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

The Poetry of Robert Burns

Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson

Burns, Robert (1759-1796)

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III.

IV.

IMPROBABLES

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF DRUMLANRIG WOODS

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER

WHY SHOULD WE IDLY WASTE OUR PRIME

ON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOURITE CHILD

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD

ADDENDUM TO MALLY'S MEEK

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IMPROBABLES

ON ROUGH ROADS

I'm now arriv'd—thanks to the Gods!—
Through pathways rough and muddy:
A certain sign that makin' roads
Is no this people's study.
Yet, though I'm no wi' scripture cramm'd,
I'm sure the Bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damn'd,
Unless they mend their ways.

ELEGY ON STELLA

I

Strait is the spot, and green the sod,
From whence my sorrows flow;
And soundly sleeps the ever dear
Inhabitant below.

II

Pardon my transport, gentle shade,
While o'er the turf I bow!
Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd,
And solitary now!

III

Not one poor stone to tell thy name
Or make thy virtues known!
But what avails to thee—to me—
The sculpture of a stone?

IV

I'll sit me down upon this turf,
And wipe away this tear.
The chill blast passes swiftly by,
And flits around thy bier.

V

Dark is the dwelling of the dead,
And sad their house of rest:
Low lies the head by Death's cold arm
In awful fold embraced.

VI

I saw the grim Avenger stand
Incessant by thy side;
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath
Thy lingering frame destroy'd.

VII

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,
And wither'd was thy bloom,
Till the slow poison brought thy youth
Untimely to the tomb.

VIII

Thus wasted are the ranks of men—
Youth, health, and beauty fall!
The ruthless ruin spreads around,
And overwhelms us all.

IX

Behold where, round thy narrow house,
The graves unnumber'd lie!
The multitude, that sleep below,
Existed but to die.

X

Some with the tottering steps of Age
Trod down the darksome way;
And some in Youth's lamented prime,
Like thee, were torn away.

XI

Yet these, however hard their fate,
Their native earth receives:
Amid their weeping friends they died,
And fill their fathers' graves.

XII

From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart,
Was taught by Heaven to glow,
Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke
Surpris'd, and laid thee low.

XIII

At the last limits of our Isle,
Wash'd by the western wave,
Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful Bard
Sits lonely on thy grave!

XIV

Pensive he eyes, before him spread,
The deep, outstretch'd and vast.
His mourning notes are borne away
Along the rapid blast.

XV

And while, amid the silent dead,
Thy hapless fate he mourns,
His own long sorrows freshly bleed,
And all his grief returns.

XVI

Like thee, cut off in early youth
And flower of beauty's pride,
His friend, his first and only joy,
His much-lov'd Stella died.

XVII

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate
Resistless bears along,
And the same rapid tide shall whelm
The Poet and the Song.

XVIII

The tear of pity, which he shed,
He asks not to receive:
Let but his poor remains be laid
Obscurely in the grave!

XIX

His grief-worn heart with truest joy
Shall meet the welcome shock;
His airy harp shall lie unstrung
And silent on the rock.

XX

O my dear maid, my Stella, when
Shall this sick period close,
And lead the solitary Bard
To his belov'd repose?

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY

I

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!

II

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

III

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

IV

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

V

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?

VI

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.

VII

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

VIII

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonie lasses bleach their claes,

Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.

IX

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

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF DRUMLANRIG WOODS

I

As on the banks of winding Nith
Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd,
And traced its bonie holms and haughs,
Where linties sang, and lammies play'd,
I sat me down upon a craig,
And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When from the eddying deep below
Up rose the Genius of the Stream.

II

Dark like the frowning rock his brow,
And troubled like his wintry wave,
And deep as sughs the boding wind
Amang his caves the sigh he gave.
‘And come ye here, my son,’ he cried,
‘To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

III

‘There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool;
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool;

IV

‘When, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd
The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And peaceful rose its ingle reek,
That, slowly curling, clamb the hill.
But now the cot is bare and cauld,
Its leafy bield for ever gane,
And scarce a stinted birk is left
To shiver in the blast its lane.’

V

‘Alas!’ quoth I, ‘what ruefu' chance
Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?
Has laid your rocky bosom bare?
Has stripp'd the cleeding aff your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern blast,
That scatters blight in early spring?
Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs?
Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?’

VI

‘Nae eastlin blast,’ the Sprite replied—
‘It blaws na here sae fierce and fell,
And on my dry and halesome banks
Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:
Man! cruel man!’ the Genius sigh'd,
As through the cliffs he sank him down:
‘The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees,
That reptile wears a Ducal crown.’

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER

I

I married with a scolding wife
The fourteenth of November:
She made me weary of my life
By one unruly member.

Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended,
But to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended!

II

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years
A man and wife together.
At length from me her course she steer'd
And gone I know not whither.
Would I could guess, I do profess:
I speak, and do not flatter,
Of all the women in the world,
I never would come at her!

