Preface

Preface

[The first edition, printed at Kilmarnock, July, 1786, by John Wilson, bore on the title-page these simple words:--"Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns;" the following motto, marked "Anonymous," but evidently the poet's own composition, was more ambitious:--

"The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, He pours the wild effusions of the heart: And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire-- Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."]

The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship awakened his vanity so for as to make him think anything of his worth showing: and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings--the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears--in his own breast; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind--these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward.

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as--an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth!

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that "Humility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame!" If any critic catches at the word genius the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation.

To his Subscriber, the Author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom--to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and circumstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others--let him be condemned, without mercy, in contempt and oblivion.

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ROBERT BURNS.

I.

WINTER.

A DIRGE.

[This is one of the earliest of the poet's recorded compositions: it was written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert Burns, 'a juvenile production.' To walk by a river while flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the storm howling among the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. "In such a season," he said, "just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter, a Dirge."]

The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw; While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"[1] The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Dr. Young.]

* * * * *

II.

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

[This tale is partly true; the poet's pet ewe got entangled in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns so much, who was on his way to the plough, that he immediately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell, are still pointed out.]

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc[2] he cam doytin by. Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, waes my heart! he could na mend it! He gaped wide but naething spak-- At length poor Mailie silence brak.

"O thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' case! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my master dear.

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will; So may his flock increase, and grow To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo'!

"Tell him he was a master kin' An' ay was gude to me an' mine; An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.

"O, bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn.

"An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To sink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie a year come thro' the sheers; So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care; An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! An' warn him what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowes at hame An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

"An' niest my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, But ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither.

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale; An' bid him burn this cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather."

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: A neibor herd-callan.]

* * * * *

III.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegant morsel: but says that it resembles too closely "The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admired as original: the shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's "Life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."]

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead.

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed; He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A long half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She run wi' speed: A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, tamely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wonders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,[3] Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing--a rape! It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon! His Mailie's dead!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: VARIATION.

'She was nae get o' runted rams, Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams; She was the flower o' Farlie lambs, A famous breed! Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams O' Mailie dead.']

* * * * *

IV.

FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET

[In the summer of 1781, Burns, while at work in the garden, repeated this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who was much pleased with the performance, which he considered equal if not superior to some of Allan Ramsay's Epistles, and said if it were printed he had no doubt that it would be well received by people of taste.]

--January, [1784.]

I.

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, That live sae bien an' snug: I tent less and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride.

II.

It's hardly in a body's power To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want. While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: "Muir spier na, nor fear na,"[4] Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste O' truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', Has ay some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther we can fa'.

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in makin muckle mair; It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest; If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart ay's the part ay That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth their while? Alas! how aft, in haughty mood God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess! Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell! Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make one scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth; They let us ken oursel'; They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where.

VIII.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest,) This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne'er could buy: And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg your dearest part, And I my darling Jean! It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame!

IX.

O, all ye pow'rs who rule above! O, Thou, whose very self art love! Thou know'st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r! Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care!

X.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow! Long since, this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing hand, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean!

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style The words come skelpin, rank and file, Amaist before I ken! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 'Till ance he's fairly het; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An' rin an unco fit: But least then, the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: Ramsay.]

* * * * *

V.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time master of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his early comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.]

AULD NIBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, 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.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you thro' the weary widdle O' war'ly cares, Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle Your auld, gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket Until yo fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, Be hain't who like.

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.

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 ever think.

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.

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

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 so puir, Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door to door.

* * * * *

VI.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war."

MILTON

[The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes moved the heart on one of the coldest of our critics. "It was, I think," says Gilbert Burns, "in the winter of 1784, as we were going with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the 'Address to the Deil.' The idea of the address was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august personage."]

O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kend an' noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks; Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldricht croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quaick-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on rag weed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit,

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog. An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet.

But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upo' yon den Ev'n for your sake!

* * * * *

VII.

THE AULD FARMER'S

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS

AULD MARE MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR

["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the heart." The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of knight-errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffest land; faced the steepest brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness of the loveliness of the load.]

