The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once on a time, almighty Jove
Invited all the minor gods above
To spend one day in social festive pleasure;
His regal robes were laid aside,
His crown, his sceptre, and his pride;
And, wing'd with joy,
The hours did fly,
The happiest ever Time did measure.

Of love and social harmony they sung,
Till Heav'n's high golden arches echoing rung;
And as they quaffed the nectar-flowing can,
Their toast was—
“Universal peace 'twixt man and man.”

Their godships' eyes beam'd gladness with the wish,
And Mars half reddened with a guilty blush;
Jove swore he 'd hurl each rascal to perdition
Who 'd dare deface his works with wild ambition;
But pour'd encomiums on each patriot band,
Who, hating conquest, guard their native land.

Loud, thund'ring plaudits shook the bright abodes,
Till Merc'ry, solemn-voiced, assail'd their ears,
Informing that a stranger, all in tears,
Weeping, implored an audience of the gods.

Jove, ever prone to succour the distrest,
A swell redressive glow'd within his breast,
He pitied much the stranger's sad condition,
And ordered his immediate admission.

The stranger enter'd, bowed respect to all;
Respectful silence reign'd throughout the hall.
His chequer'd robes excited their surprise,
Richly travers'd with various glowing dyes;
A target on his strong left arm he bore,
Broad as the shield the mighty Fingal wore;
The glowing landscape on its centre shin'd,
And massy thistles round the borders twin'd;
His brows were bound with yellow-blossom'd broom,
Green birch and roses blending in perfume;
His eyes beam'd honour, though all red with grief,
And thus Heaven's King spake comfort to the Chief:
“My son, let speech unfold thy cause of woe,
Say, why does melancholy cloud thy brow?
'Tis mine the wrongs of virtue to redress;
Speak, for 'tis time to succour deep distress.”

Then thus he spake: “O King! by thy command,
I am the guardian of that far-fam'd land
Nam'd Caledonia, great in arts and arms,
And every worth that social fondness charms,
With every virtue that the heart approves,
Warm in their friendships, rapt'rous in their loves,
Profusely generous, obstinately just,
Inflexible as death their vows of trust;

For independence fires their noble minds,
Scorning deceit, as gods do scorn the fiends.
But what avail the virtues of the north,
No patriot-bard to celebrate their worth,
No heav'n-taught minstrel, with the voice of song,
To hymn their deeds, and make their names live long!
And ah! should Luxury, with soft winning wiles,
Spread her contagion o'er my subject isles,
My hardy sons, no longer Valour's boast,
Would sink despis'd, their wonted greatness lost.
Forgive my wish, O King! I speak with awe,
Thy will is fate, thy word is sovereign law!
O! wouldst thou deign thy suppliant to regard,
And grant my country one true patriot-bard,
My sons would glory in the blessing given,
And virtuous deeds spring from the gift of Heaven!’

To which the god: “My son, cease to deplore,
Thy name in song shall sound the world all o'er;
Thy bard shall rise full fraught with all the fire
That Heav'n and free-born nature can inspire.
Ye sacred Nine, your golden harps prepare
T' instruct the fav'rite of my special care,
That, whether the song be rais'd to war or love,
His soul-wing'd strains may equal those above.
Now, faithful to thy trust, from sorrow free,
Go, wait the issue of our high decree.”—
Speechless the Genius stood, in glad surprise,
Adoring gratitude beam'd in his eyes;
The promis'd bard his soul with transport fills,
And, light with joy, he sought his native hills.

'Twas in regard of Wallace and his worth
Jove honour'd Coila with his birth;

And on that morn,
When Burns was born,
Each Muse with joy
Did hail the boy;
And Fame, on tiptoe, fain would blown her horn,
But Fate forbade the blast, so premature,
Till worth should sanction it beyond the critic's power.

His merits proven—Fame her blast hath blown,
Now Scotia's Bard o'er all the world is known;—
But trembling doubts here check my unpolished lays,
What can they add to a whole world's praise?
Yet, while revolving time this day returns,
Let Scotsmen glory in the name of Burns.

ODE. BURNS ANNIVERSARY MEETING.

Written for, and Performed at the Celebration of, Robert Burns'* Birthday, Paisley, 1807.*

RECITATIVE.

While Gallia's chief, with cruel conquests vain,
Bids clanging trumpets rend the skies,
The widow's, orphan's, and the father's sighs,
Breathe, hissing through the guilty strain;
Mild Pity hears the harrowing tones,
Mix'd with shrieks and dying groans;
While warm Humanity, afar,
Weeps o'er the ravages of war,
And, shudd'ring, hears Ambition's servile train
Rejoicing o'er their thousands slain.

