The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

O a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks
About the dykes?

II

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast

These five an' twenty simmers past—
O, dool to tell!—
Hae had a bitter, black out-cast
Atween themsel.

III

O Moodie, man, an' wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle?
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
An' think it fine!
The Lord's cause gat na sic a twistle
Sin' I hae min'.

IV

O Sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit?
Ye wha were no by lairds respeckit
To wear the plaid,
But by the brutes themselves eleckit
To be their guide!

V

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale an' hearty every shank?
Nae poison'd, soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;
But Calvin's fountainhead they drank—
O, sic a feast!

VI

The thummart, wilcat, brock, an' tod
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood;
He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,
Baith out and in;
An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid
An' sell their skin.

VII

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;
An' tell'd gin they were sick or hale
At the first sight.

VIII

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub;
Or nobly swing the gospel club;
Or New-Light herds could nicely drub
And pay their skin;
Or hing them o'er the burning dub
Or heave them in.

IX

Sic twa—O, do I live to see't?—
Sic famous twa sud disagree't,

An' names like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,
While New-Light herds wi' laughin spite
Say neither's liein!

X

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
Thee Duncan deep, an' Peebles shaul',
But chiefly great apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them hot an' cauld
Till they agree!

XI

Consider, sirs, how we're beset:
There's scarce a new herd that we get
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set
I winna name:
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet
In fiery flame!

XII

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
An' baith the Shaws,
That aft hae made us black an' blae
Wi' vengefu' paws.

XIII

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief:
We thought ay death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten to our grief
Ane to succeed him,
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef—
I meikle dread him.

XIV

An' monie mae that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel:
There's Smith for ane—
I doubt he's but a greyneck still,
An' that ye'll fin'!

XV

O a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, an' fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,
An' get the brutes the power themsels
To chuse their herds!

XVI

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance,

An' that fell cur ca'd Common-sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France—
Let him bark there!

XVII

Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close, nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic, manly sense,
An' guid M'Math
Wha thro' the heart can brawly glance,
May a' pack aff!

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

And send the godly in a pet to pray.
POPE.

I

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an' ten to Hell
A' for Thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They've done before Thee!

II

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here before Thy sight,
For gifts an' grace
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.

III

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation?
I, wha deserv'd most just damnation
For broken laws
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause!

IV

When from my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me deep in hell
To gnash my gooms, and weep, and wail
In burning lakes,
Whare damnèd devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to their stakes.

V

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample:

I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example
To a' Thy flock!

VI

But yet, O Lord! confess I must:
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defiled wi' sin.

VII

O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg—
Thy pardon I sincerely beg—
O, may't ne'er be a living plague
To my dishonour!
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.

VIII

Besides, I farther maun avow—
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow—
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her,
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.

IX

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn
That he's sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne
Until Thou lift it.

X

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou has a chosen race!
But God confound their stubborn face
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' open shame!

XI

Lord, mind Gau'n Hamilton's deserts:
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin arts
Wi' great and sma',
Frae God's ain Priest the people's hearts
He steals awa.

XII

And when we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,

And set the warld in a roar
O' laughin at us:
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes!

XIII

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r
Against that Presbyt'ry of Ayr!
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo' their heads!
Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds!

XIV

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin,
An' pish'd wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.

XV

Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him!
Lord, visit him wha did employ him!
And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their pray'r,
But for Thy people's sake destroy them,
An' dinna spare!

XVI

But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temporal and divine,
That I for grace an' gear may shine
Excell'd by nane;
And a' the glory shall be Thine—
Amen, Amen!

THE KIRK'S ALARM

I

Orthodox! orthodox!—
Wha believe in John Knox—
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast
Has been blawn i' the Wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense—
Orthodox!
That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II

Dr. Mac! Dr. Mac!
You should stretch on a rack,
To strike wicked Writers wi' terror:
To join faith and sense,
Upon onie pretence,
Was heretic, damnable error—
Dr. Mac!
'Twas heretic, damnable error.

III

Town of Ayr! Town of Ayr!
It was rash, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing:
Provost John is still deaf
To the church's relief,
And Orator Bob is its ruin—
Town of Ayr!
And Orator Bob is its ruin.

IV

D'rymple mild! D'rymple mild!
Tho' your heart's like a child,
An' your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye:
Auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa—
D'rymple mild!
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

V

Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons!
Seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need:
Your hearts are the stuff
Will be powther enough,
And your skulls are store-houses o' lead—
Calvin's sons!
Your skulls are store-houses o' lead.

VI

Rumble John! Rumble John!
Mount the steps with a groan,
Cry:—‘The book is wi' heresy cramm'd’;
Then lug out your ladle,
Deal brimstone like adle,
And roar every note o' the damn'd—
Rumble John!
And roar every note o' the damn'd.

