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

I am a keeper of the law
In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me, gin I fa'
Ae way or ither,
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',
Breaks a' thegither.

II

I hae been in for 't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice,
Yet never met wi' that surprise
That broke my rest.
But now a rumour's like to rise—
A whaup's i' the nest!

TO JOHN GOLDIE

AUGUST 1785

I

O Goudie, terror o' the Whigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs!

Sour Bigotry on her last legs
Girns and looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.

II

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition!
Wae's me, she's in a sad condition!
Fye! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water!
Alas! there's ground for great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

III

Enthusiasm's past redemption
Gane in a gallopin consumption:
Not a' her quacks wi' a' their gumption
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption
She'll soon surrender.

IV

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An' fights for breath:
Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,
Near unto death!

V

'Tis you an' Taylor are the chief
To blame for a' this black mischief;
But, gin the Lord's ain folk gat leave,
A toom tar barrel
An' twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.

VI

For me, my skill's but very sma',
An' skill in prose I've nane ava';
But, quietlenswise between us twa,
Weel may ye speed!
And, tho' they sud you sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head!

VII

E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel ay chap the thicker,
And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
O' something stout!
It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,
An' helps his wit.

VIII

There's naething like the honest nappy:
Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,

Or women sonsie, saft, and sappy
'Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie
In glass or horn?

IX

I've seen me daez't upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae hauf-mutchkin does me prime
(Ought less is little);
Then back I rattle on the rhyme
As gleg's a whittle.

TO J. LAPRAIK

(THIRD EPISTLE)

I

Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonie!
Now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie
The staff o' bread,
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head!

II

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs
Like drivin wrack!
But may the tapmost grain that wags
Come to the sack!

III

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 onie clark.

IV

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!

V

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells!
Let's sing about our noble sel's:

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help or roose us,
But browster wives an' whisky stills—
They are the Muses!

VI

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it;
An' if ye mak' objections at it,
Then hand in nieve some day we'll knot it,
An' witness take;
An', when wi' usquabae we've wat it,
It winna break.

VII

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a' the vittel in the yard
An' theckit right,
I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter night.

VIII

Then Muse-inspirin aqua-vitæ
Shall mak us baith sae blythe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,
And be as canty
As ye were nine year less than thretty—
Sweet ane an' twenty!

IX

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,
And now the sinn keeks in the wast;
Then I maun rin amang the rest,
An' quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.

Sept. 13, 1785

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH

INCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED, SEPT. 17, 1785

I

While at the stook the shearers cow'r
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r,
Or, in gulravage rinnin, scowr:
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.

II

My Musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet
On gown an' ban' an' douse black-bonnet,

Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathém her.

III

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple, countra Bardie,
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy wi' a single wordie
Louse Hell upon me.

IV

But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers an' hauf-mile graces,
Their raxin conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

V

There's Gau'n, misca'd waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honor in his breast
Than monie scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus't him:
And may a Bard no crack his jest
What way they've use't him?

VI

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed—
An' shall his fame an' honor bleed
By worthless skellums,
An' not a Muse erect her head
To cowe the blellums?

VII

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud
Their jugglin, hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd!

VIII

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be
An atheist clean
Than under gospel colors hid be
Just for a screen.

IX

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.

X

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 streight.

XI

All hail, Religion! Maid divine,
Pardon a Muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee
To stigmatise false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.

XII

Tho' blotch't and foul wi' monie a stain
An' far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain
To join with those
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes:

XIII

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!

XIV

O 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.

XV

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd
(Which gies ye honor),
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
An' winning manner.

XVI

Pardon this freedom I have taen,
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.

TO DAVIE

SECOND EPISTLE

Auld Neebor,

I

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair:
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter
Some less maun sair.

II

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld grey hairs!

III

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 lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic han's as you sud ne'er be faiket,
Be hain't wha like.

IV

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink
Wi' jads or Masons,
An' whyles, but ay owre late I think,
Braw sober lessons.

V

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man
Commen' me to the Bardie clan:
Except it be some idle plan
O' rhymin clink—
The devil-haet that I sud ban!—
They never think.

VI

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 scrievin,
An' fash nae mair.

VII

Leeze me on rhyme! It's ay a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

VIII

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 sae puir;
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie
Frae door to door!

TO JOHN KENNEDY, DUMFRIES HOUSE

I

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse
E'er bring you in by Mauchlin Corss
(Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy;
And down the gate in faith! they're worse
An' mair unchancy):

II

But as I'm sayin, please step to Dow's,
An' taste sic gear as Johnie brews,
Till some bit callan bring me news
That ye are there;
An' if we dinna hae a bowse,
I'se ne'er drink mair.

