can ne'er renew it; But worth and truth eternal youth Will give to Polly Stewart. May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms. Possess a leal and true heart ; To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart. lovely Polly Stewart ! charming Polly Stewart ! There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May That's half so sweet as thou art. ROBERT BURNS. 503 THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. Tune — "If tJiou'lt play me fair play." [A Ions and wearisome ditty, called " The Highland Lad and Lowland Lassie," which Gurus compressed into these stanzas, for Johnson's Museum.] The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie. Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie j And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, Bonnie Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie Lowland lassie. The sun a backward course shall take, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yourself procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; And for your lawful king, his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie. ANNA, THY CHARMS. Tune — "Bonnie Mary." [The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknown : it was inserted in the third edition of hi.'i Poems.] Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my .soul with care; 504 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But ah ! how bootless to admire, When fated to despair ! Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, To hope may be forgiv'n ; For sure 'twere impious to despair, So much in sight of Heav'u. CASSILLIS' BANKS. Tune — [unknown.] [It is supposed that " Highland Mary," who lived sometimes ou Cassillis's hanks, ia the heroine of these verses.] Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring; By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream. The birdies flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's. There wi' my Mary let me flee. There catch her ilka glance of love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! The chield wha boast.s o' warld's walth Is aften laird o' i^eikle care ; But Mary she is a' my ain — Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, And catch her ilka glance o' love. The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! TO THEE, LOVED NITH, Tune — [unknown.] [There are several variations extant of these verses, and among others one which trans- fers the praise from the Nith to tlie Dee : hut to the Dee, if the poet spolie in his own person, no such influences could belong.] To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, ROBERT BURNS. 50^ Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, To thee I bring a heart unchang'd, I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, Tho' mem'rj there my bosom tear; For there he rov'd that brake my heart, Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear ! BANNOCKS 0' BAKLEY. Tune—" The Killocjie." [•'This song is in the Museum." says Sir Harris Nicolas, " but without Burns's name. Burns took up an old song, and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobite spirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museum.] Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barlej ; Here's to the Highlandman's Bannocks o' barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley ? Never the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley. Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley ; Here's to the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley. Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie ? Wha but the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley? 506 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF II EE BALOU Tune — " 7'he Highland Balou, ["Published in the Musical Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "but without the name of the author." It is an old strain, eked out and amended by Burns, and sent to the Museum in his own handwriting.] Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie keus our wanton chief Wha got uiy young Highland thief. Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, An' thou live, thou' 11 steal a uaigie : Travel the country thro' and thro' And bring hame a Carli.sle cow. Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder : Herry the loiins o' the laigh countree, Syne to the Highlands hame to me. WAE IS MY HEART. Tune — " Wae is my heart." [Composed, it is said, at the request of Clarke, the musician, who felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, PhiUis M'Murdo.J Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e; Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me; Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my ear. Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved ; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved ; But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 0, if I were where happy I hae been, Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle green ; For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, "*Vha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e. ROBERT BURNS. 507 HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. Tune — " The Job of Joimuy-tcorl:" [Burns took the hint of this song from an older and less decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been said in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jean Armour found herself before marriage; as if Burns could be capable of anything so insulting. The words are in the Museum.] Altho' my back be at tbe wa', An' tho' he be the fautor; Altho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water! ! wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie he could flatter; Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter. But tho' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; But tho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water! MY PEGGY'S FACE. Tune — "My Pef/gy's Face." [Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Clialmers, afterwards Mrs. Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and. it is said, the wittiest of all the poet's lady correspondents. Burns, in the note in which he communicated it to Johnson, s.iid he had a strong private reason for wishing it to appear in the .second -volume of the Museum.] 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, heav'nly 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; 508 THE r E T I C A L W R K S OF Who but owns their magic sway ! Who but knows they all deday ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms — These are all immortal charms. GLOOMY DECEMBER. Tune — " Wandering Willie." [These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, and must be taken as aT«oord of his feelings at parting with one dear to him to the latest moments of existence — the Mrs. Mac of many a toast, both in serious and festive hours.] Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! Ance mair I bail 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, 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, Since 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 LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. Tune — " Gregg's Pipes." [Most of this song is from the pen of Burns: he corrected the improprieties, and infused §ome of his own lyric genius into the old strain, and printed the result in the Museum.] My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; ROBERT BURNS. 509 But Jenny's jiiups and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. My lord a-hunting he is gane, 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 white, my lady's red, And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude; But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ied. Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness. Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : The diamond dew is her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims. My lady's dink, my lady's drest, The flower and fancy o' the west; But the lassie that a man lo'es best, that's the lass to make him blest. My lady's gown, there's gairs upou't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. AMANG THE TREES. Tune — " The King of France, lie rade a race." [ Hurus wrote these verses in scorn of those, and they are many, who prefer "The capon craws and queer ha ha's!" of emasculated Italy to the original and deliciou.s airs, Highland and Lowland, of old Cale. dODi.t: the song is a fragment— the more's the pity.] Amang the .trees, where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, 0, 510 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Auld Caledou drew out her drone, Aud to her pipe was siuging, ; 'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, She dirl'd theui afF fu' clearly, O, When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, 0. Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, They made our lugs grow eerie, ; The hungry bike did scrape and pike, 'Till we were wae and weary, ; 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 GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA, Tune — " Banlcs of Banna." [•'■ Anne with the golJen locks," one of the attendant maidens in Burns's howff, in Dumfries, was very fair aud very tractable, and, as may he surmised from the song, had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the customers than the serving of wine. Burns recommended this song to Thomson ; and one of his editors makes him say, " I think this is one of the hest love-songs I ever composed," but these are not the words of Burns ; this contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought that the bard had the bad taste to prefer this strain to dozens of others more simple, more impassioned, and more natural.] 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 tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah ! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. ROBERT BURNS. 511 There I'll despise imperial charms, An empress or sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna ! Awa, thou flaunting god o' 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 wi' my Anna ! The kirk an' state may join, and tell To do sic things I maunna : The kirk and state may gang to hell, And I'll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine of my e'e, To live but her I canna : Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna. MY AIN KIND DEARIE, 0. [This is the first song composed by Burns for the national collection of Thomsen . it was ■(vritten in October, 1792. "On reading over the Lea-rig," he says, "I iO-iweaiutely set about trying my hand on it, smtl, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following." The first and second Terses were only sent: Burns added tbe third and last verse in December.] When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtiu-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow' d field Return sae dowf and weaiy, ! Down by the burn, where scented birks* Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo; I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, ! 1 For " scented birks," in some copies, " birken buds." 512 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 111 niirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, 0; If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My aiu kind dearie, ! Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. And I were ne'er sae weary, 0, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, ! The hunter lo'es the morning sun. To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Alang the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. It maks my heart sae cheery, 0, To meet thee on the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie, ! TO MARY CAMPBELL. [" In my very early years," says Burns to Thomson, '•' when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race." The heroine of this early composition was Highlajid Mary.] Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave old Scotia's shore ? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic's roar? sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine ; But a' the charms o' the Indie Can never equal thine. 1 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 513 plight me your faith, iny IMary, And plight me your lily white hand ; plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, ray Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us ! The hour and the moment o' time ! THE WINSOME WEE THING. [These words were written for Thomson : or rather made extempore. " I might giro you something more profound," says the poet, "yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air, so well as this random clink."] She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bounie wee thing. This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer; And niest my heart I'll wear her. For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, , This sweet wee wife o' mine. The world'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. 514 THE POETICAL WORKS OF BONNIE LESLEY. [" I have just," says Burns to Thomson, " been looking over the ' Collier's bonnio Da\iyh- ter,' and if the following rhapsody, which 1 composed the other day. on a charuiinji Ayi-- ?hire girl. Miss Lesley Uuillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the 'Collier Lassie,' fall on and welcome." This lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming, of Logie.] O SAW ye bonnie Lesley xis she ga'ecl o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to lore 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 bclang thee ; He'd look into thy bonnie face. And say, " I canna wraug thee." The powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha' na steer thee : yhour't like themselves so lovely. That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Keturn again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ; That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. ROBERT BURNS. 515 HIGHLAND MARY. Tune — " Catherine 0 " The wild-wood Indian's Fate," in the original MS. 520 TUE POETICAL WORKS OF LORD GREGORY. [Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson's collection, in imitation of vfhich Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained, with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to roh him of the merit of his composition. Wolcot's song was. indeed, written tirst, but they are both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, " Fair Annie of Lochryan,'> which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpasses both their songs.l MIRK, mifk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar ; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 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 nae be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove By bonnie Irwin-side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for ay 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 dart of heaven that flashest by, wilt thou give me rest ! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see ! But spare and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me ! 1 ROBERT BURNS. 521 MARY MORI SON. Tune — "Bide ye yet." [•■'The song prefixed," observes Burns to Thomson, "is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or its demerits." "Of all the productions of Burns," says Ilazlitt. "the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him, in the mannerof the old ballads, are. perbap.^. those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to JIary Morison." The song is supposed to have been written on one of a fomijy of Muri sons of Mauchline.] Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! Those 'Smiles avid glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sua to suu; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morisou ! 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 amang them a', " Ye are na Mary-Morison." 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. 33 522 T ir^ POETICAL W 11 K S OF WANDERING WILLIE. [first version.] [The idea of this song is taken from Torsos of the same name published by Ilrrd: the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs. Kiddel. Erskine and Tliomsi>n sat in judgment upon it, and, like. true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it. liurns approved of their alterations; but he approved, no doubt, in bit- terness of spirit.] Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, hand 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 luy 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 ! ^ 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 faithfule.st Nannie, 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. [last version.] [This is the " Wandering Wiliie" as altered by Enskine and Thomson, and approved by Durns, after rejecting sevtirai of their emendations. The changes were made ehiefiy with the view of harmonizing the words with the music — an Italian mode of mending the harmony of the human voice.] Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thoi bring'st me my Willie the same. ROBERT BURNS. 523 Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e; Welcome now 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 ti"ow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! [Written for Thomson's collection : tiie first version wliich lie wrote was not happy in Its harmony: 15urns altered and corrected it as it now staude, and then said, -I do not know if this soQg be really mended."] Oh, open the door, some pity to show, Oh, open the door to me. Oh ! ^ Tho' thou has 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 iny heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! The wan moon is setting behind 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 I She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! My true love ! she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, Oh ! 1 This second line was originally — " It' love it may na be, Ohl' 524 THE POETICAL WORKS OF JESSIE. Tune — "Bonnie Dundee." [Jessie Staig, the eldest dautfliter of the provost of Dumfries, was the heroine of tbi8 3ong. She became a wife and a mother, but died early iu life: she is slill affectionately remembered in her native place.] True hearted was he., the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o' 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. 0, 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' ! THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER Air—" The 31111, 31111, 0." [Burns, it is said, composed this, song, once very popular, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at Brownhill, iu Nithsdale: it was published by Thomson, after suggesting some alterations, which were properly rejected.] 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. ROBERT BURNS. 525 A leal, light heart was iu my breast, My hand unstaiii'd wi' jjlunder; Aud fur fair Scotia, hame agaiu, I cheery oil 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 bonny 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 lie be That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang. And fain wad 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'd. 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 ouie lily; She sank within my arms, and cried, • Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 526 THE POETICAL AV 11 K S OF By him who made yon suu 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 gTandsire left me gowd, A maileu plenish'd fairly; And come, my faithful sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly 1 For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploiighs the manor j But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodger's wealth is honour; 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. MEG 0' THE MILL. Air — " Hei/ .' honnie lass, xoill you lie in a barrack f" ["Bo you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1793, "called 'Jackie Hume's Lament?' I have a song of considerable merit to that air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the Musevim." It is probable that Thomson liked those verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands : Burns touched up the old song with the same starting Hue, but a less delicate conclusion, and published it in the Museum.] KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has 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 : ROBERT BURNS. 5„^T The Laird was a wicldiefu', bleerit knurl; She's left the guid-fellow aud ta'en the churl. The Miller he heeht her a heart leal and loving; The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle. wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 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 ! BLYTHE HAE I BEEN. Tune — " Li(j(jeram Cosh," [Rurns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for whose work he wrote it, tb;it '• BIythe hae I been on you hill," was one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley Baillie.] 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 longer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy. Care and anguish seize uie. Heavy, heavy is the task. Hopeless love declaring : Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb, despairing ! If she wiuna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the grass-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling. 528 THE POETICAL WORKS OF LOGAN WATER. ["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793, "felt your bosom ready to burst with indignatiou on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wanton- ness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of thia kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my slbow-chair, ought to have .some merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, the bpsutiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Jlayne, a Nithsdale poet. Logan, sweetly did.st thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride ! And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry 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 o' May Has made our hills and valleys gay j 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 of 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. wae upon 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 529 How can yom* flinty hearts eujoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry i"* But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie haiue to Loaan braes ! THE RED, RED ROSE. Air — " Hnghie Graham." [Thu'e are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like fractured crystal, they can- not lie mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the restorer has been. This seems the case with the first verse of this song, which the poet found in Witherspoon, and com|jleted by the addition of the second verse, whiih he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it was original.] 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 renewed. gin my love were yon red rose", That grows upon the castle wa' ; And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! Oh, 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. 1 Originally — " Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, The widow's tears, the orphan's cries.' 530 THE POETICAL WORKS OF BONNIE JEAN. [Jean M'Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest daughter of John M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in merit ami look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and justified the poet from the charge made against him iu the West, tliat his beauties were not other men's beauties. In the M'Murdo manuscript, in lUirns's handwriting, there is a well- merited compliment which has slipt out of the printed copy in Thomson: — " Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set In barn or byre to trouble thee."] There was a lass, aud she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen, When a' the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bouuie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And ay she sang so merrilie : The blithest 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 aud 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 o' the stream. The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. And now she works her mammie's wark, And ay she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wist na what her ail might be. Or what wad mak her weel acaiu. ROBERT BURNS. 531 But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, And did na joy blink in hex* e'e, As Robie tauld a tale of love, Ae e'eniu' on the lily lea ? The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper' d thus his tale o' love : Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; canst thou think to fancy me ! Or wilt thou leave thy mamiuie's cot. And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? At barn or byre thoii 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 iiae will to say him na : At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was ay between them twa. PHILLIS THE FAIK. Tune — " Rohin Adair." [The ladies of the JI'Murdo family were graceful and beautiful, and lucky in finding a poet capable of recording their charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this song was I'hillis M'Murdo; a favourite of the poet. The verses were composed at the request of Clarke, the musician, who believed himself in love with his "charming pupil." Shti laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.] 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. 532 THE r E T I c A L works of In each bird's cai'eless song, Glad I did share ; While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there : Sweet to the opening day, Kosebuds bent the dewy spray j 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. HAD I A CAVE. Tune — " Jiobin Adair.' [Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love-adventure Burns composed this 5ong for Thomson, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, well connected, and of agreeable and polished manners. The story of his faithless mistress was the talk of Kdiuburgh, in 1793, when these words were written : the hero of the Lay has been long dead ; the heroine resides, a widow, iu Edinburgh.] Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. Where the winds howl to the waves' 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, canst 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 ! ROBERT BURNS. 533 BY ALLAN STEEAM. ["Bravo! say T," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for Thomson. " It is ft gootl song. Should you think so too, not else, you eiin set the music to it, and let the other follow as Knjrlish verses. Autumn is my propitious season; I make more verses in it than all the year else." The old song of " my love Annie's very bonnie," helpe.l the muse of Burns with this lyric] By Allan stream I chauced to rove While Phoebus sank beyond Benledij The winds were whispering through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready; I listened to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures irony : And aye the wild wood echoes rang — dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie ! 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 Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her shortening 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 meetino- her our bosom's treasure? 534 THE rOETICALWORKS OF r WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, [Tn one of the variation? of this song the name of the heroine is Jeanie : the song itself owes some of the sentiments as well as words to an old favourite Nithsdale chant of the same name. "Is Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," Burns inquires of Thomson, "one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterdny I set the following verses to it." The poet, two years afterwards, altered the fourth line thus: — "Thy .Teany will venture wi' ye, my lad," and assigned this reason : " In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare."J WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll coine«to you, my lad. But warily tent, when you 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. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a fiie ; But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, Yet look as ye were nae lookiu' at me. Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly ray beauty a wee ; But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, .For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. ROBERT BURNS. 53^ ADOWN WINDING NITII. [" Jfr. Clarke," sayg Burns to Thomson, '• bogs you to give Miss Pliillis a corner in youi book, as she is a particular flame of his. Shi; is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, sister to ' Bonnie Jean;' they are both pupils of his." This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lock hart, of CornM'ath.] Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown M'inding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 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 amused my fond fiincy. So artless, so simple, so wild ; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child. 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. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, Its dew-drup o' diamond, her eye. Her voice is the song of the morning. That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. 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 and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare : Whaever has met wi' my Phillis Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. bob THE POETICAL WORKS OF COME, LET ME TAKE TIIEE. Air — " Cauld Kail." [Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradition says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. "That tune, Cauld Kail," he says to Thomson, "is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the Muses; when the Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following."] Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld'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 tier. Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure ; I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, Than sic a moment's pleasure : And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never. DAINTY DAVIE. [From the old song of " Daintie Davie" Burns has borrowed only the title and the mea- sure. The ancient strain records how the Rev. David Williamson, to e.scape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the per.«ecution, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrecs, in the same bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to have six wives beside the daughter of the Lady of Cherrytrees, and other children besides the one which his hiding from the dragoons produced. When Charles the Second was told of the adventure and its upshot, he is said to have exclaimed, "God's fish! that beats me and the oak: the man ought to be made a bishop."] Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; And now comes in my happy hours. To wander wi' my Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe. Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, ROBERT BURNS. 537 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. When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie. When day, expiring in the west. The curtain draws o' nature's rest, I flee to his arms I lo'e best, And that's my ain dear Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, There I'll spend the day wi^ you, My ain dear dainty Davie. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN. [first version.] Tune — "Hey, umie taitie." [Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was composed during a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway : the poet himself gives an account much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson, he says, "There is a tradition which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruee's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthu- siasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was written in September, 1793.] Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Brace 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 : 34 538 THE POETICAL WORKS OF See approach proud Edward's pow'r- 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. Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By our 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 1 — Let us do or die ! BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. [SKCOND VERSION.] [Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial and national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to Kubstitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. But Lewis Gordon required a couple of syllables more in every fourth line, which loaded the verse with expletives, and weakened the simple energy of the original: Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight resistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded in this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of Bruce's day ever resisted more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. "The only line," says *ie musician, '■which I dislike in the whole song is, ' Welcome to your gory bed :' gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and a prudent general would avoid say- ing anything to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is." "My ode," replied Burns, "pleases me so much that I cannot alter it: your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame." Thomson cries out. like the timid wife of Coriolanus, "Oh, God, no blood !" while Burns exclaims. like that Roman's heroic mother, "Yos, blood! it becames a soldier more than gilt his trophy." The ode as originally written was restored afterwards in Thomson's collection.] Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; ,' ^vw/^/ y/./p/VA Page .M8 ROBERT BURNS. 539 Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie ! Now's the day, and now's the hour — See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power — Edward ! chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor-kuave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian ! on wi' me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By our sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be — shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants ftill in every foe ! • Liberty's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do, or die ! BEHOLD THE HOUR. Tune — " Oran-r/aoil." [" The following song I have composed for the Highland air that you tell me iu },niv last you have resolved to give a place to iu your book. I have this moment finished the Bong, so you have it glowing from the mint." These are the words of Burns to Thomson : he might have added that the song was written on the meditated voyage of Clarinda to the West Indies, to join her husband.] Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! Sever' d from thee can I survive ? But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, YoD distant isle will often hail : 540 THE POETICAL WORKS OF " E'en here I took the last farewell ; There, latest niark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolHng, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. Where now my Nancy's path may he ! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, tell me, does she muse on me ? THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. Tune — "Fee him, father." [•'I do not give these verses," says Burns to Thomson, "for any merit they have. I lomposed them at the time in which ' Patie Allan's mitber died, about the back o' mid- night,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in oom- pany, except the hautbois and the muse." To the poet's intercourse with musicians we awe some fine songs.] Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! Thou hast left me ever ; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death Only should us sever ; Now thou's left thy lass for ay — 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 anither jo, While my heart is breaking : Soon my weary een I'll close. Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne'er mair to waken ! ''^''^^^-aY^/t/ //y^//f// ///az/fV /'r J^z^^^/: R B B R T B U R N S. 541 AULD LANG SYNE. ["Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, " AukI ]ang syne, exceed- ingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul : I shall give you the verses on the other sheec. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment." " The following song," says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thom.«on, " an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strong words, but there can be no doubf that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than "minstrel Burns."] Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to niin' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang sjne ? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 'For auld lang syne ! We twa hae run about the braes. And pu't the gowans fine ; But we've waude/d mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine : But seas between us braid hae roar'd. Sin' auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. And gie's a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your piut-stowp. And surely I'll be mine ; And we'll tak a cixp o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! 542 THE P E T I C A L .W R K S OF FAIR JEANY. Tune — " Sdw ye my father?" [In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. " Of the poetry," he says, " I speak with confidence : but the music is a busi- ness where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence." 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 vrild woods among ? No more a-winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flow' rets 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 Jeany, fair Jeany 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. DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. [Tu the air of the " Collier's Dochter," Burns bids Thomson add the following ola Bacchanal : it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.] Deluded swnin, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee. Is but a fairy treasure — Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. ROBERT BURNS. 543 The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The clouds uncertain motion- — They are but types of woman. ! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature ? If man thou wouldst be named, 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. N A N C Y. [This song was inspired by the charms of Clarinda. In one of the poet's manuscripts the song commences thus : Thine am I, my lovely Kate, Well thou niayest discover; Every pulse along my veins Tell the ardent lover. This change was tried out of compliment, it is believed, to Mrs. Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly on the even road of lyrical verse than Kate.] 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. 544 THE POETICAL WORKS OF What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning : Love's the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning. HUSBAND, HUSBAND. Tune — "Jo Janet." [" My Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, was in the poet's eye when he ccm- posed this song, as surely as the matrimonial bickerings recorded by the old minstrels were in his mind. lie desires Thomson briefly to tell him how he likes these verses : the response of the musician was, " Inimitable."] 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, s;ood bye, allegiance ! " Sad will 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'm near it : When you lay me in the dust. Think, 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." ROBERT BURNS. 545 "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." WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? Air — " The Sutor'a Dochter." [Composed, it is said, in honour of Janet Miller, of Dalswinton, mcither to the present Earl of Marr, and then, and long after, one of the loveliest women in the south of Scotland.] Wilt thou be my dearie ? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 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. Say na thou' It refuse me : If it winna, canna be, Thou, for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die. Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie, let me quickly die. Trusting that thou lo'es me. ^-1'5 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF BUT LATELY SEEN. Tune—" The Winter of Life." [This song was written for Johnson's iluseum, in 1794: the air is East Indian : it was brought from Ilindostan by a particular friend of tiie poet. Thomson set the words to the air of Gil Morrice: they are elsewhere set to the tune of the Death of the Linnet.] But lately seen in gladsome green, The woods rejoiced the day ; Thro' gentle showers and 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 bield, 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 ? TO MARY. Tune — " Coulil aucjht of song. ' [These verses, inspired partly by Hamilton's very tender and elegant song, " Ah ! the poor shepherd's mournful fate," and some unrecorded '• Mary" of the poet's heart, is in the latter volumes of Johnson. "It is inserted in Johnson's Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "with the name of Burns attached." He might have added that it was sent by Burns, written with his own hand.] Could aught of song declare my pains. Could artful numbers move thee, The muse should tell, in labour' d strains, Mary, how I love thee ! They who but feign a wounded heart Maj teach the lyre to languish ; ROBERT BURNS. 547 But what avails the pride of art, When wastes the soul with anguish ? Then let the sudden bursting sio-h The heart-felt jjaug discover; And in the keen, yet tender eye, read th' imploring lover. For well I know thy gentle mind Disdains art's gay disguising; Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, The voice of nature prizing. HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS. Tune — " Lar/gan Burn." [•' This song is in the Musical Museum, with Burns's name to it," says Sir Harris Nico Jas. It is a song of the poet's early days, which he trimmed up, and sent to Johnson.] Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; I'll come na mair to thy bower-door. To tell i\\ee that I lo'e thee. diuua think, my pretty pink. But I can live without thee : 1 vow and swear I diuna care How lang ye look about ye. Thou'rt ay sae free informing me Thou hast na mind to marry; I'll be as free informing thee Nae time hae I to tarry. I ken thy friends 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, ]3ut that does never grieve me; But I'm as free as any he, Sma' siller will relieve me. 548 THE POETICAL »VORKS OF I count mj' health my greatest wealth, Sae long as I'll enjoy it : I'll fear na scant, I'll bode nae want, As lang's I get employment. But far off fowls hae feathers fair, And ay 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 lo'es his mistress weel, Nae travel makes him weary. THE FAREWELL. Tune — "It was a' for our rifjlitfiC king. ["It seems very doubtful," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " how much, eyen if any part, of this song was written by Burns : it occurs in the Musical Museum, but not with his name." Burns, it is believed, rather pruned and beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain entirely. Johuson received it from him in his own handwriting.] 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 laud. Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain ; My love and native land farewell. 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; With adieu for evermore. ROBERT BURNS. 549 The sodger from 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 aM'a', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear; The lee-lang night, and weep. STEER HER UP. Tune — '• steer her up, and hand her gaun." [Burns, in composing these verses, took the introductory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his own way, and sent them to the Museum.] STEER her up and haud her gaun — Her mother's at the mill, jo ; And gin she winna take a man, E'en let her take her will, jo : First shore her wi' a kindly kiss. And ca' another gill, jo, And gin she take the thing amiss. E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. steer her up, and be na blate, An' gin she take it ill, jo. Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, And time nae longer spill, jo : Ne'ef break your heart for ae rebute, But think upon it still, jo. That gin the lassie winna do't, Ye'll fiu' anither will, jo. 550 THE POETICAL WORKS OF AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. Tune — " My wife she dung me." [Other verses to the same air, helonging to the olden times, are still remembered iti Scotland : but they are only sung when the wine is in, and the sense of delicacy out. This song is in the Museum.] AY my wife she dang me, And aft my wife did bang me, If ye gie a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. On peace and rest my mind was bent. And fool I was I married ; But never honest man's intent As cursedly miscarried. Some sairie comfort still at last, When a' their days are done, man ; My pains o' hell on earth are past, I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. ay my wife she dang me. And aft my wife did bang me, If ye gie a woman a' her will, Grude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. Tune — "Lass o' Livistone." [Tradition says this song was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars, the Jessie of the poet's death-bed strains. It is inserted in Thom.son's collection: variations occur in several manuscripts, but they are neither important nor curious.] Oh, 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'. ROBERT BURNS. oM 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. HERE IS THE GLEN. Tune — " Bun/cs of Cree." [Of the oi'igin of this song the poet gives the following account. "I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Laily Elizabeth Heron, nf Heron, which she calls 'The Banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream : and as her ladyship is a particular frieud of mine, 1 have written the following song to it."] Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade ; The village-bell has told the hour — what can stay my lovely maid ? 'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix'd 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 ? welcome, dear to love and me ! And let us all our vows renew Along the flow'ry banks of Cree. 552 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. Tune—" O'er the. tills, &c." ["The last evening," 29th of August, 1794, "as I was straying out," says Bums, "and thinking of ' O'er the hills and for away,' I spun the following stanzas for it. I was pleiised with several lines at first, but I own now that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness."] 