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1

2. Volume II

THE JOLLY BEGGARS

A CANTATA

RECITATIVO

I

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or, wavering like the bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies:
Wi' quaffing and laughing
They ranted an' they sang,
Wi' jumping an' thumping
The vera girdle rang.

II

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags
2

And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm,
She blinket on her sodger.
An' ay he gies the tozie drab
The tither skelpin kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab
Just like an aumous dish:
Ilk smack still did crack still
Like onie cadger's whup;
Then, swaggering an' staggering,
He roar'd this ditty up:—

AIR
[_]

Tune: Soldier's Joy

I

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come:
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, etc.

II

My prenticeship I past, where my leader breath'd his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram;
3

And I servèd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd,
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

III

I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt'ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me, with Eliott to head me
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum.

IV

And now, tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum.

V

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home?
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of Hell at the sound of a drum.
Lal de daudle, etc.
4

RECITATIVO

He ended; and the kebars sheuk
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
An' seek the benmost bore:
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirl'd out Encore!
But up arose the martial chuck,
An' laid the loud uproar:—

AIR
[_]

Tune: Sodger Laddie

I

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men.
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie:
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie!
Sing, lal de dal, etc.

II

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade:
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.
5

III

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
He riskèd the soul, and I ventur'd the body:
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie.

IV

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot;
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready:
I askèd no more but a sodger laddie.

V

But the Peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair,
Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham Fair;
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy:
My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie.

VI

And now I have liv'd—I know not how long!
But still I can join in a cup and a song;
And whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!
Sing, lal de dal, etc.
6

RECITATIVO

Poor Merry-Andrew in the neuk
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,
Between themselves they were sae busy.
At length, wi' drink an' courting dizzy,
He stoiter'd up an' made a face;
Then turn'd an' laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace:—

AIR
[_]

Tune: Auld Sir Symon

I

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou;
Sir Knave is a fool in a session:
He's there but a prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.

II

My grannie she bought me a beuk,
An' I held awa to the school:
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?
7

III

For drink I wad venture my neck;
A hizzie's the half of my craft:
But what could ye other expect
Of ane that's avowedly daft?

IV

I ance was tyed up like a stirk
For civilly swearing and quaffing;
I ance was abus'd i' the kirk
For towsing a lass i' my daffin.

V

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport
Let naebody name wi' a jeer:
There's even, I'm tauld, i' the Court
A tumbler ca'd the Premier.

VI

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle the mob?
He rails at our mountebank squad—
It's rivalship just i' the job!

VII

And now my conclusion I'll tell,
For faith! I'm confoundedly dry:
The chiel that's a fool for himsel,
Guid Lord! he's far dafter than I.
8

RECITATIVO

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin,
For monie a pursie she had hookèd,
An' had in monie a well been doukèd.
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!
Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman:—

AIR
[_]

Tune: O, An' Ye Were Dead, Guidman

I

A Highland lad my love was born,
The lalland laws he held in scorn,
But he still was faithfu' to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Chorus

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman!
9

II

With his philibeg, an' tartan plaid,
An' guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

III

We rangèd a' from Tweed to Spey,
An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay,
For a lalland face he fearèd none,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

IV

They banish'd him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

V

But, Och! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast.
My curse upon them every one—
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman!
10

VI

And now a widow I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can
When I think on John Highlandman.

Chorus

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman!

RECITATIVO

I

A pigmy scraper on a fiddle,
Wha us'd to trystes an' fairs to driddle,
Her strappin limb an' gawsie middle
(He reach'd nae higher)
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle,
An' blawn't on fire.

II

Wi' hand on hainch and upward e'e,
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key
The wee Apollo
Set off wi' allegretto glee
His giga solo:—
11

AIR
[_]

Tune: Whistle Owre the Lave O't

I

Let me ryke up to dight that tear;
An' go wi' me an' be my dear,
An' then your every care an' fear
May whistle owre the lave o't.

Chorus

I am a fiddler to my trade,
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,
The sweetest still to wife or maid
Was Whistle Owre the Lave O't.

II

At kirns an' weddins we 'se be there,
An' O, sae nicely's we will fare!
We'll bowse about till Daddie Care
Sing Whistle Owre the Lave O't.

III

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke,
An' sun oursels about the dyke;
An' at our leisure, when ye like,
We'll—whistle owre the lave o't!
12

IV

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,
An' while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms
May whistle owre the lave o't.

Chorus

I am a fiddler to my trade,
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,
The sweetest still to wife or maid
Was Whistle Owre the Lave O't.

RECITATIVO

I

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird
As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
An' draws a roosty rapier;
He swoor by a' was swearing worth
To speet him like a pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
13

II

Wi' ghastly e'e poor Tweedle-Dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
An' sae the quarrel ended.
But tho' his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve
When thus the caird address'd her:—

AIR
[_]

Tune: Clout the Cauldron

I

My bonie lass, I work in brass,
A tinkler is my station;
I've travell'd round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I've taen the gold, an' been enrolled
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search'd when off I march'd
To go an' clout the cauldron.

II

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,
With a' his noise an' cap'rin,
An' take a share wi' those that bear
The budget and the apron!
14

And by that stowp, my faith an' houpe!
And by that dear Kilbaigie!
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie!

RECITATIVO

I

The caird prevail'd: th'unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,
An' partly she was drunk.
Sir Violino, with an air
That show'd a man o' spunk,
Wish'd unison between the pair,
An' made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.

II

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That play'd a dame a shavie:
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft
Behint the chicken cavie;
Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft,
Tho' limpin' wi' the spavie,
He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft,
An' shor'd them ‘Dainty Davie’
O' boot that night.
15

III

He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart, she ever miss'd it.
He had no wish but—to be glad,
Nor want but—when he thristed,
He hated nought but—to be sad;
An' thus the Muse suggested
His sang that night.

AIR
[_]

Tune: For A' That, An' A' That

I

I am a Bard, of no regard
Wi' gentle folks an' a' that,
But Homer-like the glowrin byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

Chorus

For a' that, an' a' that,
An' twice as muckle's a' that,
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin',
I've wife eneugh for a' that.
16

II

I never drank the Muses' stank,
Castalia's burn, an' a' that;
But there it streams, an' richly reams—
My Helicon I ca' that.

III

Great love I bear to a' the fair,
Their humble slave an' a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

IV

In raptures sweet this hour we meet
Wi' mutual love an' a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that!

V

Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft,
They've taen me in, an' a' that;
But clear your decks, an' here's the Sex!
I like the jads for a' that.

Chorus

For a' that, an' a' that,
An' twice as muckle's a' that,
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till 't for a' that!
17

RECITATIVO

So sung the Bard, and Nansie's wa's
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Re-echo'd from each mouth!
They toom'd their pocks, they pawn'd their duds,
They scarcely left to coor their fuds,
To quench their lowin drouth.
Then owre again the jovial thrang
The Poet did request
To lowse his pack, an' wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best:
He rising, rejoicing
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an' found them
Impatient for the chorus:—

AIR
[_]

Tune: Jolly Mortals, Fill Your Glasses

I

See the smoking bowl before us!
Mark our jovial, ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing:
18

Chorus

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast,
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest!

II

What is title, what is treasure,
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where!

III

With the ready trick and fable
Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn or stable
Hug our doxies on the hay.

IV

Does the train-attended carriage
Thro' the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?

V

Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them prate about decorum,
Who have character to lose.
19

VI

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train!
Here's our ragged brats and callets!
One and all, cry out, Amen!

Chorus

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast,
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest!
20

SATIRES AND VERSES

THE TWA HERDS: OR, THE HOLY TULYIE

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE

Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barbarous civil war.
POPE.

I

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

II

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast
21

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

III

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

IV

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

V

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale an' hearty every shank?
Nae poison'd, soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;
But Calvin's fountainhead they drank—
O, sic a feast!
22

VI

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

VII

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale?
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale;
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height;
An' tell'd gin they were sick or hale
At the first sight.