III

It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow;
But gie me just a true guid fallow
Wi' right ingíne,
And spunkie ance to mak us mellow,
An' then we'll shine!

IV

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.

V

But if, as I'm informèd weel,
Ye hate as ill's the vera Deil

The flinty heart that canna feel—
Come, sir, here's tae you!
Hae, there's my han', I wiss you weel,
An' Gude be wi' you!

Robt. Burness.

Mossgiel, 3rd March 1786.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE

RECOMMENDING A BOY

Mossgaville, May 3, 1786

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alías Laird M'Gaun,
Was here to hire yon lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
An' wad hae don't aff han';
But lest he learn the callan tricks—
As faith! I muckle doubt him—
Like scrapin out auld Crummie's nicks,
An' tellin lies about them,
As lieve then, I'd have then
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I hae na onie fear:
Ye'll catechise him every quirk,
An' shore him weel wi' ‘Hell’;
An' gar him follow to the kirk—
Ay when ye gang yoursel!
If ye, then, maun be then
Frae hame this comin Friday,
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae 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.

TO MR. M'ADAM OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN

IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER

I

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud.
‘See wha taks notice o' the Bard!’
I lap, and cry'd fu' loud.

II

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!

III

'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.

IV

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub
I independent stand ay;

V

And when those legs to guid warm kail
Wi' welcome canna bear me,
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
An' barley-scone shall cheer me.

VI

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' monie flow'ry simmers,
An' bless your bonie lasses baith
(I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers)!

VII

An' God bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry,
An' may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country!

REPLY TO AN INVITATION

Sir,

Yours this moment I unseal,
And faith! I'm gay and hearty.
To tell the truth and shame the Deil,
I am as fou as Bartie.

But Foorsday, Sir, my promise leal,
Expect me o' your partie,
If on a beastie I can speel
Or hurl in a cartie.

Yours,—Robert Burns.

Machlin, Monday Night, 10 o'clock

TO DR. MACKENZIE

An Invitation to a Masonic Gathering

Friday first's the day appointed
By our Right Worshipful Anointed
To hold our grand procession,
To get a blaud o' Johnie's morals,
An' taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels
I' th'way of our profession.
Our Master and the Brotherhood
Wad a' be glad to see you.
For me, I wad be mair than proud
To share the mercies wi' you.
If Death, then, wi' skaith then
Some mortal heart is hechtin,
Inform him, an' storm him,
That Saturday ye'll fecht him.

Robert Burns, D.M.

Mossgiel, 14th June, A.M. 5790

TO JOHN KENNEDY

A Farewell

Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you,
And 'mong her favourites admit you!
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,
May nane believe him!
And onie deil that thinks to get you,
Good Lord, deceive him!

TO WILLIE CHALMERS' SWEETHEART

I

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin:
Whyles owre a bush wi' downward crush
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

II

I doubt na, lass, that weel kend name
May cost a pair o' blushes:
I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm-urgèd wishes:
Your bonie face, sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours;
And faith! ye'll no be lost a whit,
Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers.

III

Auld Truth hersel might swear ye're fair,
And Honor safely back her;
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak her;
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers:
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers!

IV

I doubt na Fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd, pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore
And band upon his breastie;
But O, what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars?
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

V

Some gapin, glowrin countra laird
May warsle for your favour:
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver.
My bonie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa wi' Willie Chalmers.

VI

Forgive the Bard! My fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom
Inspires my Muse to gie'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May Powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your ámours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers!

TO AN OLD SWEETHEART

WRITTEN ON A COPY OF HIS POEMS

I

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere—
(Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows);

II

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.

EXTEMPORE TO GAVIN HAMILTON

STANZAS ON NAETHING

I

To you, Sir, this summons I've sent
(Pray, whip till the pownie is fraething!);
But if you demand what I want,
I honestly answer you—naething.

II

Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me
For idly just living and breathing,
While people of every degree
Are busy employed about—naething.

III

Poor Centum-per-Centum may fast,
And grumble his hurdies their claithing;
He'll find, when the balance is cast,
He's gane to the Devil for—naething.

IV

The courtier cringes and bows;
Ambition has likewise its plaything—
A coronet beams on his brows;
And what is a coronet?—Naething.

V

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;
But every good fellow will own
The quarrel is a' about—naething.