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. On the seas and far away. On stormy seas and far away j Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day Are ay with him that's far away. When in summer's 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 ! At the starless midnight hour. When winter rules with boundless power: As the storms the forest 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. Peace, thy olive wand extend. And bid wild war his ravage end, ROBERT BURNS. 553 Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet : Then may heaven with prosp'rous 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 ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are ay with him that's far away. CA' THE YOWES. [Burns formed this song upon an old lyric, an amended version of which he had pre- viously communicated to the Museum : he was fond of musing in the shadow of Lincluden towers, and on the hanks of Cluden Water.] Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes — My bonnie dearie ! Hark the mavis' evening sang Sounding Cluden's woods amang ! Then a faulding let us gang. My bonnie dearie. We'll gae down by Cluden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly. Yonder Cluden's silent towers. Where at moonshine midnight hours. O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance so cheery, Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Tfcou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near. My bonnie dearie. 35 554 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou bast stown my very heart j I can die — but canna part — My bonnie dearie ! Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows; Ca' them where the burnie rowes — My bonnie dearie ! SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A'. Tune — "Onagh's Waterfall." {The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been noticed : she Is described in this song with the accuracy of a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one : it is needless to add her name, or to say how fine her form and how resistless her smiles.] Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laughin' een o' bonnie 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' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw; And ay 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 mak 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 no mair; Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law; ROBERT BURNS. 555 And ay 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' ? SAW YE MY PHELY. [quasi dicat phillis.] Tune — " When she cam ben she hohhit." [The despairing swain in tliis song was Stephen Clarice, musician, and the young lady whom he persuaded Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness was Phillis M'Murdo.] SAW ye my dear, my Phely ? saw ye my dear, my Phely ? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love ! She winna come hame to her Willy. What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 556 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aherdeen." [On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, with that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former has more of elegance and order : the hitter quite as much nature and truth • but there is less of the new than of the old in both.] 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. For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; And oh ! her dreams are eerie ; And oh, hev widow' 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 ? 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 ! her lanely nights are lang ; And oh, her dreams are eerie ; And oh, her widow' d heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie. LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. Tune — " Duncan Gray." [" These English songs," thus complains the poet, in the letter which conveyed this lyrio to Thomson, " gravel me to death : I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at ' Duncan Gray,' to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance :"] Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain Fickle man is apt to rove : ROBERT BURNS. 557 Look abroad througli nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be 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. THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune — "Deil tak the wars." [Burns has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that this morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by sitting till the dawn at the puuch-bowl, and walking past her window on his way home.] Sleep's! 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 through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods. Wild nature's tenants freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair. The murky shades o' care 558 THE POETICAL WORKS OF' With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; But when, in beauty's light, She meets my ravish' d sight, When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart — 'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. CHLORIS. Air — " 3Iy lodging is on the cold ground." [The origin of this song is thus told by Burns to Thomson. " On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration, she suggested an idea which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song." The poetic elevation of Chloris is great : she lived, when her charms faded, in want, and died all but destitute."] My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair : The balmy gales awake the flowers,. And wave thy flaxen 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 flow'ry glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo:' The courtier tells a finer tale — But is his heart as true ? ROBERT BURNS. 559 These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine : The courtier's gems may witness love — But 'tis na love like mine. C 11 L E. Air — " DaiiHie, Davie." [Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such verses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for the English part of bis collection, took the liberty of bestowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ramsay's miscellany : the bombast is abated, and the whole much improved.] 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 flowery mead she goes. The youthful charming Chloe. 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, Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. The youthful, charming Chloe. 560 THE POETICAL WORKS OF LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. Tune — " Hotheviurche's Rant." ["Conjugal love," says the poet, "is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate: but somehow it does not make such a figure in poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul." It must be owned that the bard could render very pretty reasons for his rapture about Jean Lorimer.] Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? Wilt thou be my dearie, ? Now nature deeds the flowery lea. And a' is young and sweet like thee ; wilt thou share its joy wi' me. And say thou'It be my dearie, ? And when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry moon, my dearie, 0. 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, 0. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, 0. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? Wilt thou be my dearie, ? ROBERT BURNS. 561 FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. Air — " Nancy's to the greenwood gane." [This song was written in November, 1794: Tliomson pronounced it excellent.] Farewell, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling ! mem'ry ! sj^are the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling : Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, I To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, V 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. 1 know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; But oh, 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 : The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing ; Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin. 562 THE rOETICALWORKS OF PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. Tune—" The Sow's Tail." [" This morning" (19th November, 1794), " thougli a I?een blowing frost," Burns writes to Thomson, '-in my walk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I have uniformly euccocded, I will not say : but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old."] HE. Philly, tappy be that day, When roving through the gather' d hay, My youthfu' heart was stown away. And by thy charms, my Philly. SHE. Willy, ay I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love, Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, To be my ain dear Willy. 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. As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows. So in m^ tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. 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. ROBERT BURNS. 563 The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly. The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a -kiss o' Willy. BE. Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly. SHE. What's a' joys that gowd can gie ? I care nae wealth a single flie ; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my own dear Willy. CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. Tune — "Lumps o' Pudding." [Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more critical and fastidious regarded OS rude and homely. "Todlin Hame" he called an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and '• Andro wi' his cutty Gun," the work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, " Contented wi' Little.'"] Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. I whyles claw j;he elbow o' troublesome thought ; But man is a sodger, and life is a faugh t : 564 THE P E T I C A L W R K S OF My mirth and guid humour arc coin iu my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. A towmond o' trouble, should that be ray fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 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 !" CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. Tune — " Roy's Wife." [When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 20th of November, 1794, he added, " Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am resolved to have my quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this song complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel : the lady replied in a strain equally tender and forgiving.] Canst thou leave me thus, my Ka^ty? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou kuow'st my aching heart — And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? Is this thy plighted, fond regard. Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? Is this thy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy ! Farewell ! and ne'er such sori'ows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — But not a love like mine, my Katy ! Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou know'st my aching heart — And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? ROBERT BURNS. 565 MY NANNIE'S AWA. Tune — " Tliere'll never he peace." [Clarinda, tradition aver.', was the inspirer of this song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, for the work, of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edinburgh : on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beautifully says, "The wine-cup shines in light," he seldom forgot to toast Mrs. Mac] NoAV iu her green mantle blythe nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa ! The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie — and Nanny's awa! Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa', Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa ! Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray. And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay; The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa ! WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME. Tune — "Morag." [" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is said, in Thomson's collection, to have been writ- ten for that work by Burns: but it is not included in Mr. Cunningham's edition." If Sir Harris would be so good as to look at page 245, vol. V., of Cunningham's edition of Burns, he will find the song : and if he will look at page 28, and page 193 of vol. III. of his own edition, he will find that he has not committed the error of which he accuses his fellow- editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II., and at page 189, vol. III., and of " Ae day a braw woer came down the lang glen," which appears both at page 224 of - TT. »ndatpagelS3ofvol. III.] WHA is she that lo'es me. And has my heart a-keeping? i>6Q THE POETICAL WORKS OF sweet is she that lo'es me, As dews of simmer weeping, In tears the rose-buds steeping ! that's the lassie of mj heart, My lassie ever dearer; that's the queen of 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. If thou hadst heard her talking, And thy attentions plighted, That ilka body talking. But her by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted. 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 ; that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer ; that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her. CALEDONIA. Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight." [Theve is both knowledge of history and elegance of allegory in this singular lyric : it was first printed by Carrie.] There -was once a day — but old time then was young — That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) ROBERT BURNS. 567 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 I" 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 reign'd; till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : Repeated, successive, for many long years. They darkened the air, and they plunder' d the land : Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruiu'd a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly — The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north. The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd 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 The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose. With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. And robb'd him at once of his hope and his life : The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguiu'd the Tweed's silver flood: But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. He learned to fear in his own native wood. 568 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 choose. 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. LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. Tune — " Oordicainer's Marcli." [The air to which these verses were written, is commonly played at the Saturnalia of ite shoemakers on King Crispin's day. Burns sent it to the Museum.] 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. There's monie 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. 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. ROBERT BURNS. 