VIII

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

IX

Sic twa—O, do I live to see't?—
Sic famous twa sud disagree't,
23

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

X

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

XI

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

XII

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
An' baith the Shaws,
That aft hae made us black an' blae
Wi' vengefu' paws.
24

XIII

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

XIV

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

XV

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

XVI

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance,
25

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

XVII

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

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

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

I

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an' ten to Hell
A' for Thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They've done before Thee!
26

II

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

III

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

IV

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

V

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample:
27

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

VI

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

VII

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

VIII

Besides, I farther maun avow—
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow—
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her,
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
28

IX

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

X

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

XI

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

XII

And when we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
29

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

XIII

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

XIV

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

XV

Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him!
Lord, visit him wha did employ him!
And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their pray'r,
But for Thy people's sake destroy them,
An' dinna spare!
30

XVI

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

THE KIRK'S ALARM

I

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

II

Dr. Mac! Dr. Mac!
You should stretch on a rack,
To strike wicked Writers wi' terror:
To join faith and sense,
Upon onie pretence,
Was heretic, damnable error—
Dr. Mac!
'Twas heretic, damnable error.
31

III

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

IV

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

V

Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons!
Seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need:
Your hearts are the stuff
Will be powther enough,
And your skulls are store-houses o' lead—
Calvin's sons!
Your skulls are store-houses o' lead.
32

VI

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

VII

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

VIII

Singet Sawnie! Singet Sawnie!
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl
Alarm every soul,
For the Foul Thief is just at your gate—
Singet Sawnie!
The Foul Thief is just at your gate.
33

IX

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

X

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

XI

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose!
Ye hae made but toom roose
In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,
For the Lord's haly ark,
He has cooper'd, and ca'd a wrang pin in't—
Jamie Goose!
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't.
34

XII

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

XIII

Andro' Gowk! Andro Gowk!
Ye may slander the Book,
And the Book not the waur, let me tell ye:
Ye are rich, and look big,
But lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value—
Andro Gowk!
Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

XIV

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie!
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
To havins and sense
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better—
Barr Steenie!
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.
35

XV

Irvine-side! Irvine-side!
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share:
Ye've the figure, 'tis true,
Even your faes will allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair—
Irvine-side!
Your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI

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

XVII

Holy Will! Holy Will!
There was wit i' your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor:
The timmer is scant,
When ye're taen for a saunt
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour—
Holy Will!
Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.
36

XVIII

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

POSTSCRIPTS

1

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

2

Factor John! Factor John!
Whom the Lord made alone,
37

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

A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER

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

I

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

II

What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintra clatter?
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better;
E'en let them clash!
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
38

III

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

IV

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

V

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

VI

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
39

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

VII

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

VIII

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

THE INVENTORY

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES

Sir, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' guids an' gear an' a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.
40

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle:—
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle
As ever drew before a pettle:
My lan'-afore's a guid auld ‘has been,’
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been.
My lan'-ahin's a weel-gaun fillie,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,
An' your auld borough monie a time
In days when riding was nae crime.
(But ance, when in my wooing pride
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to—
Lord, pardon a' my sins, an' that too!—
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.)
My fur-ahin's a wordy beast
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!
Foreby, a cowte, o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail:
If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel-carriages I hae but few:
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow—mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken:
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.
41

For men, I've three mischíevous boys,
Run-deils for fechtin an' for noise:
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
An' aften labour them completely;
An' ay on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the Questions tairge them tightly:
Till, faith! wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,
He'll screed you aff ‘Effectual Calling’
As fast as onie in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servan' station
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!):
I hae nae wife—and that my bliss is—
An' ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the deevils darena touch me.
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented:
Heav'n sent me ane mair than I wanted!
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace:
But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already;
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,
By the Lord, ye 'se get them a' thegither!
42

But pray, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin:
Frae this time forth, I do declare
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit,
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
The Kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat:
Sae dinna put me in your beuk,
Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.
This list, wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under notit;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns.

A MAUCHLINE WEDDING

I

When Eighty-five was seven months auld
And wearing thro' the aught,
When rolling rains and Boreas bauld
Gied farmer-folks a faught;
43

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

II

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

III

But we'll suppose the stays are lac'd,
And bonie bosoms steekit,
Tho' thro' the lawn—but guess the rest!
An angel scarce durst keek it.
Then stockins fine o' silken twine
Wi' cannie care are drawn up;
An' garten'd tight whare mortal wight—
[OMITTED]
44

IV

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

V

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

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

ADAM ARMOUR'S PRAYER

I

Gude pity me, because I'm little!
For though I am an elf o' mettle,
45

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

II

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

III

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

IV

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel'—
O, shake him owre the mouth o' Hell!
There let him hing, an' roar, an' yell
Wi' hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
Then heave him in!
46

V

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

VI

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

VII

As for the jurr—puir worthless body!—
She's got mischief enough already;
Wi' stanget hips and buttocks bluidy
She's suffer'd sair;
But may she wintle in a woody
If she whore mair!
47

NATURE'S LAW

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQUIRE

Great Nature spoke, observant man obeyed.
POPE.

I

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

II

Great Nature spoke, with air benign:—
‘Go on, ye human race;
This lower world I you resign;
Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong desire,
I've poured it in each bosom;
Here on this hand does Mankind stand.
And there, is Beauty's blossom!’
48

III

The Hero of these artless strains,
A lowly Bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains
With meikle mirth and glee:
Kind Nature's care had given his share
Large of the flaming current;
And, all devout, he never sought
To stem the sacred torrent.

IV

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

V

Auld cantie Coil may count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra's equal sway,
That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes an' other times
To emulate his sire,
To sing auld Coil in nobler style
With more poetic fire!
49

VI

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

LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER

I

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

II

I've been at drucken Writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly Priests—
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!—
I've even join'd the honor'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships o' the Quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.
50

III

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

IV

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

V

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

VI

I sidling shelter'd in a neuk,
An' at his Lordship staw a leuk,
51

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

VII

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great—
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming:
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman!

VIII

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

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

I

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang,
52

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

II

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

III

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

IV

Of a' the num'rous human dools—
Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools—
Thou bear'st the gree!
53

V

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

VI

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

LAMENT FOR THE ABSENCE OF WILLIAM CREECH, PUBLISHER

I

Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest
Can yield ava:
Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
Willie,'s awa.
54

II

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

III

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

IV

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

V

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour:
55

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

VI

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

VII

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

VIII

Poor Burns ev'n ‘Scotch Drink’ canna quicken:
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin
By hoodie-craw.
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin—
Willie's awa!
56

IX

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

X

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

XI

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

XII

May never wicked Fortune touzle him,
May never wicked men bamboozle him,
57

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

VERSES IN FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE

Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul:
Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame a restless airy dream;
Pleasures, insects on the wing
Round Peace, th'tend'rest flow'r of spring;
Those that sip the dew alone—
Make the butterflies thy own;
Those that would the bloom devour—
Crush the locusts, save the flower.
58

For the future be prepar'd:
Guard wherever thou can'st guard;
But, thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Follies past give thou to air—
Make their consequence thy care.
Keep the name of Man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart
Him, whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still in view—
Thy trust, and thy example too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman on Nidside.

ELEGY ON THE DEPARTED YEAR 1788

For lords or kings I dinna mourn;
E'en let them die—for that they're born;
But O, prodigious to reflect,
A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-Eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!
59

The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdie cocks:
The tane is game, a bluidie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's dour—has nae sic breedin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-Eight, he wished you weel,
An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal:
E'en monie a plack and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien':
In Eighty-Eight, ye ken, was taen
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
Observe the vera nowte an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowilie they creep!
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For Embro' wells are grutten dry!
O Eighty-Nine, thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy Daddie's chair:
60

Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, half-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent,
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man!
As muckle better as ye can.
January 1, 1789.

CASTLE GORDON

I

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

II

Spicy forests ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil;
Or, the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood and spoil;
61

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

III

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

ON THE DUCHESS OF GORDON'S REEL DANCING

I

She kiltit up her kirtle weel
To show her bonie cutes sae sma',
And wallopèd about the reel,
The lightest louper o' them a'!
62

II

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

III

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

ON CAPTAIN GROSE

WRITTEN ON AN ENVELOPE, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO HIM

I

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

II

Is he south, or is he north?
Igo and ago
Or drownèd in the River Forth?
Iram, coram, dago
63

III

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

IV

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

V

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

VI

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

VII

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,
Igo and ago
The very stanes that Adam bore!
Iram, coram, dago
64

VIII

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

NEW YEAR'S DAY 1791

This day Time winds th'exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer:
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds;
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow
(That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow),
And join with me a-moralizing?
This day's propitious to be wise in!
65

First, what did yesternight deliver?
‘Another year has gone for ever.’
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
‘The passing moment's all we rest on!’
Rest on—for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may—a few years must—
Repose us in the silent dust:
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes: all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies;
That on this frail, uncertain state
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone,
Whether as heavenly glory bright
Or dark as Misery's woeful night.
Since, then, my honor'd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th'important Now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round
66

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to convulse),
Others now claim your chief regard:
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,
Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells;
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,
And deal from iron hands the spare repast;
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin,
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in;
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,
Resolve to drink, nay half—to whore—no more;
Where tiny thieves, not destin'd yet to swing,
Beat hemp for others riper for the string:
From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date.
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.
‘Alas! I feel I am no actor here!’
'Tis real hangmen real scourges bear!
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,
By barber woven and by barber sold,
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare!
67