VI

The lover may sparkle and glow,
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing;
But marriage will soon let him know
He's gotten—a buskit-up naething.

VII

The Poet may jingle and rhyme
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
He's kindly rewarded with—naething.

VIII

The thundering bully may rage,
And swagger and swear like a heathen;
But collar him fast, I'll engage,
You'll find that his courage is—naething.

IX

Last night with a feminine Whig—
A poet she couldna put faith in!
But soon we grew lovingly big,
I taught her, her terrors were—naething.

X

Her Whigship was wonderful pleased,
But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing;
Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,
And kissed her, and promised her—naething.

XI

The priest anathèmas may threat—
Predicament, sir, that we're baith in;
But when Honor's reveillé is beat,
The holy artillery's—naething.

XII

And now I must mount on the wave:
My voyage perhaps there is death in;
But what is a watery grave?
The drowning a Poet is—naething.

XIII

And now, as grim Death's in my thought,
To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing:
My service as long as ye've ought,
And my friendship, by God, when ye've—naething.

REPLY TO A TRIMMING EPISTLE RECEIVED FROM A TAILOR

I

What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man, hae mercy wi' your natch!
Your bodkin's bauld:
I didna suffer half sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.

II

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!

III

King David o' poetic brief
Wrocht 'mang the lassies sic mischíef
As fill'd his after-life with grief
An' bloody rants;
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

IV

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld Cloven-Clootie's haunts
An unco slip yet,
An' snugly sit amang the saunts
At Davie's hip yet!

V

But, fegs! the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan
Than garrin lasses coup the cran,
Clean heels owre body,
An' sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.

VI

This leads me on to tell for sport
How I did wi' the Session sort:
Auld Clinkum at the inner port
Cried three times:—‘Robin!
Come hither lad, and answer for't,
Ye're blam'd for jobbin!’

VII

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session:

I made an open, fair confession—
I scorn'd to lie—
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

VIII

A fornicator-loun he call'd me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me.
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
‘But, what the matter?’
(Quo' I) ‘I fear unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better!’

IX

‘Geld you!’ (quo' he) ‘an' what for no?
If that your right hand, leg, or toe
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,
You should remember
To cut it aff; an' what for no
Your dearest member?’

X

‘Na, na’ (quo' I), ‘I'm no for that,
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't;
I'd rather suffer for my faut
A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,
Tho' I should rue it.

XI

‘Or, gin ye like to end the bother,
To please us a'—I've just ae ither:
When next wi' yon lass I forgather,
Whate'er betide it,
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither,
An' let her guide it.’

XII

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst of a',
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said ‘Guid-night,’ an' cam awa,
An' left the Session:
I saw they were resolvèd a'
On my oppression.

TO MAJOR LOGAN

I

Hail, thairm-inspirin, rattlin Willie!
Tho' Fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unbrack'd filly
Proud o' her speed.

102

IX

We've faults and failins—granted clearly!
We're frail, backsliding mortals merely;
Eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';
But still, but still—I like them dearly . . .
God bless them a'!

X

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
An' gart me weet my waukrife winkers
Wi' girnin spite.

XI

But by yon moon—and that's high swearin!—
An' every star within my hearin,
An' by her een wha was a dear ane
I'll ne'er forget,
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
In fair play yet!

XII

My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it;

103

Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted:
Then vive l'amour!

XIII

Faites mes baissemains respectueusè
To sentimental sister Susie
And honest Lucky: no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye
To grace your blood.

XIV

Nae mair at present can I measure,
An' trowth! my rhymin ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be't light, be't dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.

Robert Burns.

Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786

104

TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE

(MRS. SCOTT)

Guid Wife,

I

I mind it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An', tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn;
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass:
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stookèd raw,
Wi' clavers an' havers
Wearing the day awa.

II

E'en then, a wish (I mind its pow'r),
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
Some usefu' plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.

105

The rough burr-thistle spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear.
No nation, no station
My envy e'er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

III

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that hairst I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain.
I see her yet, the sonsie quean
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle!
I firèd, inspirèd,
At ev'ry kindling keek,
But, bashing and dashing,
I fearèd ay to speak.

IV

Hale to the sex! (ilk guid chiel says):
Wi' merry dance on winter days,

106

An' we to share in common!
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n below
Is rapture-giving Woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither:
She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her!
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

V

For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line!
The marl'd plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin owre my curple,
Than onie ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Farewell, then! lang hale, then,
An' plenty be your fa'!
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

R. Burns.

March, 1787

107

TO WM. TYTLER, ESQ., OF WOODHOUSELEE

WITH AN IMPRESSION OF THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT

I

Reverèd 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 despis'd and neglected!