569 THE FETE CHAMPETRE. Tune — " Killiecrunhie." [Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of Enterkin, to the public. Tents were erected on the banks of Ayr, decorated with shrubs, and strewn with flowers, most of the names of note in the district were invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but no dissolution of parliament followed as was expected, and the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat among the " Commons," poured out his wine in Tain.] WHA will to Saiut Stephen's house, To do our errands there, man? wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 0' th' merry lads of Ayr, man 5* 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 ? 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 Gleucaird's, man ? Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter ; Anbank, wha guess'd 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 bowera, They heard the blackbird's sang, man 3 A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss. Sir Politicks to fetter. As theirs alone, the patent-bliss, To hold a F§te Champgtre. Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing. O'er hill and dale she flew, man; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk ciystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 36 570 THE POETICAL WORKS OF She summon'd every social sprite That sports by wood or water, On th' bonny 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 : Eeflected beams dwell in the streams^ Or down the current shatter ; The western breeze steals thro' the trees, To view this Fete Champetre. 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. ROBERT BURNS. 571 HERE'S A HEALTH. Tune — " Here's a health to them that's awa." [The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox ; Tammie was Lord Erskine ; and M'Leod, the maiden name of the Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of influence both in the Highlands and Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed oyer the white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these verses.] Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa' ! It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true, It's guid 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 the chief of the clan, Altho' that his band be sma'. May liberty meet wi' success ! May prudence protect her frae evil ! May tyrants and tyranny tine in 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, the Norland laddie. That lives at the lug o' the law ! Here's freedom to him that wad read, Here's freedom to him that wad write ! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite. 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 a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa' ! 572 THE POETICAL WORKS OF IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. Tune — " Fo7- a' that, and a' that." ptn this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the natural right of his species. He modestly says to Thomson, " I do not give you this song for your hook, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; for the piece is really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." Thomson took the song, but hazarded no praise.] Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that ! For a' that, and a' that. Our toils obscure, and a' that ; , The rank is but the guinea's stamp, ^ The man's the gowd for a' that ! What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and 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, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor. Is king o' men for a' that ! Ye see yon birkie, ca'd — a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that : , Though hundreds worship at his word He's but a coof for a' that : For a' that, and a' that. His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that. A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that, But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that. Their dignities, and a' that. ROBERT BURNS. 573 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' tha-t Then let us pray that come it may — As come it will for a' that — That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a that. It's comin' yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that ! CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. [Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson : the heroine was Jean Lorimer. How often the blooming looks and elegant forms of very indifferent characters lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry !] Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blithe 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, foin 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 anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither. 574 THE POETICAL WORKS OF LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET. Tune — "Let me in this ae niglit." [The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fair Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed this song for Thomson. The idea is taken from an old lyric, .r more spirit than decorum.] LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet, Or art thou waking, I would wit ? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night, For pity's sake this ae night j rise and let me in, jo ! Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet ! Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet : Tak pity on my weary feet. And shield me frae the rain, jo. The bitter blast that round me blaws. Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. let me in this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night ; For pity's sake this ae night, rise and let me in, jo ! TELL NA ME 0' WIND AND RAIN. [The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, are, at all events, not borrowed from the sentiments expressed by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to in song " Canst thou leave me . thus," on page 564; there she is tender and forgiving: here she is stern and cold.] TELL na me o' wind and rain Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! Gae back the gate ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night, And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in, jo ! ROBERT BURNS. 575 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. 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. 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 this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night; And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in, jo ! THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. Tune — "Push about the jorum." [This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had heen at a public meet- ing, where he was less joyous than usual : as something had heen expected from him, he made these verses, when he went home, and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor of the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kindness of my friend, James MiUigan, Esq., is now before me.] Does haughty Gaul invasion threat. Then let the loons beware. Sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas. And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon^ And CriflFel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! let us not, like snarling tykes. In wrangling be divided ; Till slap come in an unco loon An wi' a run"; decide it. 576 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united ; For never but by British hands Maun Britistc wrangs be righted ! The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may ftiil in't; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By heaven ! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. The wretch that wad 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. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. Tune — " Where'U honnie Ann lie." [The old song to the same air is yet remembered: hut the humour is richer than the delicacy ; the same may be said of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder days of Cale- donia. These verses were composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.] STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, 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 would touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining. ROBERT BURNS. 577 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 ; 0' speechless grief and dark despair : For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! Or my poor heart is broken ! ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. Tune — " Ay loakin' 0." [An old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and happy song for Thomson: some of the verses deserve to be held in remembrance. Ay waking, oh, Waking ay and weary Sleep I canna get For thinking o' my dearie.] 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 ? Every hope is fled. Every fear is terror ; Slumber even I dread, , Every dream is horror. Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! Oh, in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me ! Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on her b«d of sorrow. 578 THE POETICAL WORKS OF CALEDONIA. Tune — " Humours of Glen." [Love of country often minglesJn the lyric strains of Burns with his personal attach- ments, and in few more beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson: the heroine was Mrs. Burns.] 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 brockan, 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 amang the wild flowers, A-listening 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 o' his Jean. 'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN. Tune — "Laddie, lie near me." [Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet, such, says tradi- tion, was not her name : yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs Eiddel, and at another time that Jean Lorimcr was the heroine.] 'TwAS na her bonnie blue een was my ruin ; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, '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. ROBERT BURNS. Mary, I'm thiue 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. 579 HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. Tune — "John Anderson, my jo." ["I am at this moment," says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, "hoid Ing high converse with the Muses, and hiwe not a word to throw away on a prosaic dog such as you are." Yet there is less than the poet's usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an English one.] 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 j Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet ! 580 THE rOETICAL WORKS OF MARK YONDER POMP. Tune — " Deil tak the wars." [Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured hy the strait-waistcoat of criticism. " You see," said he, " how I answer your orders ; your tailor could not be more punctual." This strain in bonour of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.] Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion, Poor is all that princely pride. What are the showy treasures ? What are the noisy pleasures ? The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : The polish'd jewel's 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; 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, Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. ROBERT BURNS. 581 THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. Tune — " Tliis ia no my ain house." [Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the happiest of modern songs. When the poet ■wrote it, he seems to have been beside the " fair dame at whose shrine," he said, " I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus."] THIS is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be ; weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. 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. She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall ; And ay it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; But gleg as light are lovers' een. When kind love is in the e'e. It may escape the courtly sparks. It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. this is no my ain lassie. Fair tho' the lassie be ; weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. 582 THE POETICAL WORKS OF NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend, Alexander Cun ningham, which also occasioned the song beginning, " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."] Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : The furrow' d waving corn is seen Kejoice in fostering showers; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe ? The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, 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. The little flow'ret'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 with'ring blast My youth and joy consume. The waken' d lav' rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power. Until the flow'ry snare 0' witching love, in luckless hour. Made me the thi'all o' care. ROBERT BURNS. 583 had my fate beeu Greenlaud snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd 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. BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. [To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns presented a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory inscription, in which he moralizes upon hei youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila.] BONNIE was yon rosy brier. That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, And bonnie 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 world nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. 584 THE POETICAL AVORKS OF FOKLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR. Tune — " Let me in this ae nujht." [" How do you like the foregoing ?" Burns asks Thomson, after having copied this song for his collection. " I hare written it within this hour : so much for the speed of my Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom?"] Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander herej Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me j But near, near, near me ; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry sky. That blasts each bud of hope and joy; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in those arms of thine, love. 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. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, let me think we yet shall meet ! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. wert thou, love, but near me ; But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love. ROBERT BURNS. 585 LAST MAY A BRAW WOOJER. Tune—" The Lothian Lassie." ["Gateslaok," says Burns to Thomson, " is the name of a particular place, a kind of pas sage among the Lowther Ilills, on the confines of Dumfriesshire : Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and burial-ground " To this, it may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author of Wayerley finds Old Mortality repairing the Cameronian grave-stones.] Last May a braw wooer cam down 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, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me ! He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een. And vow'd for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean, The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying ! 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 Gateslack 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 fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover 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 neebors might say I was saucy : 37 586 THE POETICAL WORKS OF My wooer he capcr'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' con thy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin', And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled 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. CHLORIS. Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's DeligTit." ["I am at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he communicated these verses, " quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare — such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it." This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris.] Why, why tell thy lover. Bliss he never must enjoy : Why, why undeceive him. And give all his hopes the lie ? why, while fancy raptured, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme. Why, why wouldst thou, cruel. Wake thy lover from his dream ? ROBERT BURNS. 587 THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. [This song is said to be Burns's version of a Gaelic lament for the ruin which followed the rebellion of the year 1745 : he sent it to the Museum.] Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, ocli-rie ! Without a penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me. It was na sae in the Highland hills, Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! Nae woman in the country wide Sae happy was as me. For then I had a score o' kye, Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! Feeding on yon hills so high. And giving milk to me. And there I had three score o' yowes, Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! Skipping on yon bonnie knowes. And casting woo' to me. I was the happiest of a' the clan, Sair, sair, may I repine ; For Donald was the brawest lad, 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's field. Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! Nae woman in the world wide Sae wretched now as me. 588 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. rARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. [Burns wrote this '•' Welcome" on the unexpected defection of General Dumourier.] 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 a 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 is out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier. PEG-A-RAMSEY. Tune — " Cauld is the e'enin' blast." [Most of this song is old : Burns gave it a brushing for the Maseum.] Cauld is the e'enin' blast 0' Boreas o'er the pool, And dawin' it is dreary When birks are bare at Yule. bitter blaws the e'enin' blast When bitter bites the frost. And in the mirk and dreary drift The hills and dens are lost. ROBERT BURNS. 589 Ne'er sae murky blew the niglit That drifted o'er the hill, But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey Gat grist to her mill. THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. [A sr.atch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for the Museum.] There was a bonnie lass, And a bonnie, bonnie lass, And she lo'ed her bonnie 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 quell, Or his bosom assail, But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. [Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl, with her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has he recorded it. This was his last communication to the Museum.] 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 the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. It were mair meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon, 590 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And 'twere more fit that she should sit, Within yon chariot gilt aboon. Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck; And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. Tune — " Balinamona Ora." [Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as part of the potit'g jjntribution to the Irish Melodies : he calls it " a liind of rhapsody."] AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 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 gi'ows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonuie green knowes. Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bounie white yowes. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest; But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest. The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 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. ROBERT BURNS. 591 JESSY. Tune — "Here's a health to them that's atm." fWrilten in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson. Her tender and daugh- ter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortality can he con- sidered a recompense, she has been rewarded.] Here's a health to aue I lo'e dear; Here's a health to aue I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, Aud soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by thy love rolling e'e ; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ? — Jessy ! Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond loVers meet And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. Tune — " Rothemurche." [On the 12th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, on the Solway, his thoughts wandered to early days, and this song, the last he was to measure in this world, was dedi- cated to Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.] Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 592 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do ? Full well thou kuow'st I love thee, dear ! Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ! ! did not love exclaim '■'■ Forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so." Then come, thou fairest of the fair. Those wonted smiles, let me share ; And by thy beauteous self I swear. No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid on Devon banks. Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside. And smile as thou were wont to do ? GLOSSARY. " Thk ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong CO is commonly spelled ou. The French «, a sound which often oecurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo or ni: The a, in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed hy an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally lilie the broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ae always, and m very often, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei." A. A\ all. Aback, away, aloof, back wards. Abeigh, at a shy distance. Aboon, above, up. Abrcad, abroad, in sight, to publish. Abrecil, in breadth. Ae. one. Aff. off. Aj)'-lorif. off-hand, extempore, without premeditation. Afore, before. Aft, oft. Aften, often. Agley, off the right line, wrong, awry. Aiblins, perhaps. Ain, own. Aim, iron, a tool of that me- tal, a mason's chisel. Airles, earnest money. Airl-penny, a silver penny given as erles or hiring money. Airt, quarter of the heaven, point of the compass. Agee, on one side. Attour, moreover, beyond, be- sides. Ailh, an oath. Aits, oats. Aiver, an old horse. Aizle, a hot cinder, an ember of wood. Alake. alas. Alane. alone. Akwart, awkward, athwart. Amaist, almost. Amang, among. udn', and, if. Ance, once. Ane, one. Anent, overagainst, concern- ing, about. 1 60* Anither, another. Ase, ashes, of wood, remains of a hearth fire. Asteer, abroad, stirring in a lively manner. Aqueesli, between. Aught, possession, as "in a' my aught," in all my pos- session. Atdd, old. Auld-farran' , auld farrant, sa- gacious, prudent, cunning. Ava, at all. Awa, away, begone. Awfu', awful. Auld-shnon. old shoes literally, a discarded lover metapho- rically. Aumos. gift to a beggar. Aumos-dish, a beggar's dish in which the aumos is re- ceived. Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. Awnie. bearded. Aycnit, beyond. B. Ba', ball. Babieclouts, child's first clothes. Backets, ash-boards, as pieces of backet for removing ashes. Backlins, com in', coming back, returning. Back-yett, private gate. Baide, endured, did stay. Baggie, the beUy. Bairn, a child. Bairn-time, a family of chil dren, a brood. Baith, both. Ballets, ballants, ballads. Ban, to .swear. Bane, bone. Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel. Bannock, fiat, round,soft cake. Bardie, diminutive of bard. Barefit. barefooted. Bariey-bree, barley-broo, blood of barley, malt-liquor. Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty. Batch, a crew, a gang. Batts, botts.' , Bauckie-bird, the bat. Baudrons, a cat. Bauld, bold. Baios'nt, having a white stripe down the face. Be, to let be, to give over, to cease. Beets, boots. Bear, barley Bearded-bear, barley with its bristly head. Beastie, diminutive of beast. Beet, beek, to add fuel to a fire, to bask. Beld, bald. Belyve, by and by, presently, quickly. ■ Ben, into the spence or par- lour. Benmost-bcrre, the remotest hole, the innermost recess Bethankit, grace after meat. Beuk, a book. Bicker^ a kind of wooden dish, a short rapid race. Bickering, careering, hurry- ing with quarrelsome intent. Birnie, birnie ground is where thick heath has been burnt, leaving the birns, or un- consumed stalks, st.iuding up sharp and stuhbly. Bie, or bield, shelter, a shel- tered place, the sunny noc.b of a wood. (593) 694 GLOSSARY. Bien, wealthy, plentiful. Biq, to build. Bijgin, building, a house. Btir/it, built. Bill, a bull. Billie, a brother, a young fel- low, a companion. Bing, a heap of grain, pota- toe.s, &c. Birdie-cocks, young cocks, still belonging to the brood. BirJc, birch. Birkie, a clever, a forward, conceited fellow. Birring, the noise of part- ridges when they rise. Birses, bristles. Bit, crisis, nick of time, place. Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. Black^s the grun', as black as the ground. Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term of contempt, full of mischief. Bktslit, blasted. Blate, bashful, sheepish. Blat/ie.r, bladder. Blawl, a flat piece of any- thing, to .slap. BlaiuUn-shower, a heavy driv- ing rain ; a blauding signi- fies a beating. Blaw, to blow, to boast; " blaw i' my lug," to flatter. Blecrit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with weeping. BUer my een, dim my eyes. Bleczing, hheze, bl,izing,flame, BUUum, idle talking fellow. Blether, to talk idly. Bletli'rin, talking idly. Blink, a little while, a smiling look, to look kindly, to shine by fits. Blinker, a term of contempt: it means, too, a lively en- gaging girl. Blinldn', smirking, smiling with the eyes, looking lovingly. Blirt and btearie, out>burst of grief, with wet eyef!. Blue-gmvn. one of those beg- gars who get annually, on the king's birth-day, a blue cloak or gown with a b.adge. Bluid, blood. Bli/pe, a shred, a Jarge piece. Bobbit, the obeisance made by a lady. Bnck. to vomit, to gush inter- mittently. Backed, gushed, vomited. Bodle. a copper coin of the value of two pennies Scots. Bogie, a small moras.s-. Bonnie, or honny, handsome, beautiful. Bonnnck, a kind of thick cake of bre.id, a .small jannock or loaf made of oatmeal. See Bannock. Board, a board. Bore, a hole in a wall, a cranny. Boorlree., the shrub elder, planted much of old in hedges of barnyards and gardens. Boost, behoved, must needs, wilfulue.-is. Botch, clolcli, an angry tu- mour. Bousing, drinking, making merry with liquor. Bowk, body. Bow-kail, cabbage. Bow-hought, out-kneed, crooked at the knee joint. Bowt, howlt, bended, crooked. Brackens, fern. Brat, a declivity, a precipice, the slope of a hill. Braid, broad. Braik, an instrument for rough-dressing flax. Brainge, to run rashly for- ward, to churn violently, Braing't, ' the horse braiug't,' plunged and fretted in the harness. Brak, broke, became insol- vent. Branlcs, a kind of wooden curb for horses. Brankie, gaudy. Brash, a sudden illness. Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. Brattle, a short race, hurry, fury. Braw. fine, handsome. Bramlys, or hrawlie, very well, finely, heartily, brave- ly- Braxies, diseased sheep. Breastie, diminutive of breast. Breastit, did spring up or for- ward; the act of mounting a horse. Brechame, a horse-collar. Breckens, fern. Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell. Breeks, breeches. Brent, bright, clear : " a brent brow," a brow high and smooth. Brewin'. brewing, gathering. Bree, juice, liquid. Brig, a bridge. Brunstane, brimstone. Brisket, the breast, the bosom. Brither, a brother. Brock, a badger. Brng)x£, a hum. a trick. Broo, broth, liquid, water. Broose, broth, a race at country weddings; he who first reaches tlie bride- groom's house on returning from church wins the broose. Browst, ale, as much malt liquor as is brewed at a time. Brugh, a burgh. Bruilsie. a broil, combustion. Brunt, did burn, burnt. Brust, to burat, burst. Buchan-bulkrs, the boiling of the sea among the rocks on the coast of l?uchan. Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. BufT our beef, thrash us soundly, give us a beating behind and before. Buff' and blue, the colours of the AVhigs. Buirdly, stout made, broad built. Bum-clock, the humming beetle that flies in the summer evenings. Bummin, humming as bees, buzzing. Bummle, to blunder, a drone, an idle fellow. Bummler, a blunderer, one whose noise is greater ban his work. Bunker, a window-seat. Bure, did beai. Burn, bu/rnie, water, a rivu- let, a small stream which is heard as it runs. Burniewin', burn the wind, the blacksmith. Burr-tliislle, the thistle of Scotland. Buskit, dressed. Buskit-nest, an ornamented residence. Busle, a bustle. But, hot. without. But and ben, the counti-y kitchen and parlour. By himself, hinatic. distract- ed, be.side himself. Byke, a bee-hive, a wild bee- nest. Byre, a cow-house, a sheep pen. C. Ca', to call, to name, to drive, Ca t, called, driven, calved. Cadger, a carrier. Cadie, or caddie, a person, ii young fellow, a public mes- senger. atff, chaff. Caird. a tinker, a maker of horn spoons and teller of fortunes. Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a rustic monument. Calf-ioard, a small enclosure for calves. Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton cloth worn by ladies Callan, a boy. Caller, fresh. Callet. a loose woman, a fol lower of a camp. Cannie, gentle, mild, dexter- ous. Cannilie, dexterously, gently. Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. Cantraip, a charm, a spell. Cap-stane, cape-stone.topmost stone of the building. Car. a rustic cart with or without wheels. Careerin', moving cheerfully. Castock, the stalk of a cab- bage. Carl, an old man. Carl-hemp, the male stalk of hemp, easily known by its superior strength and sta- ture, and being without seed. Carlin, a stout old woman. Cartes, cards. GLOSSARY. 595 Caudron, a cauldron. Cauk and kid, chalk and red cluy. Cautd, cold. Chup, a wooden drinking ves- sel, a cup. Cuine. a hen-coop. Chanter, drone of a bagpipe. Chap, a person, a fellow. Chaup, a stroke, a blow. Chcfik for choiv, close and united, brotherly, side by side. Cheekit, cheeked. Cheep, a chirp, to ohirp. Oaid, or cheal, a young fel- low. Chimla, or chimlie, a fire- grate, flre-place. Chimla-liUf, the fire-side. Chirps, cries of u young bird. Chittering, shivering, trem- bling. Chockin, choking. Chow, to chew; a quid of tobacco. Chuckie, a brood-hen. Chuffie, fat-faced. Clachan, a small village about a church, a hamlet. Claise, or claes, clothes. Claith, cloth. ClaitJdmj, clothing. Clavers and havers, agreeable nonsense, to talk foolishly. Clapper claps, the clapper of a mill ; it is now silenced. Clap-clack, clapper of a mill. Clartie, dirty, filthy. Clarkit, wrote. Clash, an idle tale. Clatter, to tell little idle stories, an idle story. Clauffht, snatched at, laid hold of. Claut, to clean, to scrape. Clauted, scraped. Claxo, to scratch. Cleed, to clothe. Cleek, hook, snatch. Cleekin. a brood of chickens, or ducks. Cleys, the gad flies. Clinkin', "clinking down," sitting down hastily. CUnkum-hell, the church bell ; he who rings it; a sort of beadle. Clips, wool-.shears. Clishniaclaver, idle conversa- tion. Clock, to hatch, a beetle. Clockin, hatching. Cloot. the hoof of a cow, sheep, Ac; Clootie, a familiar name for the devil. Clour, a bump, or swelling, after a blow. Cloutin. repairing with cloth. Cluds, clouds. Clunk, the sound in setting down an empty bottle. Cnaxin, wheedling. Coble, a fishing-boat. Cod, a pillow. Coft, bought. Cog, and coggk, a wooden dish. Coila, from Kyle, a district in Ayr.