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie: Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonny gray: He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank, An set weel down a shapely shank, As e'er tread yird; An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid-father's Meere; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie: Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny, Ye ne'er was donsie: But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, An' unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride: An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day, ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin'!

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, We took the road ay like a swallow: At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed; But every tail thou pay't them hollow, Where'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle O' saugh or hazle.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn: Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, In guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han' For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, Wi' pith an' pow'r, 'Till spiritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit, Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a'; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera worst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An, wi' the weary warl' fought! An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin, For my last fow, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue.

* * * * *

VIII.

TO A HAGGIS.

[The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.]

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic-labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis!

* * * * *

IX.

A PRAYER,

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

["There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, "that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following."]

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art Surpasses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then, man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine!

* * * * *

X.

A PRAYER

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

[I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful to the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o'ermastering gifts.]

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear? In whose dread presence, ere an hour Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, With passions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

* * * * *

XI.

STANZAS

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

[These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls "Misgivings in the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death." He elsewhere says they were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, first put nature on the alarm.]

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? How I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between: Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!" Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way: Again in folly's path might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me Those headlong furious passions to confine; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

* * * * *

XII.

A WINTER NIGHT.

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm! How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you From seasons such as these?"

SHAKSPEARE.

["This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, "is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."]

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r Far south the lift, Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r, Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl. Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl.

Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole:--

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost: Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows; See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear. With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow, The powers you proudly own? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away, Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers! Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast! Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hailed the morning with a cheer-- A cottage-rousing craw!

But deep this truth impressed my mind-- Through all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles GOD.

* * * * *

XIII.

REMORSE.

A FRAGMENT.

["I entirely agree," says Burns, "with the author of the Theory of Moral Sentiments, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom; an ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up admirably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our follies or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command."]

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 That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every 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 involved 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!

* * * * *

XIV.

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.

A CANTATA.

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigen-gillan; the song of "For a' that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with his name, in the Musical Museum of February, 1790. Cromek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in the Reliques, for which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in the Quarterly Review. The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nancy had her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been given.]

RECITATIVO.

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 and thumping, The vera girdle rang.

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 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, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up--

AIR.

Tune--"Soldiers' Joy."

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, &c.

My 'prenticeship I past Where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast On the heights of Abram; I served out my trade When the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid At the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

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 Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps At the sound of a drum. Lal de dandle, &c.

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 used in scarlet To follow a drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

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, &c.

RECITATIVO.

He ended; and kebars sheuk Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl'd out--encore! But up arose the martial Chuck, And laid the loud uproar.

AIR.

Tune--"Soldier laddie."

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, &c.

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. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church; He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

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 asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

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 is rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

And now I have liv'd--I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

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 and courting dizzy He stoitered 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."

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.

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

For drink I would venture my neck, A hizzie's the half o' my craft, But what could ye other expect, Of ane that's avowedly daft?

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, For civilly swearing and quaffing; I ance was abused in the kirk, Fer touzling a lass i' my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer; There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court A tumbler ca'd the premier.

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad Maks faces to tickle the mob; He rails at our mountebank squad, Its rivalship just i' the job.

And now my conclusion I'll tell, For faith I'm confoundedly dry; The chiel that's a fool for himsel', Gude L--d! he's far dafter than I.

RECITATIVO.

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' woodie! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman.

AIR.

Tune--"O an ye were dead, guidman."

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.

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

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

They banished him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

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. Sing, hey, &c.

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. Sing, hey, &c.

RECITATIVO.

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappan limb and gausy middle He reach'd na higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, An' blawn't on fire.

Wi' hand on hainch, an' 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.

AIR.

Tune--"Whistle o'er the lave o't."

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, And go wi' me and be my dear, And then your every care and 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.

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, And O! sae nicely's we will fare; We'll house about till Daddie Care Sings whistle owre the lave o't I am, &c.

Sae merrily the banes we'll byke, And sun oursells about the dyke, And at our leisure, when ye like, We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c.