II

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.

III

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.

108

IV

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.

V

But why of that epocha make such a fuss
That gave us the Hanover stem?
If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

VI

But loyalty—truce! we're on dangerous ground:
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine, to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

VII

I send you a trifle, a head of a Bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

VIII

Now Life's chilly evening dim-shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night;
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

109

TO MR. RENTON OF LAMERTON

Your billet, Sir, I grant receipt;
Wi' you I'll canter onie gate,
Tho' 'twere a trip to yon blue warl'
Where birkies march on burning marl:
Then, Sir, God willing, I'll attend ye,
And to His goodness I commend ye.

R. Burns.

TO MISS ISABELLA MACLEOD

Edinburgh, March 16, 1787

I

The crimson blossom charms the bee,
The summer sun the swallow:
So dear this tuneful gift to me
From lovely Isabella.

II

Her portrait fair upon my mind
Revolving time shall mellow,
And mem'ry's latest effort find
The lovely Isabella.

110

III

No Bard nor lover's rapture this
In fancies vain and shallow!
She is, so come my soul to bliss,
The Lovely Isabella!

TO SYMON GRAY

I

Symon Gray, you're dull to-day!
Dullness with redoubled sway
Has seized the wits of Symon Gray.

II

Dear Symon Gray, the other day
When you sent me some rhyme,
I could not then just ascertain
Its worth for want of time;

III

But now to-day, good Mr. Gray,
I've read it o'er and o'er:
Tried all my skill, but find I'm still
Just where I was before.

111

IV

We auld wives' minions gie our opinions,
Solicited or no;
Then of its fauts my honest thoughts
I'll give—and here they go:

V

Such damn'd bombást no age that's past
Can show, nor time to come;
So, Symon dear, your song I'll tear,
And with it wipe my bum.

TO MISS FERRIER

I

Nae heathen name shall I prefix
Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks
For rhyme-inspiring lasses.

II

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three
Made Homer deep their debtor;
But gien the body half an e'e,
Nine Ferriers wad done better!

112

III

Last day my mind was in a bog;
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping, cauld, prosaic fog
My very senses doited;

IV

Do what I dought to set her free,
My saul lay in the mire:
Ye turned a neuk, I saw your e'e,
She took the wing like fire!

V

The mournfu' sang I here enclose,
In gratitude I send you,
And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose,
A' guid things may attend you!

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA

I

When dear Clarinda, matchless fair,
First struck Sylvander's raptur'd view,
He gaz'd, he listened to despair—
Alas! 'twas all he dared to do.

113

II

Love from Clarinda's heavenly eyes
Transfix'd his bosom thro' and thro,
But still in Friendship's guarded guise—
For more the demon fear'd to do.

III

That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleaguer'd all perdu;
For frowning Honor kept his post—
To meet that frown he shrunk to do.

IV

His pangs the Bard refus'd to own,
Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew;
But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan—
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?

V

That heart, where motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honor true:
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend
Was what a lover, sure, might do!

VI

The Muse his ready quill employ'd;
No nearer bliss he could pursue;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd—
‘Send word by Charles how you do!’

114

VII

The chill behest disarm'd his Muse,
Till Passion all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
‘'Twas 'cause he'd nothing else to do.’

VIII

But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
For thee that deed I dare to do!

IX

O, could the Fates but name the price
Would bless me with your charms and you,
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,
If human art or power could do!

X

Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand
(Friendship, at least, I may avow),
And lay no more your chill command—
I'll write, whatever I've to do.

Sylvander.

Wednesday night

115

TO CLARINDA

WITH A PAIR OF WINE-GLASSES

I

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul
And Queen of Poetesses,
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses;

II

And fill them up with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge them to the generous toast:
‘The whole of human kind!’

III

‘To those who love us!’ second fill;
But not to those whom we love,
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third:—‘To thee and me, love!’

116

TO HUGH PARKER

In this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
Where words ne'er cros't the Muse's heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic shackles:
A land that Prose did never view it,
Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it:
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
I hear it—for in vain I leuk:
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel
Enhuskèd 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,
Dowie she saunters down Nithside,
And ay a westlin leuk she throws,
While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!

117

Was it for this wi' cannie care
Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?
At howes or hillocks never stumbled,
And late or early never grumbled?
O, 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 Phœbus bids good-morrow,
Down the Zodíac 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.