^liire, so called, s,aith tradition, from Coil, or Coi- lus, a Pictish monarch. Collie, a general, and some- times a particular name for country curs. ColUe-shangie, a quarrel a- mong dogs, an Irish row. Omimaim, command. Convoi/ed, accompanied lov- ingly. CooVd in her linens, cool'd in her death-shift. Cood, the cud. Coof, a blockhead, a ninny. Cookit, appeared and disap- peared by fits. Cooser, a stallion. Coost, did cast. Coot, the ankle, a species of water-fowl. Corbies, blood crows. Cootie, a wooden dish, rough- legged. Cure, corps, party, clan. Corn't, fed with oats. Cotter, the inhabitant of a house, or cottage. Couthie, kind, loving. Cove, a cave. Coive, to terrify, to keep un- der, to lop. Cowp, to barter, to tumble over. Coivp the cran, to tumble a full bucket or basket. Cowpit, tumbled. Cowrin, cowering. Cowte, a colt. Cosie, snug. Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. Creuks, a disease of horses. Crack, conversation, to con- verse, to boast. Crackin', cracked, convers- ing, conversed. Craft, or croft, a field near a house, in old husbandry. Craig, craigie, neck. Craiks, cries or calls inces- santly, a bird, the corn-rail. Crambo-clink, or crambo- jingle, rhymes, doggrel verses. Crank, the noise of an un- greased wheel — metaphori- cally inharmonious verse. Crankous, fretful, captious. Cranreuch, the hoar-frost, called in Nithsdale ■' frost- rhyme." Crap, a crop, to crop. Craw, a crow of a cock, a rook. Cre/:l, a basket, to have one's wits in a creel, to be crazed, to be fascinated. Creshie, greasy. Croorl, or Croud, to coo as a dove. Croon, a hollow and con- tinued moan; to make a noi.'fe like the low roar of a bull; to hum a tune. Crooning, humming. Crouchie, crook-backed. Crouse, cheerful, courageous. Crously, cheerfully, courage- ously. Crowdie, a composition of oat- meal, boiled water and butter; sometimes made from the broth of beef, mut- ton, &c., &c. Crowdie time, breakfast time. Crowlin, crawling, a deformed creeping thing. Crummie's nicks, marks on the horns of a cow. Crummock, crummet, a cow with crooked horns. Crummock. driddle, walk slowly, leaning on a staff with a crooked head. Crump-a'umpin, hard and brittle, spoken of bread ; frozen snow yielding to the foot. Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. Cuddle, to clasp and caress. Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. Curch. a covei'ing for the head, a kerchief. Curchie, a curtesy, female obeisance. Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practised in Scot- land, called curling. Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in ringlets. Curling, a well-known game on the ice. Curmurring, murmuring, a slight rumbling noise. Curpi7i, the crupper, the rump. Curple, the rear. Cushat, the dove, or wood- pigeon. CuUg. short, a spoon broken in the middle. Cutty Stool, or, Creepie Chair, the seat of shame, stool of repentance. D. Daddie, a father. Dajfin, merriment, foolish- ness. Daft, merry, giddy, foolish ; Daflbuckie, mad fish. Daimen, rare, now and then ; Daimen icker, an ear of corn occasionally. Dainty, pleasant, good-hu- moured, agreeable, rare. Dandered, wandered. Darklins, darkling, without light. Daud, to thrash, to abuse ; Daudin-showers, rain urged by wind. Daiir, to dare; Daurt, dared. Daurg or Dawk, a day's labour. Daur, dauma, dare, dare not. Davoc, diminutive of Davie, as Davie is of David. Dawd, a large piece. Daivin, dawning of the daj'. Daxolit, dauiet, fondled, ca- ressed. Dearies, diminutive of dears, sweethearts. 596 G L S S A R Y. DeaHUfu\ dear, expensive. Dcave., to deafen. Deil-ma-care, no matter for all that. Dekcrit, delirious. Descrive, to describe, to per- ceive. Deuks, ducks. Diqht, to wipe, to clean corn from chaff. Ding, to worst, to push, ,to surpass, to excel. Dink, neat, lady-likf, Dimia, do not. Dirl. a sli:j;ht tremulous stroke or pain, a tremulous motion. Distain, stain. Dizzen, a dozen. Dnchter, daughter. Dniied, stupified, silly from age. Dnlt, stupified, crazed; also a fool. Donsie, unlucky, affectedly neat and trim, pettish. Doodle, to dandle. Dool, sorrow, to lament, to mourn. Dnos, doves, pigeons. Dortij, saucy, nice. Douse, or douce, sober, wise, prudent. Doucely, soberly, prudently. Dought, was or were able. Doup, backside. Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. Dour mvd din, sullen and sallow. Douser, more prudent. Dow, am or are able, can. Dowff, pithless, wanting force. Dowie, worn with grief, fa- tigue, &c., half asleep. Dnwna, am or are not able, cannot. Doylt, wearied, exhausted. Dozen, stupified, the effects of age, to dozen, to benumb. Drab, a young female beggar ; to spot, to stain. Drop, a drop, to drop. Drapping, dropping. Draunting, drawling, speak- ing with a sectarian tone. Dreep, to ooze, to drop. Dreigh, tedious, long about it. lingering. Dribble, drizzling, trickling. Driddle, the motion of one who tries to dance but moves the middle only. Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, snow moved by the wind. Droddum, the breech. Drone, part of a bagpipe, the chanter. Droop rumpl't, that droops at the crupper. Droukit, wet. Drouth, thirst, drought. Druckcn, drunken Dt'umly, muddy. Drummock, or Dram/mock, meal and water mixed, raw. Drunt, pet, sour humour. Dull, a small pond, a hollow filled with rain water. Duds, rags, clothes. Duddie. ragged. Dung-dang, worsted, pu.shed, stricken. Dunied, throbbed, beaten. Dusli-clunsli, to push, or butt as a ram. Dusht, overcome with super- stitious fear, to drop down suddenly. Dyvor, bankrupt, or about to become one. E. Fe, the eye. Een, the eyes, the evening. Eebree, the eyebrow. Benin', the evening. Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading .spirits. Elhl, old age. El buck, the elbow. Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish. En', end. Enbrugli, Edinburgh. Eneugh, and aneuch, enough. Especial, especially. Ether-stone, stone formed by adders, an adder bead. Ettle, to try, attempt, aim. Eydent, diligent. F. Fa\ fall, lot, to fall, fate. Fa' tlial, to enjoy, to try, to inherit. Faddoni't, fathomed, mea- sured with the extended arms. Faes, foes. Faem, foam of the sea. Faiket, forgiven or excused, abated, a demand. Fainness, gladness, overcome with joy. Fairin', fairing, a present brought from a fair. Fallow, fellow. Fund, did find. Farl, a cake of bread ; third part of a cake. Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to care for. Fasheous, troublesome. Fa.<;ht, troubled. Fasten e'en, Fasten's even. Faught, fight. Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, fallow. Faidd, and Fald, a fold for sheep, to fold. Fant, fault. Fawsont, decent, seemly. Feal, loyal, steadfast. Fearfu', fearful, frightful. Fear't, affrighted. Feat, neat, spruce, clever. Fecht, to fight. Fechtin', fighting. Feck and/e/v, number, quan- tity. Fecket, an under-waistcoat. Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. Feckless, puny, weak, silly. Fi'cMy, mostly. F:g, a fig. F'gs, faith, an exclamation. Feide, feud, enmity. Fell, keen, biting ; the flesh immediately under the .skin ; level moor. Felly, relentjess. Fend, Fen, to make a shift, contrive to live. Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder, a wonder, a term of con- tempt. Fetch, to pull by fits. Fctch't, pulled intermit- tently. I'ey, strange; one marked for death, predestined. Fidge, to fidget, fidgeting. Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure. Fient, fiend, a petty o.ath. Fie7i ma care, the devil may care. Fier, sound, healthy ; a bro- ther, a friend. Fierrie, bustle, activity. Fissle, to make a rustling noise, to fidget, bustle, fuss. Fit, foot. Fitlie-lan. the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in the plough. Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss, disturbance. Flaffen, the motion of rags in the wind; of wings. Flainen, flannel. Flaiulrekins. foreign gene- rals, soldiers of Flanders. Flang, threw with violence. Fletch, to supplicate in a flat- tering manner. Fleechin. sujiplicating. Fleesh, a fleece. Fleg. a kick, a random blow, a fight. Flether, to decoy by fair words. FleUirin.flethers, flattering — smooth wheedling words. Fley, to scare, to frighten. Flichter.fliclitering, to flutter as young nestlings do when their dam approaches. Flinders, shreds, broken pieces. Flingin-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of partition between two horses in a stable ; a flail. Flisk, Jiisky, to fret at the yoke. Flisket, fretted. Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small birds. Flittering, fluttering, vibrat- ing, moving tremulously from place to place. Flunkie, a servant in livery. Flyte, flyting, scold ; flyting, scolding. Foor, hastened. Foord, a ford. Forbears, forefathers. . Forbye, besides. For/aim, distressed, worn out, jaded, forlorn, desti tute. GLOSSARY. 59^ Forgather, to meet, to en- couutiT with. Forgie. to fori;ive. Fiti'iimwed, worn out. Forjeslcet, jailed with fatigue. M)u', full, drunk. Fniighten. forfougliten, trou- bled, fatigued. Foul-tliief, the devil, the arch- lieud. Foitlh. plenty, enough, or more th;in enough. Fnw. a measure, a bushel : also a pitchfork. Frae, from. Freath, froth, the frothing of ale in the taukard. Frien', friend. Frosty callcer, the heels and front of a horse-shoe, turned sharply up for rid- ing on an icy road. Fu\ full. Fud, the scut or tail of the hare, coney, &c. Faff, to blow intermittently. Fu-hanl, full handed ; said of one well to live in the world. Fuiinie, full of merriment. Far akin, the hindmost horse on the right hand when ploughing. Furdiir, further, succeed. Fiinii, n form, a bench. Fusionless, spiritless, without sap or soul. Fyke, trifling cares, to be in a fuss about trifles. Fyte, to soil, to dirty. Ft/It, soiled, dirtied. G. Ga'>, the mouth, to speak boldly or pertly. Gaharhmzie, wallet-man, or tinker. Giie, to go; gaed, went; gane ' or guen, gone ; gaun, going. Gael or gate, way, manner, road. Gairs, parts of a lady's gown. Gang, to go. to walk. Gangrel, a wandering person. Gar, to make, to force to; gar't, forced to. Garten, a garter. Gash, wise, sagacious, talka- tive, to converse. Gatty, failing in body. Gaucy, jolly, large, plump. Gaiul and gad, a rod or goad. GaiulsDMH, one who drives the horses at the plough. ■ Gaun, going. Gaunteil, yawned, longed. Gawhie, a thoughtless person, and something weak. Gaylics, gylie. pretty well. Gear, riches, goods of any kind. Geek, to toss the head in wan- tonness or scorn. Ged, a pike. Genllct, grt"*t folks. Genty, elet,dnt. Geordie, George, a guinea, called Geordie from the isad of King George. Gel and geat, a child, a young one. Ghaist, ghaistis, a ghost. Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien, given. Giflie, diminutive of gift. Giglets, laughing maidens. Gillie, gillodc, diminutive of gill. Gilpey. a half-grown, half-in- formed boy or girl, a romp- ing lad, a hoyden. Gimmer, an ewe two years old, a contemptuous term for a woman. Gin, if, against. Gipsey, a young girl. Girdle., a round iron plate on which oatrcake is fired. Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, agony, &c.; grinning. C/jj, a periwig, the face. Glailat. inattentive, foolish. Glaive, a sword. Glaiue, glittering, smooth, like glass. Glaumed, grasped, snatched at eagerly. Girran, a poutherie girran, a little vigorous animal ; a hor.se rather old, but yet active when heated. Gled, a hawk. Gleg, .sharfi, ready. Gky, a squint, to squint; a- gley, off at a side, wrong. Gleyde, an old horse. Glib-gabhit, that speaks smoothly and readily. Glieb o' lan\ a portion of ground. The ground be- longing to a manse is called " the glieb," or portion. Glint, glijitin', to peep. Glinted by, went brightly past. Gliiamin, the twilight. Glomnin-shnt, twilight-mus- ing; a shot in the twilight. Gloiur, to stare, to look; a stare, a look. Glowran, amazed, looking suspiciously, gazing. Glum, displeased. Gnr-cocks, the red-game, red- cock, or moor-cock. Gmuan, the flower of the dai.sy, dandelion, hawk- weed, &c. Gowany, covered with daisies. Goavan, walking as if blind, or without an aim. Goivd, gold. Goivl, to howl. Gowff. a fool; the game of golf, to strike, as the bat does the ball at golf Gniuk, term of contempt, the cuckoo. Gram or grain, a groan, to groan ; graining, groaning. Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning cowhouses. O-aith, accoutrements, furni- ture, dress. Grannie, grandmother. Grape, to grope; grapet, groped. Great, grit, intimate, familiar. Gree, to agree; to bear the gree, to be decidedly victor; gree't, agreed. Green-graff, green grave. Gruesome, loathsomely, grim. Greet, to shed tears, to weep ; greetin'. weeping. Grey-neck-quiU, a quill unfit for a pen. Griens, longs, desires. Grieves, stewards. Grippit, seized. Groanin-Maiot, drink for the cummers at a lying-in. Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat; to play a los- ing game, to feel the con- sequences of one's folly. Groset, a gooseberry. Grumph, a grunt, to grunt. Grumphie, Grumphin, a sow ; the snorting of an angry pis- Grun\ ground. Grunslone, a grindstone. Gruntle, the phiz, the snout, a grunting noise. Grunzie, a mouth which pokes out like that of a pig. Grushie, thick, of thriving growth. Giule, guid, guids, the Su- preme Being, good, goods. Glide auld-has-been, was once excellent. Guid-marnin', good-morrow. Guid-e'en, good evening. Guidfather and guidmoiher, father-in-law, and mother- in-law. Guidman and guidwife, the master and mistress of tha house; young guidman, a man newly married. Gully or Gallie, a large knife. Gulravage, joyous mischief Gumlie, muddy. Gumption, discernment, knowledge, talent. Gusty, gustfu', tasteful. Gutrserapcr, a fiddler. Gutcher, graudsire. H. Ha\ hall. Ha' Bible, the great Bible that lies in the hall. Haddin', house, home, dwell- ing-place, a possession. Hae, to have, to accept. Haen. had (the participle of hae) ; haven. Haet, fient hael, a petty oath of negation ; nothing. Haffet, the temple, the side of the head. Hafflins, nearly half, partly, not fully grown. Hag, a gulf in mosses and moors, moss-ground. Haggis, a, kind of pudding, boiled in the stomach of a cow, or sheep. Hain, to spare, to save, to hay out at interest. Hain'd. spared; hain'd gear. hoarded money. Hairst, harvest. 598 GLOSSARY. Ilaith, a petty oath. Haivers, noiisonse, speaking without thought. HaV, or hald,a.n abiding place. Hale, or haiU, whole, tight, healthy. Hallan, a particular parti- tion-wall in a cottage, or more properly a seat of turf at the outside. SaUowmass, Hallow-eve, 31st October. Hall/, holy ; " haly-pool," holy well with healing qualities. Hume, home. Hammered, the noise of feet like the diu of hammers. Han\s breed, hand's breath. Hunks, thread as it comes from the measuring reel, quantities!, &c. HanseMhrone, throne when first occupied by a king. Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. ; to wrap, to cover, to hap. Harigals, heart, liver, and lights of an animal. Hap-shachied, when a fore and hind foot of a ram are fastened together to pre- vent leaping, he is said to be hap-.shackled. A wife is called " the kirk's hap- shackle." Happer, a hopper, the hop- per of a mill. Happing, hopping. Hap-step-ati'-loup, hop, step, and leap. Harlxit, hearkened. Ham, a very coarse linen. fl(?s/i, afellow who knows not how to act with propriety. Hastit, hastened. Haiul, to hold. Haughs, low-lying, rich land, valleys. Haurl, to drag, to pull vio- lently. Haurlin, tearing off, pulling roughly. Haver-meal, oatmeal. Haveril, a half-witted person, halfwitted, one who habi- tually talks iu a foolish or incoherent manner. Havins, good manners, deco- rum, good sense. Haivkie, a cow, properly one with a white face. Heapit, heaped. Healsonie, healthful, whole- some. Hearse, hoarse. Heather, heath. Heck, oh strange! an ex- clamation during heavy work. Heeht, promised, to foretell something that is to be got or given, foretold, the thing foretold, offered. fTeclie, a board in which are fixed a number of sharp steel prongs upright for dressing hemp, flax, &c. Hee balnu, words used to soothe a child. Heels-owre-gnwdie, topsy-tur- vy, turned the bottom up- wards. Heeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift. HcUiin, the rudder or helm. Herd, to tend flocks, one who tends flocks. Herrin', a herring. Herry, to plunder; most pro- perly to plunder birds' nests. Herryment, plundering, de- vastation. Hersel-hirsel, a flock of sheep, also a herd of cattle of any sort. Het, hot, heated. Heugh, a crag, a ravine; coal- heugh, a coal-pit; loivin heugh, a blazing pit. Hilch, hilchin', to halt, halt- ing. Hiney, honey. Hing, to hang. Hirple, to walk crazily, to walk lamely, to creep. Histie, dry, chapt, barren. Hitcht, a loop, made a knot. Hizzie, huzzy, a young girl. Hoddin, the motion of a hus- bandman riding on a cart- horse, humble. Hoddin-gray, woollen cloth of a coarse quality, made by mingling one black fleece with a dozen white one.i. Haggle, a two-year-old sheep. Hiig-sciyre, a distance line in curling drawn across the rink. When a stone fails to cross it, a cry is raised of " A hog, a hog!" and it is removed. Hog-sliouther, a kind of horse- play by justling with the shoulder; tojustle. Hoodie-craw, a blood crow, corbie. Hool, outer skin or case, i nutshell, a pea-husk. HooUe, slowly, leisurely. Hoard, a hoard, to hoard. Hoordit, hoarded. Horn, a spoon made of horn. Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. Host, or hoast, to cough. Hostiii. coughing. Hotch'd, turned topsy-turvy, blended, ruined, moved. Houghmagandie, loose be- haviour. Howiet. an owl. Housie, diminutive of house. Hove, hoved.to heave, to swell. Hmiiilie. a midwife. Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell. Hoxoehaclcit, sunk in the back, spoken of a horse. Hnvff, a house of resort. Hoxuk, to dig. Hotvlcit, digged. Howhin', digging deep. Hoy, lioy't, to urge, vu-ged. Hoyse, a pull upwards. " Hoyse a creel," to raise a basket ; hence " hoisting creels." Hoye, to amble crazily. Htighoc, diminutive of Ilughie, as Hughie is of Hugh. Hums and hankers, mumbles and seeks to do what he cannot perform. Hunkers, kneeling and fall- ing back on the hams. Hurcheon, a hedgehog. Hurdles, the loins, the crup- per. Husliion, a cushion, also a stocking wanting the foot. Huchyalkd, to move with a. hilch. Icker, an ear of corn. Teroe, a great grandchild. Ilk, or ilka, each, every. Ill-deedie, mischievous. Illrwillie, ill-natured, mali- cious, niggardly. Ingine, genius, ingenuity. Ingle, fire, fireplace. Ingle-lmu, light from the fire, flame from the hearth. 1 rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye- J'se, I shall or will. Ithcr, other, one another. J. Jix<^, jade ; also a familiar term among country folks for a giddy young girl. Jatdi, to dally, to trifle. Jaickin', trifling, dallying. Jaimer, talking, and not al- ways to the purpose. Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk, as agitated water. Jaiv, coarse raillery, to pour out, to shut, to jerk as water. JllUl, a jilt, a giddy girl. Jimp, to jump, slender in the waist, handsome. Jink, to dodge, to turn a cor- ner; a sudden turning, a corner. Jink an' diddle, moving to music, motion of a fiddler's elbow. Starting here and there! with a tremulous movement. linker, that turns quickly, a gay sprightly girl. Jlnkin', dodging, the quick motion of the bow on the fiddle. Jirt. a jerk, the emission of water, to squirt. Joctelcg, a kind of knife. Joule, to stoop, to bow the he.ad, to conceal. Jow, to jow, a verb, which includes both the swing- ing motion and pealing sound of a largo bell; also the undulation of water. Jundie, to justle, a push with the elbow. GLOSSARY. 599 K. Kae, a daw. Kail, colewort, a kind of broth. Kailrunt, the stem of cole wort. Kain, fowls, &c., paid as rent by a farmer. Kehais, rafters. Kehbuck, a cheese. Kixlde, )oyons cry; to cackle as a heu. Ke.ek, a keek, to peep. Kelpies, a sort of mischievous water-spirit, said to haunt fords and ferries at night, especially in storms. Ken, to know; ken'd or ken't, knew. Kennin. a small matter. Ket-Kdty, matted, a fleece of wool Kiauff/it, carking, anxiety, to be in a flutter. Kilt, to truss up the clothes. Kinimei; a young girl, a gos- sip. Kin', kindred. Kin', kind. King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox. Kintra, kintrie, country. Kirn, the harvest supper, a churn. Kirsen, to christen, to baptize. Kist; chest, a shop-counter. Kilchen, anything that eats with bread, to serve for soup, gravy. Kittle, to tickle, ticklish. Kittling, a young cat. The ace of diamonds is called among rustics the kittlin's e'e. Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking stones ; kna}), to strike or break. Knurlin, crooked but strong, knotty. Knoive, a small, round hil- lock, a knoll. Kuittle, to cuddle; kuitlin, cuddling, fondling. Kye, cows. Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. Kyle, the belly. Kythe, to discover, to show one's self. Labour, thrash. Laddie, diminutive of lad. Laggen, the angle between the side and the bottom of a wooden dish. Laigh, low. Lairing, lairie, wading, and sinking in snow, mud, &c., miry. Laith, loath, impure. Laillifu', bashful, sheepish, abstemious. Lallans, Scottish dialect. Lowlands. Lamhif, diminutive of lamb. Lammas moon, harvest-moon. Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpet. Lan', land, estate. Lan'-afore, foremost horse in the plough. Lan'-aliin, hindmost horse in the plough. Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c., myself alone. Lancly, lonely. Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary. Lap, did leap. Late and air, late and early. Laivall'd, swelled. Swank, stately, jolly. Swankie, or swanker, a tight strapping young fellow or girl. Swaj'i, an exchange, to barter. Swarfed, swooned. Swat, did sweat. Swatch, a sample. Swats, drink, good ale, new ale or wort. Sweer, lazy, averse; dead- sweer, extremely averse. Swoor, swore, did swear. Swinge, to beat, to whip. Swinke, to labour hard. Swirlie, knaggy, full of knots. Sivirl, a curve, an eddying blast or pool, a knot iu the wood. Switk, get away. Swilher, to hesitate in choice, an irresolute wavering in choice. Syebow, a thick-necked onion. Syne, since, ago, then. T. Tackets, broad-headed nails for the heels of shoes. Tae, a toe ; three-taed, having three prongs. Tal; to take ; takin, taking. Tangle, a sea-weed used as sal.ad. Tap, the top. Tapietless, heedless, foolish. Targe, targe them tiglUly.cros.s- question them severely. Tarrmv, to murmur at one's allowance. Tarry-breeks, a sailor. Tassie, a small measure for liquor. Tauld, or tald, told. Taiipie, a foolish thonahtless young per.sou. Tauted, or tautie, matted to- gether (spoken of hair and wool). GLOSSARY. 603 TawU, that allows itself pcai-eably to be hamllea (spoken of a cow, horse, &c.) Tf'it. a small quantity. Tc.cthhxs bawtie, toothless cur. Tcdlilcss gah, a, mouth want- ing till! teeth, au expression of scorn. Tcn-hfuirs-bite, a slight teed to the horse while iu the yoke iu the forenoon. Tent, a field pulpit, heed, caution ; to take hoed. Tf:ntie, heedful, cautious. Tcnltess. heedless, careless. Tciir/h, tough. Thaclc, thatch; thach an' rape, clothing and necessa- ries. Thae, these. Tluiirms, small guts, fiddle- striugs. Thanhit, thanked. Tlicekit, thatched. Tlnyither, together. TliemseV. themselves. Thicl; iutimate, familiar. Thigger, crowding, make a noise; a seeker of alms. Thir, these. Thirl, to thrill. Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. Thole, to sutTer, to endure. Thowe. a thaw, to thaw. Thoivless, slack, lazy. Thrang, throng, busy, a crowd. Thrapple, throat, windpipe. Thraw, to spr&iu. to twist, to contradict. Thrawin\ twisting, &c. Thrawii, sprained, twisted, contradicted, coutradiction. Threap, to maintain by diut of assertion. Threshin\ threshing ; thresk- in'-lree, a Hail. Threlietn, thirteen. Thrislle, thistle. Through, to go oa with, to make out. Throuthcr, pell-mell, confus- edly (through-ithor). Thrum, sound of a spinning- wheel in motion, the thread remaining at the end of a web. Thud, to make a loud inter- mittent noise. Thummart. foumart, polecat. Thuinpit, thumped. ThystV, thyself. Till't, to it. Timmer, timber. Tine, to lose; tint, lost. Tinkler, a tinker. Tip, a ram. 2'ippence, twopence, money. I'irl, to make a slight noise, to uncover. Tirlin', Uriel, uncovering. Tilhcr, the other. Tittle, to whisper, to prate idly. Tiillin, whispering. Tocher, marriage portion ; tocher bands, marriage bonds. Tod, a fox, " Tod i' thefatild," fox in the fold. Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child; fodlcn-dow, toddling dove. Too-fa\ '• Too fa' o' the nicht," when twilight darkens into night; a building added, a lean-to. room, empty. Toomed, emptied. Tonp, a ram. Tons, a toast. Tosia. warm and ruddy with warmth, good-looking, in- toxicating. Toun. a hamlet, a farmhouse. Toui, the blast of a horn or trumpet, to blow a horn or trumpet. Touzle.'i, touzlino, romping, ruflHing the clothes. Tow. a rope. Tovjmond, a twelvemonth. Towzie, rough, shaggy. XTnl'enn'd, unknown. Unsicker, uncertain, waver- ing, insecure. Unskailhed, undamaged, un- hurt. Upo\ upon. V. Vap'rin, vapouring. FaMwiie. joyous,delight which cannot contain itself. Vera, very. Virl, a ring round a column, &c. Vogie, vain. W. ]Va\ wall, wcCs, walls. Wabder, a weaver. Wad. would, to bet, a bet, a Ijledge. Wiulna. would not. Wadsi'l. laud on which money male head-dress. "^'<^..^^"« ' """"Z"'' ^orrowtul ; waihng. Waefii'-woodie, Toi/te. to totter like old age Tram!:, barrow-trams, the handles of a barrow. Transmiiijrlfied. transmigrat- ed, metamorphosed. Trashtrie, trash, rubbish. Trickie, full of tricks. Trig, spruce, neat. Trimly, cleverly, excellently, in a seemly manner. Trinle. trintie, the wheel of a barrow, to roll. Trinklin, trickling. Troggers, troggirC. wandering merchants, goods to truck or dispose of. Trow, to believe, to trust to. Trowtli, truth, a potty oath. Trgsts. aiipointments, love meetings, cattle shows. Tumbler-wheels, the wheels of a kind of low cart. r«7, raw hide, of which in old time plough-traces were frequently made. Tug or foKi,"either in leather or rope. TuUie. a quarrel, to quarrel, to fight. Twa, two ; twa-fald, twofold. Twa-three, a few. 2\vad, it would. Twal, twelve; twalpennie worth, a small quantity, a penny-worth. — N. B. One penny English is 12rf. Scotch. Twafaul, twofold. 'Piviii, to part. Twistlc, twisting, the art of making a rope. Tyke, a dog. Tysday, Tuesday. U. hangman's rope. Waesiicks '. Wae's me ! Alas ! the pity! TFct' flower, wall-flower. Waft, woof; the cross thre.id that goes from the shuttl'^ through the web. Waifs an' crocks, stray sheep and old ewes past breeding. Wair, to lay out. to expend. Wale, choice, to choose. Wal'd, chose, chosen. Walie, ample, large, .iolly, also an exclamation of dis- tress. Wame. the belly. Wamefu% a bellyful. Wanchansie. unlucky. Wanrcst. wanrcstfu', restless, un restful. Wark. wtjrk. Wark-lume. a tool to work with. WarhVs-roorm. a miser. Warle, or warld, world. yvixrlock, a wizard; ^oarlock- knowe, a knoll whei'O war- locks once held trysto. Warly, worldly, eager in amassing wealth Warran', a warrant, to war- rant. WarsU.. wrestle. WarsVd, or warst'led, wrest- led. Waslrie. prodigality. Wxt. wet; / mat— I toot— I know. Wat. a man's upper dress; a sort of mantle. Water-hrose, broso made of meal and water simply, addition of without the I milk, butter, &c. Unback'd fill)/, a j-oung mare| Wattle, a twig, a wand. hitherto unsaddled. | Wauble. to swing, to reel. Unco, strange, uncouth, very, Waukin. waking, watcluns very great, prodigious. j Waukit. thickened as tull< Vncos. news. I lo d"*'^- ^ ^ ^ , Unfauld, unfold. | Waukrije, not apt to sleep 604 GLOSSARY. Watir, worRC, to worst. Waur't. worsted. Wean, a child. Weary-widdtc, toilsome con- test of life. Weason, weasand, windpipe. Weaven' the stoclcinfj, to knit stockings. Wcedcr-clips, instrument for removing weeds. Wee, little ; ivee things, little ones, ivee hits, a small mat- ter. Weel, well, weelfare, welfare. Wfci, rain, wetness ; to wet. We'se, we shall. WIta, who. WliaizJe-. to wheeze. WhaJplt, whelped. WIiaiiQ, a leathern thong, a piece of cheese, bread, &c. Wliare, whei-e; lohare'er, wherever. Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk; penny-wheep, small-beer. Wliase, whcCs, whose— who is. What reel:, nevertheless. Whid, the motion of a hare running, but not fright- ened — a lie. Wliiddan, running as a hare or coney. Wliigmelceries, whims, fan- cies, crotchets. Whilk, which. Whiuijin'. crying, complain- ini;. fretting. WliirUgujums, useless orna- ments, trifling appendages. 7r/;!'ssZc, a whistle, to whistle. Whisht, silence ; to Jiold one's whist, to he silent. Whisk, whislctt, to sweep, to lash. Whiskiri' he.ard, aboard like the whiskers of a cat. Whisldt, lashed, the motion of a horse's tail removing flics. Wliiiter, a hearty draught of liquor. Whittle, a knife. Wliunstane, a whinstone. II?, with. Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direction, a term in curling. Widdifu, twisted like a withy, one who merits hanging. Wiel, a .•^mall whirlpool. Wifie-wifikie, a diminutive or endearing name for a wife. Wight, stout, enduring. Willi/art-glower, a bewildered dismayed stare. Wimple-wrjinplet, to meander, meandered, to enfold. Wimplin, waving, meander- ing. W(ii\ to wind, to winnow. Winnin'-tliread, putting thread into hanks, Win't, winded as a bottom of yarn. Win', wind. Win, live. Winna, will not. Winnock, a window. Wi7isome, hearty, vaunted, Wintle, a staggering motion, to stagger, to reel. Wiss, to wish . WithoiUen, without. Wizcened, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. Winze, a curse or impreca- tion. Wonnef, a wonder, a contemp- tuous appellation. Woo', wool. Woo, to court, to make love to. Widdie, a rope, more properly one of withs or willows. Wdi'V-l/ohs, the garter knitted below the knee with a cou- ple of loops. Wo7'di/, worthy. Wnsnt, worsted. Wrack, to tease, to vex. Wud, wild, mad; wud-mad, distracted. Wtnnhle, a wimble. Wraith, a spirit, a ghost, an app.'irition exactly like a living person, whose ap- pearance is said to forbode the person's approaching death ; also wrath. Wnrng, wrong, to wrong. Wieet/i, a drifted heap of snow. WyUccoat, a flannel vest. Wglc, blame, to blame. Y. Yc, this pronoun is frequen^ ly used for thou. Yearns, longs much. Yealings, born in the same year, coevals. Year, is used both for .singu- lar and plural, years. Ydl, barren, that gives no milk. Yerk, to lash, to jerk. Yerket, jerked, la.shed. Yestreen, yesternight. Yett, a gate. Yeidi's, itches. Yill. .ale. Yird. yirded, earth, earthed. buried. Yokin', yoking. Yant, ayont, beyond. Yirr, lively. Yoivc, an ewe. Yoioie, diminutive of yowe. Yule, Christmas. THE END. ON r,. %.''^^^^ ^^0 " . "o. r.S^ •^, ^ .s .v^ ^ <^ o V ' « "r*s.. ' ■ * O N ^ ^^^ C?. a 1 ^ " v'? ■%<^^ ,'^' .^.A%..^. °- "^ "ci-. ^ "^- ^^ ■j?'" "^ ,\ ,•0- ..0 vO ' .>*■■ ,.,.^v> '' ..•'\ .0 ^.'^^ J' > , «> vV ^ ^ • " , 'r. \' ^ ^ ' '/ > O^ *«, A*' A^'^' 4- V \. 9RffRni?mi