The hero of the mimic scene, no more
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;
Or, haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms,
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms:
While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,
And steal me from Maria's prying eye.
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress,
Now, prouder still, Maria's temples press!
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war!
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze!
The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan'd lines
For other wars, where he a hero shines;
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,
Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display
That Veni, vidi, vici, is his way;
The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks,
Though there his heresies in Church and State
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she, undaunted, reels and rattles on,
And dares the public like a noontide sun.
What scandal called Maria's jaunty stagger
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?
Whose spleen (e'en worse than Burns's venom, when
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,
68

And pours his vengeance in the burning line),
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre-divine,
The idiot strum of Vanity bemus'd,
And even th'abuse of Poesy abus'd?
Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made
For motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed?
A Workhouse! Ah, that sound awakes my woes,
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose!
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep:
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,
And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.
Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
And make a vast monopoly of Hell?
Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse:
The Vices also, must they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin to others fall,
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?
Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares,
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares:
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hurls!
69

Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit!
Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that decyphering defy,
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!
70

NOTES AND EPISTLES

TO JOHN RANKINE

IN REPLY TO AN ANNOUNCEMENT

I

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!
71

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!
72

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,
73

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!
74

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:
75

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!
76

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,
77

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?
78

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;
79

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:
80

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,
81

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;
82

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.
83

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):
84

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
85

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.
86

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.
87

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;
88

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.
89

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
90

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.
91

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.
92

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);
93

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.
94

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.
95

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.
96

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.
97

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:
98

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.
99

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
144

THEATRICAL PIECES

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, 16TH APRIL, 1787

When by a generous Public's kind acclaim
That dearest need is granted—honest fame;
When here your favour is the actor's lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue's glow
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng:
It needs no Siddons's powers in Southern's song.
But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war.
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honor'd to appear!
Where every science, every nobler art,
That can inform the mind or mend the heart,
Is known (as grateful nations oft have found),
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound!
145

Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,
Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
Here History paints with elegance and force
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
And Harley rouses all the God in man.
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite
With manly lore, or female beauty bright
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace
Can only charm us in the second place),
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live:
Equal to judge, you're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With Decency and Law beneath his feet;
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name:
Like Caledonians you applaud or blame!
O Thou, dread Power, Whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honor'd land!
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire;
May every son be worthy of his sire;
Firm may she rise, with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain;
Still self-dependent in her native shore,
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more!
146

PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE OF DUMFRIES

ON NEW YEAR'S DAY EVENING, 1790

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste—the more's the pity!
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home.
But not for panegyric I appear:
I come to wish you all a good New Year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story.
The sage, grave Ancient cough'd, and bade me say:
‘You're one year older this important day.’
If wiser too—he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink
He bade me on you press this one word—Think!
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;
147

That, tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That, whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
To you old Bald-Pate smoothes his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you'll mind the important—Now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours;
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

SCOTS PROLOGUE FOR MRS. SUTHERLAND

ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES MARCH 3RD, 1790

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play an' that new song is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does Nonsense mend like brandy—when imported?
148

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will bauldly try to gie us plays at hame?
For Comedy abroad he need na toil:
A knave and fool are plants of every soil.
Nor need he stray as far as Rome or Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece:
There's themes enow in Caledonian story
Would show the tragic Muse in a' her glory.
Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce?
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord,
And after monie a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of Ruin!
O, for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene
To paint the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th'omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms!
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman (tho' the phrase may seem uncivil)
As able—and as cruel—as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglasses were heroes every age;
149

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the Muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins, when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say: ‘The folks hae done their best!’
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caition
Ye'll soon hae Poets o' the Scottish nation
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time, an' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage, should onie spier:—
‘Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?’
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow:—
‘We have the honor to belong to you!’
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike;
And gratefu' still, I trust ye'll ever find us
For gen'rous patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, setts an' ranks:
God help us! we're but poor—ye'se get but thanks!
150

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN

An Occasional Address SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT NOVEMBER 26, 1792

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings;
While quacks of State must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion
One sacred Right of Woman is Protection:
The tender flower, that lifts its head elate,
Helpless must fall before the blasts of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th'impending storm.
Our second Right—but needless here is caution—
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion:
151

Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd die before he'd wrong it—'tis Decorum!
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,
A time, when rough rude Man had naughty ways:
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet!
Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest:
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,
Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own—'tis dear, dear Admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life—Immortal Love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs—
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares?
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first attention summon:
Ah! ça ira! the Majesty of Woman!
152

ADDRESS

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, DECEMBER 4TH, 1793, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES

Still anxious to secure your partial favor,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better:
So sought a Poet roosted near the skies;
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted.
‘Ma'am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes,
‘I know your bent—these are no laughing times:
Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears—
Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears?
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance?
Paint Vengeance, as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?’
I could no more! Askance the creature eyeing:—
‘D'ye think,’ said I, ‘this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz—nay more, the world shall know it;
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!’
153

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief
That Misery's another word for Grief.
I also think (so may I be a bride!)
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive—
To make three guineas do the work of five;
Laugh in Misfortune's face—the beldam witch—
Say, you 'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich!
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love!
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies, laugh e'en at thyself;
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder: that's your grand specific.
To sum up all: be merry, I advise;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise!
154

POLITICAL PIECES

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

[_]

To the Right Honorable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honorable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M'Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty.

Long life, my lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors!
Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes—as lambkins like a knife!
Faith! you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight!
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water!
155

Then up amang thae lakes and seas,
They'll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomerie, fearless, lead them;
Till (God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed)
Poor dunghill sons of dirt an' mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier owre the pack vile!
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance?
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honor o' the nation?
They, an' be damn'd! what right hae they
To meat or sleep or light o' day,
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengary, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear:
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies:
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hullions to the birses.
Yet while they're only poind and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit.
156

But smash them! crush them a' to spails,
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour:
Let wark an' hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
Come thiggin at your doors an' yetts,
Flaffin wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin awa your deuks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An' gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my ‘house at hame’ to greet you.
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle:
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate,
Or (if you on your station tarrow)
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
An' till ye come—your humble servant,
Beelzebub.
Hell, 1st June, Anno Mundi 5790
157

BIRTHDAY ODE FOR 31ST DECEMBER 1787

Afar the illustrious Exile roams,
Whom kingdoms on this day should hail,
An inmate in the casual shed,
On transient pity's bounty fed,
Haunted by busy Memory's bitter tale!
Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,
But He, who should imperial purple wear,
Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head:
His wretched refuge dark despair,
While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,
And distant far the faithful few
Who would his sorrows share!
False flatterer, Hope, away,
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore!
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
To prove our loyal truth—we can no more—
And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive, low, adore.
Ye honor'd, mighty Dead,
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause,
Your King, your Country, and her laws:
From great Dundee, who smiling Victory led
158

And fell a Martyr in her arms
(What breast of northern ice but warms!),
To bold Balmerino's undying name,
Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame,
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim!
Not unrevenged your fate shall lie,
It only lags, the fatal hour:
Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th'unsparing Power.
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along
With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale,
So Vengeance' arm, ensanguin'd, strong,
Shall with resistless might assail,
Usurping Brunswick's pride shall lay,
And Stewart's wrongs and yours with tenfold weight repay.
Perdition, baleful child of night,
Rise and revenge the injured right
Of Stewart's royal race!
Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of Hell,
Till all the frighted echoes tell
The blood-notes of the chase!
Full on the quarry point their view,
Full on the base usurping crew,
The tools of faction and the nation's curse!
159

Hark how the cry grows on the wind;
They leave the lagging gale behind;
Their savage fury, pityless, they pour;
With murdering eyes already they devour!
See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey,
His life one poor despairing day,
Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
Such Havoc, howling all abroad,
Their utter ruin bring,
The base apostates to their God
Or rebels to their King!