118

TO ALEX. CUNNINGHAM

Ellisland in Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788

I

My godlike friend—nay, do not stare:
You think the praise is odd-like?
But ‘God is Love,’ the saints declare;
Then surely thou art god-like!

II

And is thy ardour still the same,
And kindled still in Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano!

III

Even Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death's tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
May'st promise love immortal!

IV

Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try—
Marriage perhaps may mend them.

119

V

Sweet Anna has an air—a grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching!
She takes, she charms—but who can trace
The process of bewitching?

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY

REQUESTING A FAVOUR

When Nature her great master-piece design'd,
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all the wondrous plan,
She form'd of various stuff the various Man.

The useful many first, she calls them forth—
Plain plodding Industry and sober Worth:
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth;
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet—
The lead and buoy are needful to the net:
The caput mortuum of gross desires
Makes a material for mere knights and squires;
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow;
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,

120

Then marks th'unyielding mass with grave designs—
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes th'Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.

The order'd system fair before her stood;
Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good;
Yet 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 wages 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.

121

Viewing the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard tree to find;
In pity for his helpless woodbine state,
She clasp'd his tendrils round the truly great:
A title, and the only one I claim,
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

Pity the hapless Muses' tuneful 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 owns 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 distinguish'd—to bestow!
Whose arms of love would grasp all 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!

122

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 tax thy friendship at thy kind command.
But there are such who court the tuneful Nine
(Heavens! 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 you 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 grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want,
They dun Benevolence with shameless front;
Oblige them, patronise 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 pie-bald jacket let me patch once more!
On eighteenpence 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,
With man and nature fairer in her sight,
My Muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.

123

IMPROMPTU TO CAPTAIN RIDDELL

ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER

Ellisland, Monday Evening

I

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.

II

Our friends, the Reviewers,
Those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir;
But of meet or unmeet
In a fabric complete
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

III

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!

124

REPLY TO A NOTE FROM CAPTAIN RIDDELL

Ellisland

Dear Sir, at onie time or tide
I'd rather sit wi' you than ride,
Tho' 'twere wi' royal Geordie:
And trowth! your kindness soon and late
Aft gars me to mysel look blate—
The Lord in Heaven reward ye!

R. Burns.

TO JAMES TENNANT OF GLENCONNER

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on:
Smith wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till, wi' their logic-jargon tir'd
And in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal—
What wives and wabsters see and feel!

125

But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly:
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse
I pray and ponder butt the house;
My shins my lane I there sit roastin,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston;
Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a reál gospel groan.
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my een up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an' wale of honest men:
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
An' views beyond the grave comfórt him!
His worthy fam'ly far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my Mason-billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad and Meg the mither
Just five-and-forty years thegither!

126

And no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.
An', Lord, remember singing Sannock
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock!
And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy,
An' her kind stars hae airted till her
A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller!
My kindest, best respects, I sen' it,
To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet:
Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith! they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;
To grant a heart is fairly civil,
But to grant a maidenhead's the devil!
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,
May guardian angels tak a spell,
An' steer you seven miles south o' Hell!
But first, before you see Heaven's glory,
May ye get monie a merry story,
Monie a laugh and monie a drink,
And ay eneugh o' needfu' clink!

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you!
For my sake, this I beg it o' you:
Assist poor Simson a' ye can;
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man.
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,
Yours, saint or sinner,

Rab the Ranter.

127

TO JOHN M'MURDO

WITH SOME OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS

I

O, could I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send!
Because thy Joy in both would be
To share them with a friend!

II

But golden sands did never grace
The Heliconian stream;
Then take what gold could never buy—
An honest Bard's esteem.

SONNET TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR, 19TH AUGUST 1789

I call no Goddess to inspire my strains:
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns.
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.

128

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me along your wand'ring spheres
Only to number out a villain's years!

I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would, but cannot, speak the rest.

EPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK

Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789.

I

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kend it still, your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do!

II

The Ill-Thief blaw the Heron south,
And never drink be near his drouth!

129

He tauld mysel by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter:
I lippen'd to the chiel in trowth,
And bade nae better.

III

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one
To ware his theologic care on
And holy study,
And, tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,
E'en tried the body.

IV

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier?
I'm turned a gauger—Peace be here!
Parnassian queires, I fear, I fear,
Ye'll now disdain me,
And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me!

V

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
'Mang sons o' men.

130

VI

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.

VII

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 monie ithers;
But why should ae man better fare,
And a' men brithers?

VIII

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.

IX

But to conclude my silly rhyme
(I'm scant o' verse and scant o' time):

131

To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

X

My compliments to sister Beckie,
And eke the same to honest Lucky:
I wat she is a daintie chuckie
As e'er tread clay:
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay.

Robert Burns.

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This monie a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;

132

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 singing;
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 arses yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin 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

133

TO PETER STUART

Dear Peter, dear Peter,
We poor sons of metre
Are often negleckit, ye ken:
For instance your sheet, man
(Tho' glad I'm to see't, man),
I get it no ae day in ten.

TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ. OF TERRAUGHTIE

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY

I

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief!
Health ay unsour'd by care or grief!
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf
This natal morn:
I see thy life is stuff o' prief,
Scarce quite half-worn.

II

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven

134

(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka Poet)
On thee a tack o' seven times seven,
Will yet bestow it.

III

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthen'd days on thy blest morrow,
May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,
Nine miles an' hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure!

IV

But for thy friends, and they are monie,
Baith honest men and lasses bonie,
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie
In social glee,
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny
Bless them and thee!

V

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil, he daurna steer ye!
Your friends ay love, your foes ay fear ye!
For me, shame fa' me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,
While Burns they ca' me!

135

TO WILLIAM STEWART

In honest Bacon's ingle-neuk
Here maun I sit and think,
Sick o' the warld and warld's folk,
An' sick, damn'd sick, o' drink!
I see, I see there is nae help,
But still doun I maun sink,
Till some day laigh enough I yelp:—
‘Wae worth that cursed drink!’
Yestreen, alas! I was sae fu'
I could but yisk and wink;
And now, this day, sair, sair I rue
The weary, weary drink.
Satan, I fear thy sooty claws,
I hate thy brunstane stink,
And ay I curse the luckless cause—
The wicked soup o' drink.
In vain I would forget my woes
In idle rhyming clink,
For, past redemption damn'd in prose,
I can do nought but drink.
To you my trusty, well-tried friend,
May heaven still on you blink!
And may your life flow to the end,
Sweet as a dry man's drink!

136

INSCRIPTION TO MISS GRAHAM OF FINTRY

I

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,
Accept the gift! Though humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

II

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!

III

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!

Robert Burns.

Dumfries, 31st January 1794

137

REMORSEFUL APOLOGY

I

The friend whom, wild from Wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send
(Not moony madness more astray),
Who but deplores that hapless friend?

II

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.

TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL

I

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 an' reel
In my poor pouches!

II

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That One-pound-one, I sairly want it;

138

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,
I'd bear't in mind!

III

So may the Auld Year gang out moanin
To see the New come laden, groanin
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin
To thee and thine:
Domestic peace and comforts crownin
The hale design!

POSTSCRIPT

IV

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.

V

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 farewell Folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and ay!

139

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER

I

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal:
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill
And potion glasses.

II

O, what a canty warld were it,
Would pain and care and sickness spare it,
And Fortune favor worth and merit
As they deserve,
And ay rowth—roast-beef and claret!—
Syne, wha wad starve?

III

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!

140

IV

Then that curst carmagnole, Auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a ratton,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on—
He's aff like fire.

V

Ah Nick! Ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonie lasses rare,
To put us daft;
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O' Hell's damned waft!

VI

Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy damn'd auld elbow yeuks wi' joy
And hellish pleasure,
Already in thy fancy's eye
Thy sicker treasure!

VII

Soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,

141

Thy girnin laugh enjoys his pangs
And murdering wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassle.

VIII

But lest you think I am uncivil
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,
I quat my pen:
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil!
Amen! Amen!

TO MISS JESSIE LEWARS

Thine be the volumes, Jessie fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer:
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With ev'ry kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss 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.

Robert Burns.

June 26th, 1796

142

INSCRIPTION

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE LAST EDITION OF MY POEMS, PRESENTED TO THE LADY WHOM, IN SO MANY FICTITIOUS REVERIES OF PASSION, BUT WITH THE MOST ARDENT SENTIMENTS OF REAL FRIENDSHIP, I HAVE SO OFTEN SUNG UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS

I

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair Friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse;
Nor with unwilling ear attend
The moralising Muse.

II

Since thou in all thy youth and charms
Must bid the world adieu
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms),
To join the friendly few;

III

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lour
(And ne'er Misfortune's eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower);

143

IV

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!

V

Thine is the self-approving glow
Of conscious honor's part;
And (dearest gift of Heaven below)
Thine Friendship's truest heart;

VI

The joys refin'd of sense and taste,
With every Muse to rove:
And doubly were the Poet blest,
These joys could he improve.

Une Bagatelle de l' Amitié

Coila