VII

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

VIII

Singet Sawnie! Singet Sawnie!
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl
Alarm every soul,
For the Foul Thief is just at your gate—
Singet Sawnie!
The Foul Thief is just at your gate.

IX

Daddie Auld! Daddie Auld!
There's a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk:
Tho' ye can do little skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark—
Daddie Auld!
For gif ye canna bite ye may bark.

X

Davie Rant! Davie Rant!
In a face like a saunt
And a heart that would poison a hog,
Raise an impudent roar,
Like a breaker lee-shore,
Or the Kirk will be tint in a bog—
Davie Rant!
Or the Kirk will be tint in a bog.

XI

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose!
Ye hae made but toom roose
In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,
For the Lord's haly ark,
He has cooper'd, and ca'd a wrang pin in't—
Jamie Goose!
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't.

XII

Poet Willie! Poet Willie!
Gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your ‘Liberty's chain’ and your wit:
O'er Pegasus' side
Ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he shit—
Poet Willie!
Ye smelt but the place where he shit.

XIII

Andro' Gowk! Andro Gowk!
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 hae a calf's head o' sma' value—
Andro Gowk!
Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

XIV

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

XV

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 daurna say ye hae mair—
Irvine-side!
Your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI

Muirland Jock! Muirland Jock!
Whom the Lord gave a stock
Wad set up a tinkler in brass,
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit
To prove the poor Doctor an ass—
Muirland Jock!
To prove the poor Doctor an ass.

XVII

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 taen for a saunt
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour—
Holy Will!
Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.

XVIII

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

POSTSCRIPTS

1

Afton's Laird! Afton's Laird!
When your pen can be spared,
A copy of this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score
As I mention'd before,
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith—
Afton's Laird!
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

2

Factor John! Factor John!
Whom the Lord made alone,

And ne'er made another thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the Bard,
In respectful regard
He presents thee this token sincere—
Factor John!
He presents thee this token sincere.

A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER

THE FIRST INSTANCE THAT ENTITLED HIM TO THE VENERABLE APPELLATION OF FATHER

I

Thou's welcome, wean! Mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee or yet thy mammie
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My sweet, wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie!

II

What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintra clatter?
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better;
E'en let them clash!
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

III

Welcome, my bonie, sweet, wee dochter!
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin I hae fought for
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for—
That I shall swear!

IV

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a' tint:
Tho' thou cam to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at,
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better half o't.

V

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,
As onie brat o' wedlock's bed
In a' thy station.

VI

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,

As dear and near my heart I set thee,
Wi' as guid will,
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' Hell.

VII

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy mither's looks an' gracefu' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddie's spirit
Without his failins!
'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it
Than stocket mailins.

VIII

And if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee—
The cost nor shame o't—
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o't.

THE INVENTORY

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES

Sir, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' guids an' gear an' a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle:—
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle
As ever drew before a pettle:
My lan'-afore's a guid 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 borough monie a time
In days when riding was nae crime.
(But ance, when in my wooing pride
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to—
Lord, pardon a' my sins, an' that too!—
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.)
My fur-ahin's a wordy beast
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!
Foreby, a cowte, o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail:
If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.

Wheel-carriages I hae but few:
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow—mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken:
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischíevous boys,
Run-deils for fechtin an' for noise:
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
An' aften labour them completely;
An' ay on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the Questions tairge them tightly:
Till, faith! wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,
He'll screed you aff ‘Effectual Calling’
As fast as onie in the dwalling.

I've nane in female servan' station
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!):
I hae nae wife—and that my bliss is—
An' ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the deevils darena touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented:
Heav'n sent me ane mair than I wanted!
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace:
But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already;
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,
By the Lord, ye 'se get them a' thegither!

But pray, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin:
Frae this time forth, I do declare
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit,
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
The Kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat:
Sae dinna put me in your beuk,
Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.

This list, wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under notit;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns.

A MAUCHLINE WEDDING

I

When Eighty-five was seven months auld
And wearing thro' the aught,
When rolling rains and Boreas bauld
Gied farmer-folks a faught;

Ae morning quondam Mason W---
Now Merchant Master Miller,
Gaed down to meet wi' Nansie B---
And her Jamaica siller
To wed, that day.

II

The rising sun o'er Blacksideen
Was just appearing fairly,
When Nell and Bess got up to dress
Seven lang half-hours o'er early!
Now presses clink, and drawers jink,
For linens and for laces:
But modest Muses only think
What ladies' underdress is
On sic a day!