ODE TO THE DEPARTED REGENCY BILL

Daughter of Chaos' doting years,
Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears!
Whether thy airy, unsubstantial shade
(The rights of sepulture now duly paid)
Spread abroad its hideous form
On the roaring civil storm,
Deafening din and warring rage
Factions wild with factions wage;
Or Underground
Deep-sunk, profound
160

Among the demons of the earth,
With groans that make
The mountains shake
Thou mourn thy ill-starr'd blighted birth;
Or in the uncreated Void,
Where seeds of future being fight,
With lighten'd step thou wander wide
To greet thy mother—Ancient Night—
And as each jarring monster-mass is past,
Fond recollect what once thou wast:
In manner due, beneath this sacred oak,
Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke!
By a Monarch's heaven-struck fate;
By a disunited State;
By a generous Prince's wrongs;
By a Senate's war of tongues;
By a Premier's sullen pride
Louring on the changing tide;
By dread Thurlow's powers to awe—
Rhetoric, blasphemy and law;
By the turbulent ocean,
A Nation's commotion;
By the harlot-caresses
Of Borough addresses;
By days few and evil;
(Thy portion, poor devil!),
161

By Power, Wealth, and Show—the Gods by men adored;
By nameless Poverty their Hell abhorred;
By all they hope, by all they fear,
Hear! and Appear!
Stare not on me, thou ghostly Power,
Nor, grim with chain'd defiance, lour!
No Babel-structure would I build
Where, Order exil'd from his native sway,
Confusion might the Regent-sceptre wield,
While all would rule and none obey.
Go, to the world of Man relate
The story of thy sad, eventful fate;
And call presumptuous Hope to hear
And bid him check his blind career;
And tell the sore-prest sons of Care
Never, never to despair!
Paint Charles's speed on wings of fire,
The object of his fond desire,
Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand.
Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band
(Hark! how they lift the joy-exulting voice,
And how their num'rous creditors rejoice!);
But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise,
Cry ‘Convalescence!’ and the vision flies.
162

Then next pourtray a dark'ning twilight gloom
Eclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn,
While proud Ambition to th'untimely tomb
By gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is borne!
Paint Ruin, in the shape of high Dundas
Gaping with giddy terror o'er the brow:
In vain he struggles, the Fates behind him press,
And clamorous Hell yawns for her prey below!
How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the skies!
And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise!
Again pronounce the powerful word:
See Day, triumphant from the night, restored!
Then know this truth, ye Sons of Men
(Thus ends thy moral tale):
Your darkest terrors may be vain,
Your brightest hopes may fail!

A NEW PSALM FOR THE CHAPEL OF KILMARNOCK

ON THE THANKSGIVING-DAY FOR HIS MAJESTY'S RECOVERY

I

O, sing a new song to the Lord!
Make, all and every one,
A joyful noise, ev'n for the King
His restoration!
163

II

The sons of Belial in the land
Did set their heads together.
‘Come, let us sweep them off,’ said they,
‘Like an o'erflowing river!’

III

They set their heads together, I say,
They set their heads together:
On right, and left, and every hand,
We saw none to deliver.

IV

Thou madest strong two chosen ones,
To quell the Wicked's pride:
That Young Man, great in Issachar,
The burden-bearing tribe;

V

And him, among the Princes, chief
In our Jerusalem,
The Judge that's mighty in Thy law,
The man that fears Thy name.

VI

Yet they, even they with all their strength,
Began to faint and fail;
Even as two howling, rav'ning wolves
To dogs do turn their tail.
164

VII

Th'ungodly o'er the just prevail'd;
For so Thou hadst appointed,
That Thou might'st greater glory give
Unto Thine own anointed!

VIII

And now Thou hast restored our State,
Pity our Kirk also;
For she by tribulations
Is now brought very low!

IX

Consume that high-place, Patronage,
From off Thy holy hill;
And in Thy fury burn the book
Even of that man M'Gill!

X

Now hear our prayer, accept our song,
And fight Thy chosen's battle!
We seek but little, Lord, from Thee:
Thou kens we get as little!
165

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite,
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white,
How Genius, th'illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction,
I sing. If these mortals, the critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I: let the critics go whistle!
But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory
At once may illústrate and honor my story:—
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits,
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong;
With passions so potent and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right;
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses,
For using thy name, offers fifty excuses.
166

Good Lord, what is Man! For as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks!
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the Devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labors,
That, like th'old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours.
Human Nature's his show-box—your friend, would you know him?
Pull the string, Ruling Passion—the picture will show him.
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,
One trifling particular—Truth—should have miss'd him!
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,
Mankind is a science defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,
And think Human Nature they truly describe:
Have you found this, or t'other? There's more in the wind,
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
167

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan
In the make of that wonderful creature called Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.
But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse!
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels,
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels?
My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor Poet,
Your courage much more than your prudence, you show it.
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle:
He'll have them by fair trade—if not, he will smuggle;
Nor cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em,
He'd up the back-stairs, and by God he would steal 'em!
Then feats like Squire Billy's, you ne'er can achieve 'em;
It is not, out-do him—the task is, out-thieve him!
168

ON GLENRIDDELL'S FOX BREAKING HIS CHAIN

A FRAGMENT, 1791

Thou, Liberty, thou art my theme:
Not such as idle poets dream,
Who trick thee up a heathen goddess
That a fantastic cap and rod has!
Such stale conceits are poor and silly:
I paint thee out a Highland filly,
A sturdy, stubborn, handsome dapple,
As sleek's a mouse, as round's an apple,
That, when thou pleasest, can do wonders,
But when thy luckless rider blunders,
Or if thy fancy should demur there,
Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further.
These things premis'd, I sing a Fox—
Was caught among his native rocks,
And to a dirty kennel chained—
How he his liberty regained.
Glenriddell! a Whig without a stain,
A Whig in principle and grain,
Could'st thou enslave a free-born creature,
A native denizen of Nature?
169

How could'st thou, with a heart so good
(A better ne'er was sluiced with blood),
Nail a poor devil to a tree,
That ne'er did harm to thine or thee?
The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was,
Quite frantic in his country's cause;
And oft was Reynard's prison passing,
And with his brother-Whigs canvássing
The rights of men, the powers of women,
With all the dignity of Freemen.
Sir Reynard daily heard debates
Of princes', kings', and nations' fates,
With many rueful, bloody stories
Of tyrants, Jacobites, and Tories:
From liberty how angels fell,
That now are galley-slaves in Hell;
How Nimrod first the trade began
Of binding Slavery's chains on man;
How fell Semiramis—God damn her!—
Did first, with sacrilegious hammer
(All ills till then were trivial matters)
For Man dethron'd forge hen-peck fetters;
How Xerxes, that abandoned Tory,
Thought cutting throats was reaping glory,
Until the stubborn Whigs of Sparta
Taught him great Nature's Magna Charta;
How mighty Rome her fiat hurl'd
Resistless o'er a bowing world,
170

And, kinder than they did desire,
Polish'd mankind with sword and fire:
With much too tedious to relate
Of ancient and of modern date,
But ending still how Billy Pitt
(Unlucky boy!) with wicked wit
Has gagg'd old Britain, drained her coffer,
As butchers bind and bleed a heifer.
Thus wily Reynard, by degrees
In kennel listening at his ease,
Suck'd in a mighty stock of knowledge,
As much as some folks at a college;
Knew Britain's rights and constitution,
Her aggrandisement, diminution;
How Fortune wrought us good from evil:
Let no man, then, despise the Devil,
As who should say: ‘I ne'er can need him,’
Since we to scoundrels owe our Freedom.

ON THE COMMEMORATION OF RODNEY'S VICTORY

KING'S ARMS, DUMFRIES, 12TH APRIL 1793

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast:
Here's the Mem'ry of those on the Twelfth that we lost!—
171

We lost, did I say?—No, by Heav'n, that we found!
For their fame it shall live while the world goes round.
The next in succession I'll give you: the King!
And who would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here's the grand fabric, our Free Constitution
As built on the base of the great Revolution!
And, longer with Politics not to be cramm'd,
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd!
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman—and he his first trial!

ODE FOR GENERAL WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake.
'Tis Liberty's bold note I swell:
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain, exulting, bring
And dash it in a tyrant's face,
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is fear'd,
No more the despot of Columbia's race!
A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,
They shout a People freed! They hail an Empire sav'd!
172

Where is man's godlike form?
Where is that brow erect and bold,
That eye that can unmov'd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That e'er created Fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despot's nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
Canst laud the arm that struck th'insulting blow!
Art thou of man's Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
Each skulking feature answers: No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
Columbia's offspring, brave as free,
In danger's hour still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain the Royalty of Man!
Alfred, on thy starry throne
Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
The Bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,
No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design
To make detested tyrants bleed?
Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls: ‘The Tyrant's cause is mine!’
173

That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice,
And Hell thro' all her confines raise th'exulting voice!
That hour which saw the generous English name
Link't with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes!
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead
Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep!
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
Firm as her rock, resistless as her storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the Despot's proudest bearing!
Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,
Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!
Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance lightens afar,
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
174

THE FÊTE CHAMPETRE

[_]

Tune: Killiecrankie

I

O, wha will to Saint Stephen's House,
To do our errands there, man?
O, wha will to Saint Stephen's House
O' th'merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will ye send a man o' law?
Or will ye send a sodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'
The meikle Ursa-Major?

II

Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o' lairds, man?
For Worth and Honour pawn their word,
Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man.
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter;
Annbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste,
He gies a Fête Champetre.
175

III

When Love and Beauty heard the news
The gay green-woods amang, man,
Where, gathering flowers and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird's sang, man
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss,
Sir Politics to fetter:
As theirs alone the patent bliss
To hold a Fête Champetre.

IV

Then mounted Mirth on gleesome wing,
O'er hill and dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man.
She summon'd every social sprite,
That sports by wood or water,
On th'bonie banks of Ayr to meet
And keep this Fête Champetre.

V

Cauld Boreas wi' his boisterous crew
Were bound to stakes like kye, man;
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu',
Clamb up the starry sky, man:
176

Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
Or down the current shatter;
The western breeze steals through the trees
To view this Fête Champetre.

VI

How many a robe sae gaily floats,
What sparkling jewels glance, man,
To Harmony's enchanting notes,
As moves the mazy dance, man!
The echoing wood, the winding flood
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met at Adam's yett
To hold their Fête Champetre.

VII

When Politics came there to mix
And make his ether-stane, man,
He circled round the magic ground,
But entrance found he nane, man:
He blush'd for shame, he quat his name,
Forswore it every letter,
Wi' humble prayer to join and share
This festive Fête Champetre.
177

THE FIVE CARLINS

[_]

Tune: Chevy Chase

I

There was five carlins in the South:
They fell upon a scheme
To send a lad to Lon'on town
To bring them tidings hame:

II

Nor only bring them tidings hame,
But do their errands there:
And aiblins gowd and honor baith
Might be that laddie's share.

III

There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith,
A dame wi' pride eneugh;
And Marjorie o' the Monie Lochs,
A carlin auld and teugh;
178

IV

And Blinkin Bess of Annandale,
That dwelt near Solway-side;
And Brandy Jean, that took her gill
In Galloway sae wide;

V

And Black Joán, frae Crichton Peel,
O' gipsy kith an' kin:
Five wighter carlins were na found
The South countrie within.

VI

To send a lad to London town
They met upon a day;
And monie a knight and monie a laird
This errand fain wad gae.

VII

O, monie a knight and monie a laird
This errand fain wad gae;
But nae ane could their fancy please,
O, ne'er a ane but tway!

VIII

The first ane was a belted Knight,
Bred of a Border band;
And he wad gae to London Town,
Might nae man him withstand;
179

IX

And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane at London court
Wad bid to him guid-day.

X

The neist cam in, a Soger boy,
And spak wi' modest grace;
And he wad gae to London Town,
If sae their pleasure was.

XI

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an honest heart
Wad ne'er desert his friend.

XII

Now wham to chuse and wham refuse
At strife thae carlins fell;
For some had gentle folk to please,
And some wad please themsel.

XIII

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith,
And she spak up wi' pride,
And she wad send the Soger lad,
Whatever might betide.
180

XIV

For the auld Guidman o' London court
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the Soger lad
To greet his eldest son.

XV

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale,
And swore a deadly aith,
Says:—‘I will send the belted Knight,
Spite of you carlins baith!

XVI

‘For far-aff fowls hae feathers fair,
And fools o' change are fain;
But I hae tried this Border Knight:
I'll try him yet again.’

XVII

Then Brandy Jean spak owre her drink:—
‘Ye weel ken, kimmers a’,
The auld Guidman o' London court,
His back's been at the wa';

XVIII

‘And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup
Is now a fremit wight;
But it's ne'er be sae wi' Brandy Jean—
I'll send the Border Knight.’
181

XIX

Says Black Joán frae Crichton Peel,
A carlin stoor and grim:—
‘The auld Guidman or the young Guidman
For me may sink or swim!

XX

‘For fools will prate o' right or wrang,
While knaves laugh in their slieve;
But wha blaws best the horn shall win—
I'll spier nae courtier's leave!’

XXI

Then slow raise Marjorie o' the Lochs,
And wrinkled was her brow,
Her ancient weed was russet gray,
Her auld Scots heart was true:—

XXII

‘There's some great folk set light by me,
I set as light by them;
But I will send to London town
Wham I lo'e best at hame.’

XXIII

Sae how this sturt and strife may end,
There's naebody can tell.
God grant the King and ilka man
May look weel to themsel!
182

ELECTION BALLAD FOR WESTERHA'

Up and waur them a', Jamie,
Up and waur them a'!
The Johnstones hae the guidin o't:
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa!

I

The Laddies by the banks o' Nith
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie;
But he'll sair them as he sair'd the King—
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie.

II

The day he stude his country's friend,
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie,
Or frae puir man a blessin wan—
That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

III

But wha is he, his country's boast?
Like him there is na twa, Jamie!
There's no a callant tents the kye
But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.
183

IV

To end the wark, here's Whistlebirk—
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie!—
And Maxwell true, o' sterling blue,
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.
Up and waur them a', Jamie,
Up and waur them a'!
The Johnstones hae the guidin o't:
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa!

ELECTION BALLAD

AT CLOSE OF THE CONTEST FOR REPRESENTING THE DUMFRIES BURGHS, 1790

[_]

Addressed to Robert Graham of Fintry

I

Fintry, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life,
Are ye as idle's I am?
Come then! Wi' uncouth kintra fleg
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,
And ye shall see me try him!
184

II

But where shall I gae rin or ride,
That I may splatter nane beside?
I wad na be uncivil:
In mankind's various paths and ways
There's ay some doytin body strays,
And I ride like a devil.

III

Thus I break aff wi' a' my birr,
An' down yon dark, deep alley spur,
Where Theologies dander:
Alas! curst wi' eternal fogs,
And damn'd in everlasting bogs,
As sure's the Creed I'll blunder!

IV

I'll stain a band, or jaup a gown,
Or rin my reckless, guilty crown
Against the haly door!
Sair do I rue my luckless fate,
When, as the Muse an' Deil wad hae't,
I rade that road before!

V

Suppose I take a spurt, and mix
Amang the wilds o' Politics—
185

Electors and elected—
Where dogs at Court (sad sons o' bitches!)
Septennially a madness touches,
Till all the land's infected?

VI

All hail, Drumlanrig's haughty Grace,
Discarded remnant of a race
Once godlike—great in story!
Thy fathers' virtues all contrasted,
The very name of Douglas blasted,
Thine that inverted glory!

VII

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But thou hast superadded more,
And sunk them in contempt!
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name;
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From aught that's good exempt!

VIII

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important cares
Of fiddlers, whores, and hunters,
And, bent on buying Borough Towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster-loons,
And kissing barefit bunters.
186

IX

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad
Of mad unmuzzled lions,
As Queensberry buff-and-blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

X

But cautious Queensberry left the war
(Th'unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding),
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Cæsarean fight
Or Ciceronian pleading.

XI

O, for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig's banner!
Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,
To win immortal honor!

XII

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse
(Th'enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!)
187

Led on the Loves and Graces:
She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, sub rosâ, played his part
Among their wives and lasses.

XIII

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd core:
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming thunder.
Glenriddell, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs
And bared the treason under.

XIV

In either wing two champions fought:
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought
The wildest savage Tory;
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.

XV

Miller brought up th'artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold
And threaten'd worse damnation.
188

XVI

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd,
With these what Tory warriors clos'd,
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons, extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like furious devils driving.

XVII

What verse can sing, what prose narrate
The butcher deeds of bloody Fate
Amid this mighty tulyie?
Grim Horror girn'd, pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd,
And Hell mix'd in the brulyie.

XVIII

As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,
Hurl down with crashing rattle,
As flames among a hundred woods,
As headlong foam a hundred floods—
Such is the rage of Battle!

XIX

The stubborn Tories dare to die:
As soon the rooted oaks would fly
189

Before th'approaching fellers!
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.

XX

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,
And think on former daring!
The muffled murtherer of Charles
The Magna Charter flag unfurls,
All deadly gules its bearing.

XXI

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame:
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver . . .
Forgive! forgive! much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever!

XXII

Still o'er the field the combat burns;
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But Fate the word has spoken;
For woman's wit and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can:
The Tory ranks are broken.
190

XXIII

O, that my een were flowing burns!
My voice a lioness that mourns
Her darling cubs' undoing
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly
From furious Whigs pursuing!

XXIV

What Whig but melts for good Sir James,
Dear to his country by the names,
Friend, Patron, Benefactor?
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopeton falls—the generous, brave!—
And Stewart bold as Hector.

XXV

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl this curse of woe,
And Melville melt in wailing!
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,
And Burke shall sing:—‘O Prince, arise!
Thy power is all prevailing!’

XXVI

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He sees and hears the distant war,
191

A cool spectator purely:
So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
And, patient, chirps securely.

XXVII

Now, for my friends' and brethren's sakes,
And for my dear-lov'd Land o' Cakes,
I pray with holy fire:—
Lord, send a rough-shod troop o' Hell
O'er a' wad Scotland buy or sell,
To grind them in the mire!

BALLADS ON MR. HERON'S ELECTION, 1795

BALLAD FIRST

I

Wham will we send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway and a' that,
Where is the Laird or belted Knight
That best deserves to fa' that?
192

II

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett—
And wha is 't never saw that?—
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met,
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent patriot,
The honest man, and a' that!

III

Tho' wit and worth, in either sex,
Saint Mary's Isle can shaw that,
Wi' Lords and Dukes let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
An independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that.

IV

But why should we to Nobles jeuk,
And it against the law, that,
And even a Lord may be a gowk,
Wi' ribban, star, and a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A Lord may be a lousy loon,
Wi' ribban, star, and a' that.
193

V

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills
Wi's uncle's purse and a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
We are na to be bought and sold,
Like nowte, and naigs, and a' that.

VI

Then let us drink:—‘The Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,
Our representative to be’:
For weel he's worthy a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House of Commons such as he,
They wad be blest that saw that.

BALLAD SECOND: THE ELECTION

[_]

Tune: Fy, Let Us A' to The Bridal

I

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin there;
For Murray's light horse are to muster,
An' O, how the heroes will swear!
194

And there will be Murray commander,
An' Gordon the battle to win:
Like brothers, they'll stan' by each other,
Sae knit in alliance and kin.

II

An' there'll be black-nebbit Johnie,
The tongue o' the trump to them a':
Gin he get na Hell for his haddin,
The Deil gets nae justice ava!
And there'll be Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine nabob fortune—
We'll e'en let the subject alane!

III

An' there'll be Wigton's new sheriff—
Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped:
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But Lord! what's become o' the head?
An' there'll be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes:
A wight that will weather damnation,
For the Devil the prey would despise.

IV

An' there'll be Douglasses doughty,
New christening towns far and near:
Abjuring their democrat doings
An' kissing the arse of a peer!
195

An' there'll be Kenmure sae generous,
Wha's honor is proof to the storm:
To save them from stark reprobation
He lent them his name to the firm!

V

But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body—e'en let him escape!
He'd venture the gallows for siller,
An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape!
An' whare is our King's Lord Lieutenant,
Sae famed for his gratefu' return?
The billie is getting his Questions
To say at St. Stephen's the morn!

VI

An' there'll be lads o' the gospel:
Muirhead, wha's as guid as he's true;
An' there'll be Buittle's Apostle,
Wha's mair o' the black than the blue;
An' there'll be folk frae St. Mary's,
A house o' great merit and note:
The Deil ane but honors them highly,
The Deil ane will gie them his vote!

VII

An' there'll be wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should hang by the neck:
But for prodigal thriftless bestowing,
His merit had won him respect.
196

An' there'll be rich brither nabobs;
Tho' nabobs, yet men o' the first!
An' there'll be Collieston's whiskers,
An' Quinton—o' lads no the warst!

VIII

An' there'll be Stamp-Office Johnie:
Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!
An' there'll be gay Cassencarry,
An' there'll be Colonel Tam;
An' there'll be trusty Kerroughtree,
Wha's honour was ever his law:
If the virtues were pack't in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a'!

IX

An' can we forget the auld Major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys?
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other:
Him only it's justice to praise!
An' there'll be maiden Kilkerran,
An' also Barskimming's guid Knight.
An' there'll be roaring Birtwhistle—
Yet luckily roars in the right!

X

An' there frae the Niddlesdale border
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves:
Teuch Johnie, Staunch Geordie, and Wattie
That girns for the fishes an' loaves!
197

An' there'll be Logan's M'Doual—
Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there!
An' also the wild Scot o' Galloway,
Sogering, gunpowther Blair!

XI

Then hey the chaste interest of Broughton.
An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring!
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons—
In Sodom 'twould mak him a King!
An' hey for the sanctified Murray
Our land wha wi' chapels has stor'd;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gie'd the auld naig to the Lord!

BALLAD THIRD JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION

[_]

Tune: Babes In the Wood

I

'Twas in the Seventeen Hunder year
O' grace, and Ninety-Five,
That year I was the wae'est man
Of onie man alive.

II

In March the three-an'-twentieth morn,
The sun raise clear an' bright;
But O, I was a waefu' man,
Ere to-fa' o' the night!
198

III

Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land
Wi' equal right and fame,
Fast knit in chaste and holy bands
With Broughton's noble name.

IV

Yerl Galloway's man o' men was I,
And chief o' Broughton's host:
So twa blind beggars, on a string,
The faithfu' tyke will trust!

V

But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke,
And Broughton's wi' the slain,
And I my ancient craft may try,
Sin' honesty is gane.

VI

'Twas by the banks o' bonie Dee,
Beside Kirkcudbright's towers,
The Stewart and the Murray there
Did muster a' their powers.

VII

Then Murray on the auld grey yaud
Wi' wingèd spurs did ride:
That auld grey yaud a' Nidsdale rade,
He staw upon Nidside.
199

VIII

An' there had na been the Yerl himsel,
O, there had been nae play!
But Garlies was to London gane,
And sae the kye might stray.

IX

And there was Balmaghie, I ween—
In front rank he wad shine;
But Balmaghie had better been
Drinkin' Madeira wine.

X

And frae Glenkens cam to our aid
A chief o' doughty deed:
In case that worth should wanted be,
O' Kenmure we had need.

XI

And by our banners march'd Muirhead,
And Buittle was na slack,
Whase haly priesthood nane could stain,
For wha could dye the black?

XII

And there was grave Squire Cardoness,
Look'd on till a' was done:
Sae in the tower o' Cardoness
A howlet sits at noon.
200

XIII

And there led I the Bushby clan:
My gamesome billie, Will,
And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
My footsteps follow'd still.

XIV

The Douglas and the Heron's name,
We set nought to their score;
The Douglas and the Heron's name
Had felt our weight before.

XV

But Douglasses o' weight had we:
The pair o' lusty lairds,
For building cot-houses sae fam'd,
And christenin kail-yards.

XVI

And then Redcastle drew his sword
That ne'er was stain'd wi' gore
Save on a wand'rer lame and blind,
To drive him frae his door.

XVII

And last cam creepin Collieston,
Was mair in fear than wrath;
Ae knave was constant in his mind—
To keep that knave frae scaith.
201

BALLAD FOURTH: THE TROGGER

[_]

Tune: Buy Broom Besoms

Chorus

Buy braw troggin
Frae the banks o' Dee!
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me!

I

Wha will buy my troggin,
Fine election ware,
Broken trade o' Broughton,
A' in high repair?

II

There's a noble Earl's
Fame and high renown,
For an auld sang—it's thought
The guids were stown.

III

Here's the worth o' Broughton
In a needle's e'e.
Here's a reputation
Tint by Balmaghie.
202

IV

Here's its stuff and lining,
Cardoness's head—
Fine for a soger,
A' the wale o' lead.

V

Here's a little wadset—
Buittle's scrap o' truth,
Pawn'd in a gin-shop,
Quenching holy drouth.

VI

Here's an honest conscience
Might a prince adorn,
Frae the downs o' Tinwald—
So was never worn!

VII

Here's armorial bearings
Frae the manse o' Urr:
The crest, a sour crab-apple
Rotten at the core.

VIII

Here is Satan's picture,
Like a bizzard gled
Pouncing poor Redcastle,
Sprawlin like a taed.
203

IX

Here's the font where Douglas
Stane and mortar names,
Lately used at Caily
Christening Murray's crimes.

X

Here's the worth and wisdom
Collieston can boast:
By a thievish midge
They had been nearly lost.

XI

Here is Murray's fragments
O' the Ten Commands,
Gifted by Black Jock
To get them aff his hands.

XII

Saw ye e'er sic troggin?—
If to buy ye're slack,
Hornie's turnin chapman:
He'll buy a' the pack!

Chorus

Buy braw troggin
Frae the banks o' Dee!
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me!
204

THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY

A NEW BALLAD

[_]

Tune: The Dragon of Wantley

I

Dire was the hate at Old Harlaw
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless Mary.
But Scot to Scot ne'er met so hot,
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be the Faculty's Dean, Sir.

II

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore
Among the first was number'd;
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store
Commandment the Tenth remember'd.
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
And won his heart's desire:
Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot,
Tho' the Deil piss in the fire.
205

III

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy;
For talents, to deserve a place,
Are qualifications saucy.
So their worships of the Faculty,
Quite sick of Merit's rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.

IV

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,
So, may be, on this Pisgah height
Bob's purblind mental vision.
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet,
Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear that he has the Angel met
That met the Ass of Balaam.

V

In your heretic sins may ye live and die,
Ye heretic Eight-and-Thirty!
But accept, ye sublime majority,
My congratulations hearty!
With your honors, as with a certain King,
In your servants this is striking,
The more incapacity they bring
The more they're to your liking.
206

MISCELLANIES

THE TARBOLTON LASSES

I

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye'll there see bonie Peggy:
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth's a leddy.

II

There's Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night
Has little art in courtin.

III

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie:
She's dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
207

IV

If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye'll may be fancy Jenny:
If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense,
She kens hersel she's bonie.

V

As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Spier in for bonie Bessy:
She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.

VI

There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid
In a' King George' dominion:
If ye should doubt the truth of this,
It's Bessy's ain opinion.

THE RONALDS OF THE BENNALS

I

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.
233

FRAGMENTS

TRAGIC FRAGMENT

All villain as I am—a damnèd wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting sinner—
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness,
And with sincere, tho' unavailing, sighs
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Ev'n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth, like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused,
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
234

REMORSE

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say:—‘It was no deed of mine.’
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added:—‘Blame thy foolish self!’
Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involvèd others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning Hell! in all thy store of torments
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs,
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
235

RUSTICITY'S UNGAINLY FORM

I

Rusticity's ungainly form
May cloud the highest mind;
But when the heart is nobly warm,
The good excuse will find.

II

Propriety's cold, cautious rules
Warm Fervour may o'erlook;
But spare poor Sensibility
Th'ungentle, harsh rebuke.

ON WILLIAM CREECH

A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest She he meets.
Much specious lore, but little understood
(Veneering oft outshines the solid wood),
His solid sense by inches you must tell,
But mete his subtle cunning by the ell!
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,
Learn'd ‘Vive la bagatelle et vive l'amour’:
So travell'd monkies their grimace improve,
Polish their grin—nay, sigh for ladies' love!
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
236

ON WILLIAM SMELLIE

Crochallan came:

The old cock'd hat, the brown surtout the same;
His grisly beard just bristling in its might
('Twas four long nights and days to shaving-night);
His uncomb'd, hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear unmatch'd;
Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

SKETCH FOR AN ELEGY

I

Craigdarroch, fam'd for speaking art
And every virtue of the heart,
Stops short, nor can a word impart
To end his sentence,
When mem'ry strikes him like a dart
With auld acquaintance.

II

Black James—whase wit was never laith,
But, like a sword had tint the sheath,
Ay ready for the work o' death—
He turns aside,
And strains wi' suffocating breath
His grief to hide.
237

III

Even Philosophic Smellie tries
To choak the stream that floods his eyes:
So Moses wi' a hazel-rice
Came o'er the stane;
But, tho' it cost him speaking twice,
It gush'd amain.

IV

Go to your marble graffs, ye great,
In a' the tinkler-trash of state!
But by thy honest turf I'll wait,
Thou man of worth,
And weep the ae best fallow's fate
E'er lay in earth!

PASSION'S CRY

Mild zephyrs waft thee to life's farthest shore,
Nor think of me and my distresses more!
Falsehood accurst! No! Still I beg a place,
Still near thy heart some little, little trace!
For that dear trace the world I would resign:
O, let me live, and die, and think it mine!
By all I lov'd, neglected, and forgot,
No friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot.
238

Shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest;
Ev'n the poor support of my wretched life,
Snatched by the violence of legal strife;
Oft grateful for my very daily bread,
To those my family's once large bounty fed;
A welcome inmate at their homely fare,
My griefs, my woes, my sighs, my tears they share:
Their vulgar souls unlike the souls refined,
The fashion'd marble of the polish'd mind.
‘I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn
By driving winds the crackling flames are borne.’
Now, maddening-wild, I curse that fatal night,
Now bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight.
In vain the Laws their feeble force oppose:
Chain'd at his feet, they groan Love's vanquish'd foes.
In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye:
I dare not combat, but I turn and fly.
Conscience in vain upbraids th'unhallow'd fire.
Love grasps his scorpions—stifled they expire.
Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne.
Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone;
Each thought intoxicated homage yields,
And riots wanton in forbidden fields.
By all on high adoring mortals know;
By all the conscious villain fears below;
239

By what, alas! much more my soul alarms—
My doubtful hopes once more to fill thy arms—
Ev'n shouldst thou, false, forswear the guilty tie,
Thine and thine only I must live and die!

IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE

In vain would Prudence with decorous sneer
Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear:
Above that world on wings of love I rise,
I know its worst, and can that worst despise.
‘Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd, unpitied, unredrest,
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest,’
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall,
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all.

THE CARES O' LOVE

HE
The cares o' Love are sweeter far
Than onie other pleasure;
And if sae dear its sorrows are,
Enjoyment, what a treasure!

SHE
I fear to try, I dare na try
A passion sae ensnaring;
For light's her heart and blythe's her song
That for nae man is caring.

240

EPIGRAMS

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION

[_]

Tune: Killiecrankie

LORD ADVOCATE
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,
He quoted and he hinted,
Till in a declamation-mist
His argument, he tint it:
He gapèd for 't, he grapèd for 't,
He fand it was awa, man;
But what his common sense came short,
He ekèd out wi' law, man.

MR. ERSKINE
Collected, Harry stood awee,
Then open'd out his arm, man;
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,
And ey'd the gathering storm, man;
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail,
Or torrents owre a linn, man;
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes,
Hauf-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

241

AT ROSLIN INN

My blessings on ye, honest wife!
I ne'er was here before;
Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife:
Heart could not wish for more.
Heav'n keep you clear o' sturt and strife,
Till far ayont fourscore,
And by the Lord o' death and life,
I'll ne'er gae by your door!

TO AN ARTIST

Dear ------, I'll gie ye some advice,
You'll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels, man,
But try and paint the Devil.
To paint an angel's kittle wark,
Wi' Nick there's little danger:
You'll easy draw a lang-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger.
R. B.

THE BOOK-WORMS

Through and through th'inspirèd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O, respect his lordship's taste,
And spare the golden bindings!
242

ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL

O thou whom Poesy abhors,
Whom Prose has turnèd out of doors,
Heard'st thou yon groan?—Proceed no further!
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling ‘Murther!’

ON JOHNSON'S OPINION OF HAMPDEN

For shame!
Let Folly and Knavery
Freedom oppose:
'Tis suicide, Genius,
To mix with her foes.

UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MISS BURNS

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing!
Lovely Burns has charms: confess!
True it is she had ae failing:
Had ae woman ever less?
243

ON MISS AINSLIE IN CHURCH

Fair maid, you need not take the hint,
Nor idle texts pursue;
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,
Not angels such as you.

AT INVERARAY

I

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon
The Lord their God, ‘His Grace.’

II

There's naething here but Highland pride
And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,
'Twas surely in an anger.

AT CARRON IRONWORKS

We cam na here to view your warks
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to Hell,
It may be nae surprise.
244

But when we tirl'd at your door
Your porter dought na bear us:
Sae may, should we to Hell's yetts come,
Your billie Satan sair us.

ON SEEING THE ROYAL PALACE AT STIRLING IN RUINS

Here Stewarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre fallen to other hands:
Fallen indeed, and to the earth,
Whence grovelling reptiles take their birth!
The injured Stewart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne:
An idiot race, to honour lost—
Who know them best despise them most.

ADDITIONAL LINES AT STIRLING

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame!
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says, the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?
245

REPLY TO THE THREAT OF A CENSORIOUS CRITIC

With Æsop's lion, Burns says:—‘Sore I feel
Each other blow: but damn that ass's heel!’

A HIGHLAND WELCOME

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er
(A time that surely shall come),
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more
Than just a Highland welcome.

AT WHIGHAM'S INN SANQUHAR

Envy, if thy jaundiced eye
Through this window chance to spy,
To thy sorrow thou shalt find,
All that's generous, all that's kind.
Friendship, virtue, every grace,
Dwelling in this happy place.
246

VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS

1

He looked
Just as your sign-post Lions do,
With aspect fierce and quite as harmless too.

2

(PATIENT STUPIDITY)

So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Dull on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

3

His face with smile eternal drest
Just like the landlord to his guest,
High as they hang with creaking din
To index out the Country Inn.

4

A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul,
The very image of a barber's poll:
Just shews a human face, and wears a wig,
And looks, when well friseur'd, amazing big.
247

ON MISS JEAN SCOTT

O, had each Scot of ancient times
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art,
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.

ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying,
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonish'd, confounded, cries Satan:—‘By God,
I'd want him ere take such a damnable load!’

ON BEING APPOINTED TO AN EXCISE DIVISION

Searching auld wives' barrels,
Ochon, the day
That clarty barm should stain my laurels!
But what'll ye say?
These movin' things ca'd wives an' weans
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes.
248

ON MISS DAVIES

Ask why God made the gem so small,
And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
That higher value on it.

ON A BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY SEAT

We grant they're thine, those beauties all,
So lovely in our eye:
Keep them, thou eunuch, Cardoness,
For others to enjoy.

THE TYRANT WIFE

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.
249

AT BROWNHILL INN

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer
And plenty of bacon each day in the year;
We've a' thing that's nice, and mostly in season:
But why always bacon?—come, tell me the reason?

THE TOADEATER

Of Lordly acquaintance you boast,
And the Dukes that you dined with yestreen,
Yet an insect's an insect at most,
Tho' it crawl on the curl of a Queen!

IN LAMINGTON KIRK

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A cauld kirk, and in't but few,
As cauld a minister's ever spak—
Ye'se a' be het or I come back!

THE KEEKIN GLASS

How daur ye ca'me ‘Howlet-face,’
Ye blear-e'ed, wither'd spectre?
Ye only spied the keekin-glass,
An' there ye saw your picture.
250

AT THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES

1

The greybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures,
Give me with gay Folly to live!
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,
But Folly has raptures to give.

2

I

I murder hate by field or flood,
Tho' Glory's name may screen us.
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood—
Life-giving wars of Venus.
The deities that I adore
Are Social Peace and Plenty:
I'm better pleas'd to make one more
Than be the death of twenty.

II

I would not die like Socrates,
For all the fuss of Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,
Nor yet would I with Cato;
The zealots of the Church and State
Shall ne'er my mortal foes be;
But let me have bold Zimri's fate
Within the arms of Cozbi.
251

3

My bottle is a holy pool,
That heals the wounds o' care an' dool,
And pleasure is a wanton trout—
An ye drink it, ye'll find him out.

4

In politics if thou would'st mix,
And mean thy fortunes be;
Bear this in mind: Be deaf and blind,
Let great folks hear and see.

YE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES

Ye true ‘Loyal Natives’ attend to my song:
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long!
From Envy and Hatred your core is exempt,
But where is your shield from the darts of Contempt?

ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS

Lord, to account who does Thee call,
Or e'er dispute Thy pleasure?
Else why within so thick a wall
Enclose so poor a treasure?
252

IN A LADY'S POCKET BOOK

Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give!
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till Slave and Despot be but things that were!

AGAINST THE EARL OF GALLOWAY

What dost thou in that mansion fair?
Flit, Galloway, and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind.

ON THE SAME

No Stewart art thou, Galloway:
The Stewarts all were brave.
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.

ON THE SAME

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro' many a far-famed sire!
So ran the far-famed Roman way,
And ended in a mire.
253

ON THE SAME, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH VENGEANCE

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway!
In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.

ON THE LAIRD OF LAGGAN

When Morine, deceas'd, to the Devil went down,
'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown.
‘Thy fool's head,’ quoth Satan, ‘that crown shall wear never:
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.’

ON MARIA RIDDELL

‘Praise Woman still,’ his lordship roars,
‘Deserv'd or not, no matter!’
But thee whom all my soul adores,
There Flattery cannot flatter!
Maria, all my thought and dream,
Inspires my vocal shell:
The more I praise my lovely theme,
The more the truth I tell.
254

ON MISS FONTENELLE

Sweet näiveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature
Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning Nature, torturing art,
Loves and Graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou 'dst act a part.

KIRK AND STATE EXCISEMEN

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering
'Gainst poor Excisemen? Give the cause a hearing.
What are your Landlord's rent-rolls? Taxing ledgers!
What Premiers? What ev'n Monarchs? Mighty Gaugers!
Nay, what are Priests (those seeming godly wisemen)?
What are they, pray, but Spiritual Excisemen!
255

ON THANKSGIVING FOR A NATIONAL VICTORY

Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks?
To murder men, and give God thanks?
Desist for shame! Proceed no further:
God won't accept your thanks for Murther.

PINNED TO MRS. WALTER RIDDELL'S CARRIAGE

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue,
Your speed will out-rival the dart;
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road,
If your stuff be as rotten's her heart.

TO DR. MAXWELL

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY

Maxwell, if merit here you crave,
That merit I deny:
You save fair Jessie from the grave!—
An Angel could not die!
256

TO THE BEAUTIFUL MISS ELIZA J---N

ON HER PRINCIPLES OF LIBERTY AND EQUALITY

How, ‘Liberty!’ Girl, can it be by thee nam'd?
‘Equality,’ too! Hussey, art not asham'd?
Free and Equal indeed, while mankind thou enchainest,
And over their hearts a proud Despot so reignest

ON CHLORIS

REQUESTING ME TO GIVE HER A SPRIG OF BLOSSOMED THORN

From the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloris requested
A sprig, her fair breast to adorn:
‘No, by Heaven!’ I exclaim'd, ‘let me perish for ever,
Ere I plant in that bosom a thorn!’

TO THE HON. WM. R. MAULE OF PANMURE

Thou Fool, in thy phaeton towering,
Art proud when that phaeton's prais'd?
'Tis the pride of a Thief's exhibition
When higher his pillory's rais'd.
257

ON SEEING MRS. KEMBLE IN YARICO

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief
Of Moses and his rod:
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief
The rock with tears had flow'd.

ON DR. BABINGTON'S LOOKS

That there is a falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny:
They say their Master is a knave,
And sure they do not lie.

ON ANDREW TURNER

In Se'enteen Hunder 'n Forty-Nine
The Deil gat stuff to mak a swine,
An' coost it in a corner;
But wilily he chang'd his plan,
An' shap'd it something like a man,
An' ca'd it Andrew Turner.
258

THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT

The Solemn League and Covenant
Now brings a smile, now brings a tear.
But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs:
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer.

TO JOHN SYME OF RYEDALE

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER

O had the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
'Twere drink for first of human kind—
A gift that ev'n for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries

ON A GOBLET

There's Death in the cup, so beware!
Nay, more—there is danger in touching!
But who can avoid the fell snare?
The man and his wine's so bewitching!
259

APOLOGY TO JOHN SYME

No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cookery the first in the nation:
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit
Is proof to all other temptation.

ON MR. JAMES GRACIE

Gracie, thou art a man of worth,
O, be thou Dean for ever!
May he be damn'd to Hell henceforth,
Who fauts thy weight or measure!

AT FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE

To Riddell, much-lamented man,
This ivied cot was dear:
Wand'rer, dost value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.

FOR AN ALTAR OF INDEPENDENCE

AT KERROUGHTRIE, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON

Thou of an independent mind,
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd,
260

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave,
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear:
Approach this shrine, and worship here.

VERSICLES TO JESSIE LEWARS

THE TOAST

Fill me with the rosy wine;
Call a toast, a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame;
Lovely Jessie be her name:
Then thou mayest freely boast
Thou hast given a peerless toast.

THE MENAGERIE

I

Talk not to me of savages
From Afric's burning sun!
No savage e'er can rend my heart
As, Jessie, thou hast done.

II

But Jessie's lovely hand in mine
A mutual faith to plight—
Not even to view the heavenly choir
Would be so blest a sight.
261

JESSIE'S ILLNESS

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth
Can turn Death's dart aside?
It is not purity and worth,
Else Jessie had not died!

HER RECOVERY

But rarely seen since Nature's birth
The natives of the sky!
Yet still one seraph's left on earth,
For Jessie did not die.

ON MARRIAGE

That hackney'd judge of human life,
The Preacher and the King,
Observes:—‘The man that gets a wife
He gets a noble thing.’
But how capricious are mankind,
Now loathing, now desirous!
We married men, how oft we find
The best of things will tire us!
262

GRACES

A POET'S GRACE

BEFORE MEAT

O Thou, who kindly dost provide
For ev'ry creature's want!
We bless the God of Nature wide
For all Thy goodness lent.
And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent;
But, whether granted or denied,
Lord, bless us with content.

AFTER MEAT

O Thou, in whom we live and move,
Who made the sea and shore,
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And, grateful, would adore;
And, if it please Thee, Power above!
Still grant us with such store
The friend we trust, the fair we love,
And we desire no more.
263

AT THE GLOBE TAVERN

BEFORE MEAT

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore,
Do Thou stand us in stead,
And send us from Thy bounteous store
A tup-or wether-head.

AFTER MEAT

1

Lord [Thee] we thank, and Thee alone,
For temporal gifts we little merit!
At present we will ask no more:
Let William Hislop bring the spirit.

2

O Lord, since we have feasted thus,
Which we so little merit,
Let Meg now take the flesh away,
And Jock bring in the spirit.

3

O Lord, we do Thee humbly thank
For that we little merit:
Now Jean may tak the flesh away,
And Will bring in the spirit.
264

EPITAPHS

ON JAMES GRIEVE, LAIRD OF BOGHEAD, TARBOLTON

Here lies Boghead amang the dead
In hopes to get salvation;
But if such as he in Heav'n may be,
Then welcome—hail! damnation.

ON WM. MUIR IN TARBOLTON MILL

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:
265

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.
266

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.
267

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!
268

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.
269

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!
270

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.
271

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!
272

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.
273

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!
274

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!’
275

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!
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