III

Her body is bestowèd well—
A handsome grave does hide her.
But sure her soul is not in Hell—
The Deil would ne'er abide her!
I rather think she is aloft
And imitating thunder,
For why?—Methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder!

WHY SHOULD WE IDLY WASTE OUR PRIME

I

Why should we idly waste our prime
Repeating our oppressions?
Come rouse to arms! 'Tis now the time
To punish past transgressions.
'Tis said that Kings can do no wrong—
Their murderous deeds deny it,
And, since from us their power is sprung,
We have a right to try it.
Now each true patriot's song shall be:—
‘Welcome Death or Libertie!’

II

Proud Priests and Bishops we'll translate
And canonize as Martyrs;
The guillotine on Peers shall wait;
And Knights shall hang in garters.
Those Despots long have trode us down,
And Judges are their engines:
Such wretched minions of a Crown
Demand the people's vengeance!
To-day 'tis theirs. To-morrow we
Shall don the Cap of Libertie!

III

The Golden Age we'll then revive:
Each man will be a brother;
In harmony we all shall live,
And share the earth together;
In Virtue train'd, enlighten'd Youth
Will love each fellow-creature;
And future years shall prove the truth
That Man is good by nature:
Then let us toast with three times three
The reign of Peace and Libertie!

THE TREE OF LIBERTY

I

Heard ye o' the Tree o' France,
And wat ye what's the name o't?
Around it a' the patriots dance—
Weel Europe kens the fame o't!
It stands where ance the Bastile stood—
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.

II

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man:
It raises man aboon the brute,
It mak's him ken himsel', man!
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

III

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth:
To comfort us 'twas sent, man,
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak' us a' content, man!
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Mak's high and low guid friends, man,
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.

IV

My blessings ay attend the chiel,
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o' the Deil,
Frae 'yont the western waves, man!
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,
And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.

V

But vicious folk ay hate to see
The works o' Virtue thrive, man:
The courtly vermin's bann'd the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man!
King Louis thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma', man;
For this the watchman crack'd his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.

VI

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak' a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime—
I wat they pledg'd their faith, man!
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,
And wish'd they'd been at hame, man.

VII

Fair Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man.
She sang a sang o' Liberty,
Which pleas'd them ane and a', man.
By her inspir'd, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man.
The hirelings ran—her foes gied chase,
And bang'd the despot weel, man.

VIII

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar, and her pine, man!
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man!
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

IX

Without this tree alake this life
Is but a vale o' woe, man,
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man;
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man,
And a' the comfort we 're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.

X

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man.
The sword would help to mak' a plough,
The din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.

XI

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man!
I'd gie the shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste the fruit o't here, man!
Syne let us pray, Auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and herald the day
That gives us libertý, man.

TO A KISS

I

Humid seal of soft affections,
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss!

II

Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste confession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!

III

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
Ling'ring lips—no more must join!
Words can never speak affection,
Thrilling and sincere as thine!

DELIA

AN ODE

I

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose:
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.

II

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear:
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

III

The flower-enamoured busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip:

IV

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O, let me steal one liquid kiss!
For O! my soul is parch'd with love!

TO THE OWL

I

Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth,
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?
Is it some blast that gathers in the north,
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r?

II

Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?
Or friendless Melancholy bids thee mourn?

III

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train,
To tell thy sorrows to th'unheeding gloom,
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home,

IV

Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song.
Sing on, sad mourner! To the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.

V

Is Beauty less, when down the glowing cheek
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to Pity's call?

VI

Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,
That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there?
That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can't repeat,
That Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair!

VII

Nor that the treble songsters of the day,
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night, from thee!
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie!

VIII

From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,
While the gray walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods:

IX

There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee,
Than ever lover to the nightingale,
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale!

THE VOWELS

A TALE

'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 A B C 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 his way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!

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

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

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

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

ON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOURITE CHILD

I

Now health forsakes that angel face.
Nae mair my dearie smiles.
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,
And a' my hopes beguiles.

II

The cruel Powers reject the prayer
I hourly mak' for thee:
Ye Heavens! how great is my despair!
How can I see him die!

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD

I

O, sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, for ever!
For ever?—O no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever!

II

Though cold be the clay, where thou pillow'st thy head
In the dark, silent mansions of sorrow,
The spring shall return to thy low, narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

III

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,
When thou shrank frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,
And nestled thee close to that bosom.

IV

O, still I behold thee, all lovely in death,
Reclined on the lap of thy mother,
When the tear-trickle bright, when the short stifled breath
Told how dear ye were ay to each other.

V

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,
Where suffering no longer can harm thee:
Where the songs of the Good, where the hymns of the Blest
Through an endless existence shall charm thee!

VI

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

ADDENDUM TO MALLY'S MEEK

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes tumbling down her swan-white neck,
And her twa eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck!