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

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

ON JOHN RANKINE

Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad
And monie a guilt-bespotted lad:

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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 himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glow'ring at the bitches:—
‘By God I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
Without at least ae honest man
To grace this damn'd infernal clan!’
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
‘Lord God!’ quoth he, ‘I have it now,
There's just the man I want, i' faith!’
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

ON TAM THE CHAPMAN

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

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ON HOLY WILLIE

I

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has taen some other way—
I fear, the left-hand road.

II

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!

III

Your brunstane Devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye!
But haud your nine-tail-cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

IV

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane.
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

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V

But hear me, Sir, Deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit:
A cuif like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it!

ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER

I

Here lies Johnie Pigeon:
What was his religion
Whae'er desires to ken
To some other warl'
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!

II

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

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ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE

I

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a',
He aften did assist ye;
For had ye staid hale weeks awa',
Your wives they ne'er had missed ye!

II

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass
To school in bands thegither,
O, tread ye lightly on his grass—
Perhaps he was your father!

ON ROBERT FERGUSSON

ON THE TOMBSTONE IN THE CANONGATE CHURCHYARD

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON BORN SEPT. 5TH, 1751 DIED OCT. 16TH, 1774

No sculptur'd Marble here, nor pompous lay,
No storied Urn nor animated Bust;
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrow o'er the Poet's dust.

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ADDITIONAL STANZAS

NOT INSCRIBED

I

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate:
Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd,
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State,
And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admir'd.

II

This humble tribute with a tear he gives,
A brother Bard—he can no more bestow:
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
A nobler monument than Art can show.

FOR WILLIAM NICOL

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

FOR MR. WILLIAM MICHIE

SCHOOLMASTER OF CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE

Here lie Willie Michie's banes:
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o' your weans,
For clever deils he'll mak them!

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FOR WILLIAM CRUICKSHANK, A.M.

Now honest William's gaen to Heaven,
I wat na gin't can mend him:
The fauts he had in Latin lay,
For nane in English kent them.

ON ROBERT MUIR

What man could esteem, or what woman could love,
Was he who lies under this sod:
If such Thou refusest admission above,
Then whom wilt Thou favour, Good God?

ON A LAP-DOG

I

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

II

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

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MONODY

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE

I

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

II

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

III

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

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IV

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

V

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

THE EPITAPH

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

FOR MR. WALTER RIDDELL

So vile was poor Wat, such a miscreant slave,
That the worms ev'n damn'd him when laid in his grave.
‘In his scull there's a famine,’ a starved reptile cries;
‘And his heart, it is poison,’ another replies.

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ON A NOTED COXCOMB

CAPT. WM. RODDICK, OF CORBISTON

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

ON CAPT. LASCELLES

When Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart,
Some friends warmly spoke of embalming his heart.
A bystander whispers:—‘Pray don't make so much o't—
The subject is poison, no reptile will touch it.’

ON A GALLOWAY LAIRD

NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who taught that not the soul alone
But body too shall rise!
For had He said:—‘The soul alone
From death I will deliver,’
Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
Then hadst thou lain for ever!

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ON WM. GRAHAM OF MOSSKNOWE

‘Stop thief!’ Dame Nature call'd to Death,
As Willie drew his latest breath:
‘How shall I make a fool again?
My choicest model thou hast taen.’

ON JOHN BUSHBY OF TINWALD DOWNS

Here lies John Bushby—honest man!
Cheat him, Devil—if you can!

ON A SUICIDE

Here lies in earth a root of Hell
Set by the Deil's ain dibble:
This worthless body damn'd himsel
To save the Lord the trouble.

ON A SWEARING COXCOMB

Here cursing, swearing Burton lies,
A buck, a beau, or ‘Dem my eyes!’
Who in his life did little good,
And his last words were:—‘Dem my blood!’

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ON AN INNKEEPER NICKNAMED ‘THE MARQUIS’

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

ON GRIZZEL GRIMME

Here lyes with Dethe auld Grizzel Grimme
Lincluden's ugly witche.
O Dethe, an' what a taste hast thou
Cann lye with siche a bitche!

FOR GABRIEL RICHARDSON

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.

ON THE AUTHOR

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and deid,
And a green, grassy hillock hides his heid:
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!