III

But we'll suppose the stays are lac'd,
And bonie bosoms steekit,
Tho' thro' the lawn—but guess the rest!
An angel scarce durst keek it.
Then stockins fine o' silken twine
Wi' cannie care are drawn up;
An' garten'd tight whare mortal wight—
[OMITTED]

IV

But now the gown wi' rustling sound
Its silken pomp displays;
Sure there's nae sin in being vain
O' siccan bonie claes!
Sae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast—
Trouth, they were bonie birdies!
O Mither Eve, ye wad been grieve
To see their ample hurdies
Sae large that day!

V

Then Sandy, wi's red jacket braw,
Comes whip-jee-woa! about,
And in he gets the bonie twa—
Lord, send them safely out!
And auld John Trot wi' sober phiz,
As braid and braw's a Bailie,
His shouthers and his Sunday's jiz
Wi' powther and wi' ulzie
Weel smear'd that day....

As I never wrote it down my recollection does not entirely serve me.

ADAM ARMOUR'S PRAYER

I

Gude pity me, because I'm little!
For though I am an elf o' mettle,

And can like onie wabster's shuttle
Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang's a guid kail-whittle,
I'm unco queer.

II

An' now Thou kens our woefu' case:
For Geordie's jurr we're in disgrace,
Because we stang'd her through the place,
An' hurt her spleuchan;
For whilk we daurna show our face
Within the clachan.

III

An' now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi' constables—thae blackguard fallows—
An' sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu' death!

IV

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel'—
O, shake him owre the mouth o' Hell!
There let him hing, an' roar, an' yell
Wi' hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
Then heave him in!

V

When Death comes in wi' glimmerin blink,
An' tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup a clink
Within his yett,
An' fill her up wi' brimstone drink
Red-reekin het.

VI

Though Jock an' hav'rel Jean are merry,
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
An' waft them in th'infernal wherry
Straught through the lake,
An' gie their hides a noble curry
Wi' oil of aik!

VII

As for the jurr—puir worthless body!—
She's got mischief enough already;
Wi' stanget hips and buttocks bluidy
She's suffer'd sair;
But may she wintle in a woody
If she whore mair!

NATURE'S LAW

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQUIRE

Great Nature spoke, observant man obeyed.
POPE.

I

Let other heroes boast their scars,
The marks o' sturt and strife,
But other poets sing of wars,
The plagues o' human life!
Shame fa' the fun: wi' sword and gun
To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name and nobler fame
Wha multiplies our number.

II

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 poured it in each bosom;
Here on this hand does Mankind stand.
And there, is Beauty's blossom!’

III

The Hero of these artless strains,
A lowly Bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains
With meikle mirth and 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.

IV

He felt the powerful, high behest
Thrill vital thro' and thro';
And sought a correspondent breast
To give obedience due.
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs
From mildews of abortion;
And lo! the Bard—a great reward—
Has got a double portion!

V

Auld cantie Coil may count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra's equal sway,
That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes an' other times
To emulate his sire,
To sing auld Coil in nobler style
With more poetic fire!

VI

Ye Powers of peace and peaceful song,
Look down with gracious eyes,
And bless auld Coila large and long
With multiplying joys!
Lang may she stand to prop the land,
The flow'r of ancient nations,
And Burnses spring her fame to sing
To endless generations!

LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER

I

This wot ye all whom it concerns:
I, Rhymer Rab, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,
Sae far I sprachl'd up the brae
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

II

I've been at drucken Writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly Priests—
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!—
I've even join'd the honor'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships o' the Quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

III

But wi' a Lord!—stand out my shin!
A Lord, a Peer, an Earl's son!—
Up higher yet, my bonnet!
An' sic a Lord!—lang Scotch ell twa
Our Peerage he looks o'er them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

IV

But O, for Hogarth's magic pow'r
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,
An' how he star'd an' stammer'd,
When, goavin's he'd been led wi' branks,
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd!

V

To meet good Stewart little pain is,
Or Scotia's sacred Demosthénes:
Thinks I: ‘They are but men’!
But ‘Burns’!—‘My Lord’!—Good God! I doited,
My knees on ane anither knoited
As faultering I gaed ben.

VI

I sidling shelter'd in a neuk,
An' at his Lordship staw a leuk,

Like some portentous omen:
Except good sense and social glee
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,
I markèd nought uncommon.

VII

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!

VIII

Then from his Lordship I shall learn
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as well's another;
Nae honest, worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthfu' Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

I

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang,

An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

II

A' down my beard the slavers trickle,
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup,
An', raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were i' their doup!

III

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neebors sympathise to ease us
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee!—thou hell o' a' diseases,
They mock our groan!

IV

Of a' the num'rous human dools—
Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools—
Thou bear'st the gree!

V

Whare'er that place be priests ca' Hell,
Whare a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' rankèd plagues their numbers tell
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

VI

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel
Till humankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's toothache.

LAMENT FOR THE ABSENCE OF WILLIAM CREECH, PUBLISHER

I

Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest
Can yield ava:
Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
Willie,'s awa.

II

O, Willie was a witty wight,
And had o' things an unco sleight!
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight
And trig an' braw;
But now they'll busk her like a fright—
Willie's awa!

III

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd—
That was a law:
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd—
Willie's awa!

IV

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools
Frae colleges and boarding schools
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw:
He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie,'s awa!

V

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour:

He was a dictionar and grammar
Amang them a'.
I fear they'll now mak monie a stammer:
Willie's awa!

VI

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and Poets pour,
And toothy Critics by the score
In bloody raw:
The adjutant of a' the core,
Willie,'s awa!

VII

Now worthy Greg'ry's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace,
M'Kenzie, Stewart, such a brace
As Rome ne'er saw,
They a' maun meet some ither place—
Willie's awa!

VIII

Poor Burns ev'n ‘Scotch Drink’ canna quicken:
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin
By hoodie-craw.
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin—
Willie's awa!

IX

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd, girnin blellum,
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic-skellum
His quill may draw:
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,
Willie,'s awa!

X

Up wimpling, stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks, now roaring red
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure's fled:
Willie's awa!

XI

May I be Slander's common speech,
A text for Infamy to preach,
And, lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw,
When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
Tho' far awa!

XII

May never wicked Fortune touzle him,
May never wicked men bamboozle him,

Until a pow as auld's Methusalem
He canty claw!
Then to the blessed new Jerusalem
Fleet-wing awa!

VERSES IN FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE

Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul:

Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame a restless airy dream;
Pleasures, insects on the wing
Round Peace, th'tend'rest flow'r 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 can'st guard;
But, thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Follies past give thou to air—
Make their consequence thy care.
Keep the name of Man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart
Him, whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still in view—
Thy trust, and thy example too.

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman on Nidside.

ELEGY ON THE DEPARTED YEAR 1788

For lords or kings I dinna mourn;
E'en let them die—for that they're born;
But O, prodigious to reflect,
A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-Eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdie cocks:
The tane is game, a bluidie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's dour—has nae sic breedin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-Eight, he wished you weel,
An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal:
E'en monie a plack and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien':
In Eighty-Eight, ye ken, was taen
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

Observe the vera nowte an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowilie they creep!
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For Embro' wells are grutten dry!

O Eighty-Nine, thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy Daddie's chair:

Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, half-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.

CASTLE GORDON

I

Streams that glide in Orient plains,
Never bound by Winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There immixed with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled hands;
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves:
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle Gordon.

II

Spicy forests ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil;
Or, the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood and spoil;

Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave:
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms of Castle Gordon.

III

Wildly here without control
Nature reigns, and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,
She plants the forest, pours the flood.
Life's poor day I'll, musing, rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave
By bonie Castle Gordon.

ON THE DUCHESS OF GORDON'S REEL DANCING

I

She kiltit up her kirtle weel
To show her bonie cutes sae sma',
And wallopèd about the reel,
The lightest louper o' them a'!

II

While some, like slav'ring, doited stots
Stoit'ring out thro' the midden dub,
Fankit their heels amang their coats
And gart the floor their backsides rub;

III

Gordon, the great, the gay, the gallant,
Skip't like a maukin owre a dyke:
Deil tak me, since I was a callant,
Gif e'er my een beheld the like!

ON CAPTAIN GROSE

WRITTEN ON AN ENVELOPE, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO HIM

I

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

II

Is he south, or is he north?
Igo and ago
Or drownèd in the River Forth?
Iram, coram, dago

III

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

IV

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

V

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him!
Igo and ago
As for the Deil, he daur na steer him.
Iram, coram, dago

VI

But please transmit th'enclosèd letter
Igo and ago
Which will oblige your humble debtor
Iram, coram, dago

VII

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

VIII

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

NEW YEAR'S DAY 1791

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

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

First, what did yesternight deliver?
‘Another year has gone for ever.’
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
‘The passing moment's all we rest on!’
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:
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 honor'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.

FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA

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

‘Alas! I feel I am no actor here!’
'Tis real hangmen real scourges bear!
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,
By barber woven and by barber sold,
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare!

The hero of the mimic scene, no more
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;
Or, haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms,
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms:
While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,
And steal me from Maria's prying eye.
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress,
Now, prouder still, Maria's temples press!
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war!
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze!
The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan'd lines
For other wars, where he a hero shines;
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,
Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display
That Veni, vidi, vici, is his way;
The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks,
Though there his heresies in Church and State
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she, undaunted, reels and rattles on,
And dares the public like a noontide sun.
What scandal called Maria's jaunty stagger
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?
Whose spleen (e'en worse than Burns's 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 bemus'd,
And even th'abuse of Poesy abus'd?
Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made
For motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed?

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

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

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares,
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares:
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hurls!

Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit!
Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that decyphering defy,
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!