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

RECITATIVO.

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

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, And 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 Caudron."

My bonny 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 sqadron: But vain they search'd, when off I march'd To go and clout the caudron. I've taen the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise and caprin, And tak a share wi' those that bear The budget and the apron. And by that stoup, my faith and houp, An' by that dear Kilbaigie,[5] If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by that stoup, &c.

RECITATIVO.

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 of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night.

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie, A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, Tho' limping wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up and lap like daft, And shor'd them Dainty Davie O boot that night.

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 nae wish but--to be glad, Nor want but--when he thirsted; He hated nought but--to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night.

AIR

Tune--"For a' that, an' a' that."

I am a bard of no regard Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that: But Homer-like, the glowran 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 enough for a' that.

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

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. For a' that, &c.

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. For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft. They've ta'en me in, and a' that; But clear your decks, and 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

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, an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request, To loose 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."

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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. A fig, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love? A fig, &c.

Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c.

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: A peculiar sort of whiskey.]

* * * * *

XV.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his knowledge in medicine--so vain, that he advertised his merits, and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is just as true's the Deil's in h--ll Or Dublin-city; That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty; I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: To count her horns with a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff with a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-taed leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava: And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks.

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?" It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe,--"My name is Death, But be na fley'd."--Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie; I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad nae mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news! This while ye hae been mony a gate At mony a house.

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan[6] An' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin And pouk my hips.

"See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f----t, Damn'd haet they'll kill.

"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But-deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt.

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary, Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock.

"Ev'n them he canna get attended, Although their face he ne'er had kend it, Just sh---- in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't.

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C.

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and pease, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can content ye.

"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'd per se; Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mony mae."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole[7] now," Quo' I, "If that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnie!"

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, "Ye need na yoke the plough, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want of breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill.

"An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair

"A countra laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel.

"A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel paid for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d--mn'd dirt:

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead's a herrin': Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin'!"

But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak' the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel', And sae did Death.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: Buchan's Domestic Medicine.]

[Footnote 7: The grave-digger.]

* * * * *

XVI.

THE TWA HERDS:

OR,

THE HOLY TULZIE.

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns, "with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause."]

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 and crocks, About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, O! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle And think it fine: The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle Sin' I ha'e min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,-- O sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin.

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, And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight.

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

Sic twa--O! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet, An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein'!

An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree.

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.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws.

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.

And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cow the lairds, And get the brutes the powers themsels To choose their herds;

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France: Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, M'Gill's close nervous excellence, M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, And guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

* * * * *

XVII.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

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

POPE.

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and, what is known by the name of a "professing Christian." He experienced, however, a "sore fall;" he permitted himself to be "filled fou," and in a moment when "self got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.]

O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts and grace, A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plunged me in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whar damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock.

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

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

Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow-- But Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I came near her, Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted; If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' grit and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads, Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin', To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin' And hung his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare.

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

* * * * *

XVIII.

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, that when he was clerk in Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns came in one morning and said, "I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it." He repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph; Hamilton came in at the moment, and having read them with delight, ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy Willie was other than godly; in one of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was needful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found dead in the morning.]

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Takes up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear the left-hand road.

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.

Your brunstane devilship I see, Has got him there before ye; But hand your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane; Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gaen.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

* * * * *

XIX.

THE INVENTORY;

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR

OF THE TAXES.

[We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humorous inventory of his effects, so moved the commissioners of the income tax, that they remitted all claim on him then and forever; we know not that this very humorous inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the surveyor of the taxes. It is dated "Mossgiel, February 22d, 1786," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the information which it gives us of the poet's habits, household, and agricultural implements.]

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

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My lan' afore's[8] a gude auld has been, An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been. My lan ahin's[9] a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,[10] An' your auld burro' mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime-- But ance, whan in my wooing pride, I like a blockhead boost to ride, The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (L--d pardon a' my sins an' that too!) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. My fur ahin's[11] a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, A d--n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie! Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale, As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.-- Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; Ae 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.

For men I've three mischievous boys, Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!) I ha'e nae wife--and that my bliss is, An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils darena touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already, An' gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L--d! ye'se get them a'thegither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license 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; My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. The kirk and you may tak' you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your buke. Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, the day and date as under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Subscripsi huic ROBERT BURNS.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.]

[Footnote 9: The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.]

[Footnote 10: Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 11: The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.]

* * * * *

XX.

THE HOLY FAIR.

A robe of seeming truth and trust Did crafty observation; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation: A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

[The scene of this fine poem is the church-yard of Mauchline, and the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners visible in matters so solemn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. "This was indeed," says Lockhart, "an extraordinary performance: no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet." "It is no doubt," says Hogg, "a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever one, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I admire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed from Ferguson."]

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin'; The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chantin' Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way; Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining; The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes: The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' taks me by the hands, "Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck, Of a' the ten commands A screed some day.

"My name is Fun--your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin' At them this day."

Quoth I, "With a' my heart I'll do't; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!" Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time An' soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a wearie body, In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show, On ev'ry side they're gath'rin', Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin' Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry, There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of titlin' jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there's a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkin' on the lasses To chairs that day.

O happy is that man an' blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him; Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkenn'd that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie speeds the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' ratlin' an' wi' thumpin'! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin an' he's jumpin'! His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day.

But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice: There's peace an' rest nae langer: For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine, Of moral pow'rs and reason? His English style, an' gestures fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,[12] Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes, An' thinks it auld wives' fables: But faith! the birkie wants a manse, So, cannily he hums them; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him At times that day.

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators: Here's crying out for bakes and gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' scripture, They raise a din, that, in the end, Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair Than either school or college: It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pangs us fou' o' knowledge, Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or any stronger potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table, weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're making observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' formin' assignations To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts: Black Russell is na' sparin': His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints and marrow; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Our vera sauls does harrow[13] Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat, Wad melt the hardest whunstane! The half asleep start up wi' fear, An' think they hear it roarin', When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neibor snorin' Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist: How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches: An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An' gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething; Sma' need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing! O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let lasses be affronted On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' ratlin tow, Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame, the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine; There's some are fou o' brandy; An' monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandie Some ither day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.]

[Footnote 13: Shakespeare's Hamlet.]

* * * * *

XXI.

THE ORDINATION.

"For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n-- To please the mob they hide the little giv'n."

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786. That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', An' there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, An' pour divine libations For joy this day.

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;[14] But Oliphant aft made her yell, An' Russell sair misca'd her; This day Mackinlay taks the flail, And he's the boy will blaud her! He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day.

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor; O' double verse come gie us four, An' skirl up the Bangor: This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow'r, And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham[15] leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a niger; Or Phineas[16] drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,[17] the scauldin' jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks but for the fashion; And gie him o'er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin', Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, And toss thy horns fu' canty; Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day.

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin': Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep, And o'er the thairms be tryin'; Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep, An' a' like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day!

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin: Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin'; And like a godly elect bairn He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound this day.

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever. Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton repair, And turn a carpet-weaver Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie and you were just a match We never had sic twa drones: Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons: And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein' through the city; Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays! I vow it's unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common Sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day.

But there's Morality himsel', Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions; See, how she peels the skin an' fell. As ane were peelin' onions! Now there--they're packed aff to hell, And banished our dominions, Henceforth this day.

O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, That Heresy can torture: They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here's for a conclusion, To every New Light[18] mother's son, From this time forth Confusion: If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk.]

[Footnote 15: Genesis, ix. 22.]

[Footnote 16: Numbers, xxv. 8.]

[Footnote 17: Exodus, iv. 25.]

[Footnote 18: "New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religions opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.]

* * * * *

XXII.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN.

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2--"And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."

[The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf--for the name it seems stuck--came to London, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1796.]

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh; For instance; there's yoursel' just now, God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, You e'er should be a stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank among the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head-- "Here lies a famous Bullock!"

* * * * *

XXIII.

TO JAMES SMITH.

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet'ner of life and solder of society! I owe thee much!--"

BLAIR.

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shop-keeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather follower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with "Yill-caup commentators." He was present in Poosie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggars first dawned on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of the poet's heart were not generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788; but this was not to last; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his manners lively and unaffected.]

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon Just gaun to see you; And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan; And in her freaks, on every feature She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit it up sublime Wi' hasty summon: Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin'?

Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash: Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; But in requit, Has blest me with a random shot O' countra wit.

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, To try my fate in guid black prent; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries "Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly.

"There's ither poets much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, A' future ages: Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages."

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound and hale, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave care o'er side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light.

The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, See crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi' wrinkl'd face, Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, Wi' creepin' pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', Then fareweel vacant careless roamin'; An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', An' social noise; An' fareweel dear, deluding woman! The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho' the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, For which they never toil'd nor swat; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain.

With steady aim some Fortune chase; Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey; Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin'; To right or left, eternal swervin', They zig-zag on; 'Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin', They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-- But truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is fortune's fickle Luna waning? E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, "Tho' I should wander terra e'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Ay rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour! And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent. per cent. But give me real, sterling wit, And I'm content.

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu' face, As lang's the muses dinna fail To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows As weel's I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you--O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, In your unletter'd nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad: I see you upward cast your eyes-- Ye ken the road--

Whilst I--but I shall haud me there-- Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-- Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang.

* * * * *

XXIV.

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST.[19]

[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be "the only pieces by Burns which can be classed under the head of pure fiction:" but Tam O' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equal right to be classed with works of fiction. The edition of this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from the edition which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.]

The sun had clos'd the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play, An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree The lee-lang day had tired me; And when the day had closed his e'e Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin'; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin'.

All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mused on wastet time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done nae thing, But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit My cash-account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount.

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof! And heav'd on high my waukit loof, To swear by a' yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath--

When, click! the string the snick did draw: And, jee! the door gaed to the wa'; An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin' bright, A tight outlandish hizzie, braw Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon be broken.

A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her: Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with honour.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 'Till half a leg was scrimply seen: And such a leg! my bonnie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand; And seem'd to my astonish'd view, A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient borough rear'd her head; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race, To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace.

By stately tow'r, or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern; Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race[20] heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel In sturdy blows; While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Their southron foes.

His Country's Saviour,[21] mark him well! Bold Richardton's[22] heroic swell; The chief on Sark[23] who glorious fell, In high command; And He whom ruthless fates expel His native land.

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade[24] Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race portray'd In colours strong; Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along.

Thro' many a wild romantic grove,[25] Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, (Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) In musing mood, An aged judge, I saw him rove, Dispensing good.

With deep-struck, reverential awe,[26] The learned sire and son I saw, To Nature's God and Nature's law, They gave their lore, This, all its source and end to draw; That, to adore.

Brydone's brave ward[27] I well could spy, Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a Patriot-name on high And hero shone.

* * * * *

DUAN SECOND

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair; A whisp'ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air She did me greet.

"All hail! My own inspired bard! In me thy native Muse regard! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low! I come to give thee such reward As we bestow.

"Know, the great genius of this land, Has many a light aerial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously, As arts or arms they understand, Their labours ply.

"They Scotia's race among them share; Some fire the soldier on to dare; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart. Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art.

"'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; Or 'mid the venal senate's roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand.

"And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild, poetic rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye.

"Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His 'Minstrel' lays; Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic's bays.

"To lower orders are assign'd The humbler ranks of human-kind, The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, The artisan; All choose, as various they're inclin'd The various man.

"When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain, With tillage-skill; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe o'er the hill.

"Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Some grace the maiden's artless smile; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains.

"Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard: And careful note each op'ning grace, A guide and guard.

"Of these am I--Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling pow'r: I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame, Thy natal hour.

"With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely carroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays Of other times.

"I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye.

"Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love.

"When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk.

"When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame.

"I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven.

"I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Become thy friends.

"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone's art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow, Warm on the heart.

"Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade.

"Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, Nor king's regard, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, A rustic bard.

"To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; Preserve the dignity of man, With soul erect; And trust, the universal plan Will all protect.

"And wear thou this,"--she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head: The polish'd leaves and berries red Did rustling play; And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his "Cath-Loda," vol. ii. of Macpherson's translation.]

[Footnote 20: The Wallaces.]

[Footnote 21: Sir William Wallace.]

[Footnote 22: Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.]

[Footnote 23: Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.]

[Footnote 24: Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown.]

[Footnote 25: Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of Session.)]

[Footnote 26: Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Steward.]

[Footnote 27: Colonel Fullarton.]

* * * * *

XXV.

HALLOWEEN.[28]

"Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art."

GOLDSMITH.

[This Poem contains a lively and striking picture of some of the superstitious observances of old Scotland: on Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portion of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fireside, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including supernumerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engagements of harvest. "I never can help regarding this," says James Hogg, "as rather a trivial poem!"]

Upon that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans[29] dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams; There, up the Cove,[30] to stray an' rove Amang the rocks an' streams To sport that night.

Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, Where Bruce[31] ance rul'd the martial ranks, An' shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' haud their Halloween Fu' blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they're fine; Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin'; The lads sae trig, wi' wooer babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whiles fast at night.

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail, Their stocks[32] maun a' be sought ance; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, For muckle anes an' straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, An' wander'd through the bow-kail, An' pou't, for want o' better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow't that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; The vera wee-things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've placed them To lie that night.

The lasses staw frae mang them a' To pou their stalks o' corn;[33] But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn: He grippet Nelly hard an' fast; Loud skirl'd a' the lasses; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kiuttlin' in the fause-house[34] Wi' him that night.

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits[35] Are round an' round divided; An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates Are there that night decided: Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, And jump out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night.

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e; Wha 'twas, she wadna tell; But this is Jock, an' this is me, She says in to hersel': He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, As they wad never mair part; 'Till, fuff! he started up the lum, An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that night.

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie; An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compar'd to Willie; Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, An' her ain fit it brunt it; While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min', She pits hersel an' Rob in; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 'Till white in ase they're sobbin'; Nell's heart, was dancin' at the view, She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't: Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou', Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, And slips out by hersel': She through the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then, An' darklins graipit for the bauks, And in the blue-clue[36] throws then, Right fear't that night.

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin'; 'Till something held within the pat, Guid L--d! but she was quaukin'! But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin' To spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her graunie says, "Will ye go wi' me, graunie? I'll eat the apple[37] at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnnie:" She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin', She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night.

"Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! I daur you try sic sportin', As seek the foul Thief onie place, For him to spae your fortune: Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An' liv'd an' died deleeret On sic a night.

"Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure I was na past fifteen: The simmer had been cauld an' wat, An' stuff was unco green; An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat, An' just on Halloween It fell that night.

"Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, A clever, sturdy fellow: He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That liv'd in Achmacalla: He gat hemp-seed,[38] I mind it weel, And he made unco light o't; But monie a day was by himsel', He was sae sairly frighted That vera night."

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swoor by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; For it was a' but nonsense; The auld guidman raught down the pock, An' out a' handfu' gied him; Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see'd him, An' try't that night.

He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin; The graip he for a harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin; An' ev'ry now an' then he says, "Hemp-seed, I saw thee, An' her that is to be my lass, Come after me, an' draw thee As fast that night."

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery; Altho' his hair began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie; 'Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle; He by his shouther gae a keek, An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre that night.

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, In dreadfu' desperation! An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, An' hear the sad narration; He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 'Till, stop! she trotted thro' them a'; An' wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, To win three wechts o' naething;[39] But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in: She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tam Kipples That vera night.

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, An' owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca', Syne bauldly in she enters: A ratton rattled up the wa', An' she cried, L--d preserve her! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night.

They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice; They hecht him some fine braw ane; It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,[40] Was timmer-propt for thrawin'; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin; An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Aff's nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlin; But, och! that night, amang the shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin'! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,[41] To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night.

Amang the brackens on the brae, Between her an' the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up an' gae a croon: Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool! Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an' in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three[42] are ranged, And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed: Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin Mar's-year did desire, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, He heav'd them on the fire In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery; Till butter'd so'ns[43] wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin' Fu' blythe that night.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands: particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.]

[Footnote 29: Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.]

[Footnote 30: A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.]

[Footnote 31: The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.]

[Footnote 32: The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells--the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.]

[Footnote 33: They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.]

[Footnote 34: When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.]

[Footnote 35: Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.]

[Footnote 36: Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; demand "wha hauds?" i.e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.]

[Footnote 37: Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.]

[Footnote 38: Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp-seed, I saw thee; hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "Come after me, and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, "Come after me, and harrow thee."]

[Footnote 39: This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht; and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life.]

[Footnote 40: Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.]

[Footnote 41: You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.]

[Footnote 42: Take three dishes: put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.]

[Footnote 43: Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.]

* * * * *

XXVI.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

[The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop: "I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of 'The Life and Age of Man.'" From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with "Man was made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.]

When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy'd a man whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" Began the rev'rend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride: I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return, And ev'ry time had added proofs That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives nature's law, That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want--oh! ill-match'd pair!-- Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest: Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh! what crowds in every land, All wretched and forlorn! Thro' weary life this lesson learn-- That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-- By Nature's law design'd-- Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend-- The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour, my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn! But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn."

* * * * *

XXVII.

TO RUIN.

["I have been," says Burns, in his common-place book, "taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 'The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.]

I.

All hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all! With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then low'ring and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Though thick'ning and black'ning, Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch's prayer! No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's joyless day; My weary heart its throbbings cease, Cold mould'ring in the clay? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face; Enclasped, and grasped Within thy cold embrace!

* * * * *

XXVIII.

TO

JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK.

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS

[This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the West.]

O Goudie! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girnin', looks back, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick.

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

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, But now she's got an unco ripple; Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, Nigh unto death; See, how she fetches at the thrapple, An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gaen in a gallopin' consumption, Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, Will ever mend her. Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor[44] are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief, But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel, An' twa red peats wad send relief, An' end the quarrel.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.]

* * * * *

XXIX.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1st, 1785.

(FIRST EPISTLE.)

["The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, "was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well as women."]

While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin', And there was muckle fun an' jokin', Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin' At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous manly bosoms feel, Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele, Or Beattie's wark?" They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd He had injine, That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel', Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, "How can you e'er propose, You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?" But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may-be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire! That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true-- I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends an' folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses--Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair; I should be proud to meet you there! We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better, Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, "Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant.

* * * * *

XXX.

To

J. LAPRAIK.

(SECOND EPISTLE.)

[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic worshipper of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, beginning

"When I upon thy bosom lean."

He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled power of soul.]

April 21st, 1785.

While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take To own I'm debtor, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Their ten hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month' an' mair, That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad: "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right.

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts, An' thank him kindly?"

Sae I gat paper in a blink An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove I'll prose it!"

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland-harp Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; She's but a b--tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the L--d, tho' I should beg Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; But yet despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks!

"O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!"

Were this the charter of our state, "On pain' o' hell be rich an' great," Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, "The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he!"

O mandate, glorious and divine! The followers o' the ragged Nine, Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievfu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year!

* * * * *

XXXI.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

(THIRD EPISTLE.)

[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, "tapetless," "ramfeezled," and "forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]

Sept. 13th, 1785.

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny, Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread, May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y To clear your head.

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 tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack.

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 ony clark.

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.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our noble sel's; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskey stills, They are the muses.

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

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

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, An' be as canty, As ye were nine year less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty!

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

* * * * *

XXXII.

TO

WILLIAM SIMPSON,

OCHILTREE.

[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet's comrades;--of verses which rose not above the barren level of mediocrity: "one of his poems," says Chambers, "was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul." In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are intended to be laughable as well as monitory.]

May, 1785.

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they're like to be my dead (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed, It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd stile; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings.

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine Up wi' the best.

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy'd.

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray: Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day.

O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, my "rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axes Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns.