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

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a', man:
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals?
They carry the gree frae them a', man.

208

II

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare't:
Braid money to tocher them a', man;
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

III

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

IV

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man.

V

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',
A hint o' a rival or twa, man:
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.

VI

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed
For mair than a towmond or twa, man:
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a', man.

209

VII

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a', man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.

VIII

If I should detail the pick and the wale
O' lasses that live here awa, man,
The faut wad be mine, if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.

IX

I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.

X

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse
Nor hae't in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach's as proud as them a', man.

XI

Though I canna ride in well-booted pride,
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

210

XII

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best;
O' pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man,
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

XIII

My sarks they are few, but five o' them new—
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man!
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat—
There are no monie Poets sae braw, man!

XIV

I never had frien's weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants
And wish them in hell for it a', man.

XV

I never was cannie for hoarding o' money,
Or claughtin't together at a', man;
I've little to spend and naething to lend,
But devil a shilling I awe, man.

211

I'LL GO AND BE A SODGER

I

O, why the deuce should I repine,
And be an ill foreboder?
I'm twenty-three and five feet nine,
I'll go and be a sodger.

II

I gat some gear wi' meikle care,
I held it weel thegither;
But now it's gane—and something mair:
I'll go and be a sodger.

APOSTROPHE TO FERGUSSON

INSCRIBED ABOVE AND BELOW HIS PORTRAIT

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the Muse,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unfitted for the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

212

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE

I

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'.

II

Miss Millar is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw,
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton;
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

AH, WOE IS ME, MY MOTHER DEAR

Jeremiah, chap. xv. verse 10

I

Ah, woe is me, my Mother dear!
A man of strife ye've born me:
For sair contention I maun bear;
They hate, revile, and scorn me.

213

II

I ne'er could lend on bill or band,
That five per cent. might blest me;
And borrowing, on the tither hand,
The deil a ane wad trust me.

III

Yet I, a coin-denyèd wight,
By Fortune quite discarded,
Ye see how I am day and night
By lad and lass blackguarded!

INSCRIBED ON A WORK OF HANNAH MORE'S

PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY

Thou flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor!
Tho' sweetly female ev'ry part,
Yet such a head and—more—the heart
Does both the sexes honor:

214

She show'd her taste refin'd and just,
When she selected thee,
Yet deviating, own I must,
For so approving me:
But, kind still, I mind still
The giver in the gift;
I'll bless her, and wiss her
A Friend aboon the lift.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source of a' my woe and grief,
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy curs'd restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victims' spoil;
And for thy potence vainly wish'd
To crush the villain in the dust.
For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

Kyle

215

THE FAREWELL

The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single woes?
But when, alas! he multiplies himself,
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children,—then, Oh then he feels
The point of misery festering in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:
Such, such am I!—undone!
THOMSON'S Edward and Eleanora

I

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear
A brother's sigh, a sister's tear,
My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! Tho' thou 'rt bereft
Of my paternal care,
A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,
My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,
O, then befriend my Jean!

216

II

What bursting anguish tears my heart?
From thee, my Jeany, must I part?
Thou, weeping, answ'rest: ‘No!’
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace—
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu:
I with a much-indebted tear
Shall still remember you!
All-hail, then, the gale then
Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
It rustles, and whistles—
I'll never see thee more!

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX

I

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;
Cauld Poverty wi' hungry stare
Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious Fear, nor cankert Care,
E'er mair come near him.

217

II

To tell the truth, they seldom fash'd him,
Except the moment that they crush'd him;
For sune as Chance or Fate had hush'd 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd 'em,
And thought it sport.

III

Tho' he was bred to kintra-wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark
To mak a man;
But tell him, he was learned and clark,
Ye roos'd him then!

VERSES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE

I

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow?
And whose that eye of fire?
And whose that generous princely mien,
Ev'n rooted foes admire?

218

II

Stranger! to justly show that brow
And mark that eye of fire,
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints
His other works admire!

III

Bright as a cloudless summer sun,
With stately port he moves;
His guardian Seraph eyes with awe
The noble Ward he loves.

IV

Among the illustrious Scottish sons
That Chief thou may'st discern:
Mark Scotia's fond-returning eye—
It dwells upon Glencairn.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR

I

The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
Th'inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air,
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

219

II

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;
Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well,
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred Fane.

III

Th'increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks,
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

IV

The paly moon rose in the livid east,
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

V

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow:
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd,
Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued;

VI

Revers'd that spear redoubtable in war,
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

220

VII

‘My patriot son fills an untimely grave!’
With accents wild and lifted arms, she cried;
‘Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save,
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honor's pride.

VIII

‘A weeping country joins a widow's tear;
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;
The drooping Arts surround their patron's bier;
And grateful Science heaves the heart-felt sigh.

IX

‘I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow.
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.

X

‘My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No: every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.