But when the song to worth is given,
The grateful anthem wings its way to heaven,
Rings through the mansions of the bright abodes,
And melts to ecstasy the list'ning gods;
Apollo, on fire,
Strikes with rapture the lyre,
And the Muses the summons obey;
Joy wings the glad sound
To the worlds around,
Till all nature re-echoes the lay!
Then raise the song, ye vocal few,
Give the praise to merit due.

SONG.
[_]

Set to music by R. A. Smith.

Though dark scowling Winter, in dismal array,
Re-marshals his storms on the bleak hoary hill,
With joy we assemble to hail the great day
That gave birth to the Bard who ennobles our isle.
Then loud to his merits the song let us raise,
Let each true Caledonian exult in his praise;
For the glory of genius, its dearest reward,
Is the laurel entwin'd by his country's regard.

Let the Muse bring fresh honours his name to adorn,
Let the voice of glad melody pride in the theme,
For the genius of Scotia, in ages unborn,
Will light up her torch at the blaze of his fame.
When the dark mist of ages lies turbid between,
Still his star of renown through the gloom shall be seen,
And his rich blooming laurels, so dear to the Bard,
Will be cherished for aye by his country's regard.

RECITATIVE.

Yes, Burns, thou “dear departed shade!”
When rolling centuries have fled,
Thy name shall still survive the wreck of time,
Shall rouse the genius of thy native clime;
Bards, yet unborn, and patriots shall come,
And catch fresh ardour at thy hallow'd tomb!
There 's not a cairn-built cottage on our hills,
Nor rural hamlet on our fertile plains,
But echoes to the magic of thy strains,
While every heart with highest transport thrills.
Our country's melodies shall perish never,
For, Burns, thy songs shall live for ever.
Then, once again, ye vocal few,
Give the song to merit due.

SONG. Written to Marsh's national Air, “Britons, who for freedom bled.”
[_]

Harmonised as a glee by R. A. Smith.

Hail, ye glorious sons of song,
Who wrote to humanise the soul!
To you our highest strains belong,
Your names shall crown our friendly bowl:
But chiefly, Burns, above the rest,
We dedicate this night to thee:
Engrav'd in every Scotsman's breast
Thy name, thy worth, shall ever be!

Fathers of our country's weal,
Sternly virtuous, bold and free!
Ye taught your sons to fight, yet feel
The dictates of humanity.

But chiefly, Burns, above the rest,
We dedicate this night to thee:
Engrav'd in every Scotsman's breast
Thy name, thy worth, shall ever be!

Haughty Gallia threats our coast,
We hear her vaunts with disregard;
Secure in valour, still we boast
“The Patriot, and the Patriot-bard.”
But chiefly, Burns, above the rest,
We dedicate this night to thee:
Engraved in every Scotsman's breast
Thy name, thy worth, shall ever be!

Yes, Caledonians! to our country true,
Which Danes nor Romans never could subdue,
Firmly resolved our native rights to guard,
Let 's toast—“The Patriot, and the Patriot-bard.”

ODE. BURNS ANNIVERSARY MEETING, 1810.

Again the happy day returns,—
A day to Scotsmen ever dear,—
Though bleakest of the changeful year,
It blest us with a Burns.

Fierce the whirling blast may blow,
Drifting wide the crispy snow;
Rude the ruthless storms may sweep,
Howling round our mountains steep;

While the heavy lashing rains
Swell our rivers, drench our plains,
And the angry ocean roars
Round our broken, craggy shores;
But, mindful of our Poet's worth,
We hail the honour'd day that gave him birth.

Come, ye vot'ries of the lyre,
Trim the torch of heav'nly fire,
Raise the song in Scotia's praise;
Sing anew her bonnie braes,
Sing her thousand siller streams,
Bickering to the sunny beams;
Sing her sons beyond compare,
Sing her daughters, peerless, fair;
Sing, till winter's storms be o'er,
The matchless bards that sung before;
And I, the meanest of the Muse's train,
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain.

Dear Scotia, though thy clime be cauld,
Thy sons were ever brave and bauld,
Thy daughters, modest, kind, and leal,
The fairest in creation's fiel';
Alike inur'd to every toil,
Thou 'rt foremost in the battle broil;
Prepar'd alike in peace and weir
To guide the plough or wield the spear.
As the mountain torrent raves,
Dashing through its rugged caves,
So the Scottish legions pour,
Dreadful in the avenging hour.
But when Peace, with kind accord,
Bids them sheath the sated sword,

See them, in their native vales,
Jocund as the summer gales,
Cheering labour all the day
With some merry roundelay.

Dear Scotia, though thy nights be drear,
When surly winter rules the year,
Around thy cottage hearths are seen
The glow of health, the cheerful mien;
The mutual glance, that fondly shares
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares:
Here oft, while raves the wind and weet,
The canty lads and lasses meet.
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee,
Their gaits sae artless and sae free,
The hours of joy come dancing on
To share their frolic and their fun.
Here many a song and jest goes round,
With tales of ghosts and rites profound
Perform'd in dreary wizard glen
By wrinkled hags and warlock men;
Or of the hell-fee'd crew combin'd,
Carousing on the midnight wind,
On some infernal errand bent,
While darkness shrouds their black intent.
But chiefly, Burns, thy songs delight
To charm the weary winter night,
And bid the lingering moments flee
Without a care, unless for thee,
Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon,
And sought the native sphere aboon.
Thy “lovely Jean,” thy “Nannie, O,”
Thy much-lov'd “Caledonia,”

Thy “Wat ye wha's in yonder toun,”
Thy “Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon,”
Thy “Shepherdess on Afton Braes,”
Thy “Logan Lassie's” bitter waes,
Are a' gane o'er, sae sweetly tun'd,
That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound,
Fa's lown, and sings with eerie slight,
“O let me in this ae, ae night.”

Alas! our best, our dearest Bard,
How poor, how great was his reward!
Unaided, he has fix'd his name,
Immortal, in the rolls of fame;
Yet who can hear without a tear
What sorrows wrung his manly breast,
To see his little, helpless, filial band
Imploring succour from a father's hand,
And there no succour near?
Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest,
Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest:
For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone—
She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone.

SUMMONS TO ATTEND A MEETING OF THE BURNS ANNIVERSARY SOCIETY.

To WILLIAM M'LAREN.

1805.

King Geordie issues out his summons,
To ca' his bairns, the Lairds an' Commons,
To creesh the nation's moolie-heels,
An' butter Commerce' rusty wheels,
An' see what new, what untried tax
Will lie the easiest on oor backs.

The priest convenes his scandal court,
To ken what houghmagandie sport
Has been gaun on within the parish
Since last they met,—their funds to cherish.
But I, the servant o' Apollo,
Whose mandates I am proud to follow,—
He bids me warn you, as the friend
Of Burns's fame, that ye 'll attend
Neist Friday e'en, in Luckie Wricht's,
To spend the best—the wale o' nichts;
Sae, under pain o' half-a-merk,
Ye 'll come, as signed by me, the Clerk.

DIRGE. Written on reading an account of Robert Burns'* Funeral.*

Let grief for ever cloud the day
That saw our Bard borne to the clay;
Let joy be banish'd every eye,
And Nature, weeping, seem to cry—
“He 's gone, he 's gone! he 's frae us torn!
The ae best fellow e'er was born!”

Let Sol resign his wonted powers,
Let chilling north winds blast the flowers,
That each may droop its withering head,
And seem to mourn our Poet dead.
He 's gone, he 's gone! he 's frae us torn!
The ae best fellow e'er was born!”

Let shepherds, from the mountains steep,
Look down on widow'd Nith, and weep;
Let rustic swains their labours leave,
And sighing, murmur o'er his grave—
“He 's gone, he 's gone! he 's frae us torn!
The ae best fellow e'er was born!”

Let bonnie Doon and winding Ayr
Their bushy banks in anguish tear,
While many a tributary stream
Pours down its griefs to swell the theme—
“He 's gone, he 's gone! he 's frae us torn!
The ae best fellow e'er was born!”

All dismal let the night descend,
Let whirling storms the forest rend,
Let furious tempests sweep the sky,
And dreary, howling caverns cry—
“He 's gone, he 's gone! he 's frae us torn!
The ae best fellow e'er was born!”

University of Virginia Library

BURNS ANNIVERSARY ODES, ETC., BY TANNAHILL.

ODE. BURNS ANNIVERSARY MEETING.

Written for, and read at the Celebration of, Robert Burns' Birthday, Paisley, 1805.

ODE. BURNS ANNIVERSARY MEETING.

Written for, and Performed at the Celebration of, Robert Burns' Birthday, Paisley, 1807.

RECITATIVE.

SONG. [_] Set to music by R. A. Smith.

RECITATIVE.

SONG. Written to Marsh's national Air, “Britons, who for freedom bled.” [_] Harmonised as a glee by R. A. Smith.

ODE. BURNS ANNIVERSARY MEETING, 1810.

SUMMONS TO ATTEND A MEETING OF THE BURNS ANNIVERSARY SOCIETY.

To WILLIAM M'LAREN.

DIRGE. Written on reading an account of Robert Burns' Funeral.

Written for, and read at the Celebration of, Robert Burns'* Birthday, Paisley, 1805.*

Written for, and Performed at the Celebration of, Robert Burns'* Birthday, Paisley, 1807.*

SONG.
[_]

Set to music by R. A. Smith.

SONG. Written to Marsh's national Air, “Britons, who for freedom bled.”
[_]

Harmonised as a glee by R. A. Smith.

DIRGE. Written on reading an account of Robert Burns'* Funeral.*