XI

‘And I will join a mother's tender cares
Thro' future times to make his virtues last,
That distant years may boast of other Blairs!’—
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

221

ON THE DEATH OF LORD PRESIDENT DUNDAS

Lone on the bleaky hills, the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down foam the rivulets, red with dashing rains;
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a hollow moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves,
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly,
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore!
O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow,
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

222

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men.
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes!
Keen on the helpless victim let him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry!
Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times!
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way;
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong!
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th'unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th'unpitied wail!

Ye dark, waste hills, ye brown, unsightly plains,
Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains.
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure:
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

223

ELEGY ON WILLIE NICOL'S MARE

I

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare
As ever trod on airn;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

II

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
An' rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.

III

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

IV

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
An' the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd, and bruis'd she was,
As priest-rid cattle are.

224

LINES ON FERGUSSON

I

Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson!
What heart that feels, and will not yield a tear
To think Life's sun did set, e'er well begun
To shed its influence on thy bright career!

II

O, why should truest Worth and Genius pine
Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe,
While titled knaves and idiot-greatness shine
In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO

I

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious Death so triumph'd in a blow
As that which laid th'accomplish'd Burnet low.

II

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee high Heaven above was truest shown,
For by His noblest work the Godhead best is known.

225

III

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves!
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm: Eliza is no more.

IV

Ye heathy wastes immix'd with reedy fens,
Ye mossy streams with sedge and rushes stor'd,
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly: ye with my soul accord.

V

Princes whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail,
And thou, sweet Excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a Muse with honest grief bewail?

VI

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride
And Virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres;
But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,
Thou left us darkling in a world of tears.

VII

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care!
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree,
So, rudely ravish'd, left it bleak and bare.

226

PEGASUS AT WANLOCKHEAD

I

With Pegasus upon a day
Apollo, weary flying
(Through frosty hills the journey lay),
On foot the way was plying.

II

Poor slip-shod, giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes
To get a frosty caulker.

III

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack—
Sol paid him in a sonnet.

IV

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster!
My Pegasus is poorly shod—
I'll pay you like my master!

Ramage's, 3 o'clock

227

ON SOME COMMEMORATIONS OF THOMSON

I

Dost thou not rise, indignant Shade,
And smile wi' spurning scorn,
When they wha wad hae starved thy life
Thy senseless turf adorn?

II

They wha about thee mak sic fuss
Now thou art but a name,
Wad seen thee damn'd ere they had spar'd
Ae plack to fill thy wame.

III

Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae
Wi' meikle honest toil,
And claucht th'unfading garland there,
Thy sair-won, rightful spoil.

IV

And wear it there! and call aloud
This axiom undoubted:—
Would thou hae Nobles' patronage?
First learn to live without it!

228

V

‘To whom hae much, more shall be given’
Is every great man's faith;
But he, the helpless, needful wretch,
Shall lose the mite he hath.

ON GENERAL DUMOURIER'S DESERTION

FROM THE FRENCH REPUBLICAN ARMY

I

You're welcome to Despots,
Dumourier!
You're welcome to Despots,
Dumourier!
How does Dampiere do?
Ay, and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you,
Dumourier?

II

I will fight France with you,
Dumourier,
I will fight France with you,
Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you,
By my soul, I'll dance with you,
Dumourier!

229

III

Then let us fight about,
Dumourier!
Then let us fight about,
Dumourier!
Then let us fight about
Till Freedom's spark be out,
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt,
Dumourier.

ON JOHN M'MURDO

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day!
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray!
No wrinkle furrow'd by the hand of care,
Nor ever sorrow, add one silver hair!
O may no son the father's honor stain,
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain!

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow.

230

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day,
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys:
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care,
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

IMPROMPTU ON MRS. RIDDELL'S BIRTHDAY

4TH NOVEMBER 1793

I

Old Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:—
‘What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny, English hanging, drowning.

231

II

Now Jove, for once be mighty civil:
To counterbalance all this evil
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.’
‘'Tis done!’ says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more,
Nor pour your descant grating on my soul!
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar!
How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend.
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And sooth the Virtues weeping o'er his bier!
The man of worth—and ‘hath not left his peer’!—
Is in his ‘narrow house’ for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss will only meet.

232

A SONNET UPON SONNETS

Fourteen, a sonneteer thy praises sings;
What magic myst'ries in that number lie!
Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings
That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly.
Fourteen full pounds the jockey's stone must be;
His age fourteen—a horse's prime is past.
Fourteen long hours too oft the Bard must fast;
Fourteen bright bumpers—bliss he ne'er must see!
Before fourteen, a dozen yields the strife;
Before fourteen—e'en thirteen's strength is vain.
Fourteen good years—a woman gives us life;
Fourteen good men—we lose that life again.
What lucubrations can be more upon it?
Fourteen good measur'd verses make a sonnet.