Prologue
SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT,
MONDAY, 16 April, 1787.
[The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had other claims on Burns: he had been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 1802.]
When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted--honest fame; When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow, But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war-- Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear! Where every science--every nobler art-- That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam; Here History paints, with elegance and force, The tide of Empires' fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, And Harley[68] rouses all the god in man. When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, Can only charm as in the second place,) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge--you're candid to forgive. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet: Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.
O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire: May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 68: The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie.]
* * * * *
LXXXI.
SKETCH.
[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call "The Poet's Progress." He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. "The Fragment forms," said he, "the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching." It is probable that the professor's response was not favourable for we hear no more of the Poem.]
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets Better than e'er the fairest she he meets: A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour: So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. Much specious lore, but little understood; Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: His solid sense--by inches you must tell. But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
* * * * *
LXXXII.
TO MRS. SCOTT,
OF WAUCHOPE.
[The lady to whom this epistle is addressed was a painter and a poetess: her pencil sketches are said to have been beautiful; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. Taste and poetry belonged to her family; she was the niece of Mrs. Cockburn, authoress of a beautiful variation of The Flowers of the Forest.]
I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An' first could thresh the barn; Or hand a yokin at the pleugh; An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing, The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa.
E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spar'd the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' wrang, Wild floated in my brain; 'Till on that har'st I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous'd the forming strain: I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een That gart my heart-strings tingle: I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing and dashing I feared aye to speak.
Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days, An' we to share in common: The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu' o' your mither: She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her. Ye're wae men, ye're nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; 'Twad please me to the nine. I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, Douce hingin' owre my curple Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial purple. Fareweel then, lang heel then, An' plenty be your fa'; May losses and crosses Ne'er at your hallan ca'.
* * * * *
LXXXIII.
EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.
[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his bookseller. Creech was a person of education and taste; he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and parsimonious, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.]
Selkirk, 13 May, 1787.
Auld chukie Reekie's[69] sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest, Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo'es best, Willie's awa!
O Willie was a witty wight, And had o' things an unco slight; Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, An' trig an' braw: But now they'll busk her like a fright, Willie's awa!
The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd; They durst nae mair than he allow'd, That was a law; We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, Willie's awa!
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, Frae colleges and boarding-schools, May sprout like simmer puddock stools In glen or shaw; He wha could brush them down to mools, Willie's awa!
The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer[70] May mourn their loss wi' doofu' clamour; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a'; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, Willie's awa!
Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and poets pour,[71] And toothy critics by the score In bloody raw! The adjutant o' a' the core, Willie's awa!
Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace As Rome n'er saw; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa!
Poor Burns--e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw; Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', Willie's awa!
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, And Calvin's fock are fit to fell him; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Willie's awa!
Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw; But every joy and pleasure's fled, Willie's awa!
May I be slander's common speech; A text for infamy to preach; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw; When I forget thee! Willie Creech, Tho' far awa!
May never wicked fortune touzle him! May never wicked man bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld's Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 69: Edinburgh.]
[Footnote 70: The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary.]
[Footnote 71: Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast.]
* * * * *
LXXXIV.
THE
HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER
TO THE
NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.
[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: "he threw himself," said the Professor, "on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed." His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]
I.
My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.
II.
The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.
III.
Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As Poet Burns came by, That to a bard I should be seen Wi' half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was he shor'd me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.
IV.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel', Worth gaun a mile to see.
V.
Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.
VI.
The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir: The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow.
VII.
This, too, a covert shall insure To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat From prone-descending show'rs.
VIII.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care. The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace.
IX.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain gray; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
X.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows' wat'ry bed! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embow'ring thorn.
XI.
So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band, Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be--"Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses?"
* * * * *
LXXXV.
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL
IN LOCH-TURIT.
[When Burns wrote these touching lines, he was staying with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours. Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.]
Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?-- Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free: Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave: Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels: But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, Glories in his heart humane-- And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave.
* * * * *
LXXXVI.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE
INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.
[The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Breadalbane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: has some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.]
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious I pursue, 'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.-- The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam--
* * * * *
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods--
* * * * *
Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter--rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.
* * * * *
LXXXVII.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS,
NEAR LOCH-NESS
[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it, the Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another fall further up the stream, very wild and savage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and agitated mist.]
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds, As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep-recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid cauldron boils--
* * * * *
LXXXVIII.
POETICAL ADDRESS
TO MR. W. TYTLER,
WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.
[When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Tytlers through three generations: an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poet's handwriting.]
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.
Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne, My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th' Electoral stem? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.
But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter.
I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.
* * * * *
LXXXIX.
WRITTEN IN
FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,
ON THE BANKS OF NITH.
JUNE. 1788.
[FIRST COPY.]
[The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, has enabled me to present the reader with the rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first-fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nithside.]
Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Day, how rapid in its flight-- Day, how few must see the night; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lower. Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor gleam; Fame, a restless idle dream: Pleasures, insects on the wing Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring; Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own; Those that would the bloom devour, Crush the locusts--save the flower. For the future be prepar'd, Guard wherever thou canst guard; But, thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past, give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care: Keep the name of man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart Him whose wondrous work thou art; Keep His goodness still in view, Thy trust--and thy example, too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! Quod the Beadsman on Nithside.
* * * * *
XC.
WRITTEN IN
FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,
ON NITHSIDE.
DECEMBER, 1788.
[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies in his own handwriting: I have seen three. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Ellisland; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the diamond pencil of the Bard. On Riddel's death, the Hermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay: I remember in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.]
Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. Fear not clouds will always lour. As Youth and Love with sprightly dance Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair: Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.
As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits would'st thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold, While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among.
As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate, with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate, Is not--Art thou high or low? Did thy fortune ebb or flow? Wast thou cottager or king? Peer or peasant?--no such thing! Did many talents gild thy span? Or frugal nature grudge thee one? Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to vice is giv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, There solid self-enjoyment lies; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.
Thus, resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Night, where dawn shall never break, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before.
Stranger, go! Hea'vn be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nithside.
* * * * *
XCI.
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL,
OF GLENRIDDEL.
EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.
[Captain Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was Burns's neighbour, at Ellisland: he was a kind, hospitable man, and a good antiquary. The "News and Review" which he sent to the poet contained, I have heard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with his usual strong sense, set the proper value upon all contemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless "chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his peers, and where were such to be found?]
Ellisland, Monday Evening.
Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming; The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir, But of meet or unmeet in a fabric complete, I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.
My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, Sir, should know it!
* * * * *
XCII.
A MOTHER'S LAMENT
FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.
["The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of the verses now before me, "was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. Stewart, of Afton."]
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd my darling's heart; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid: So fell the pride of all my hopes, My age's future shade.
The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young; So I, for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now, fond I bare my breast, O, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest!
* * * * *
XCIII.
FIRST EPISTLE
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.
OF FINTRAY.
[In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says "accompanying a request." What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman: for this the poet had qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in due time: his division was extensive, and included ten parishes.]
When Nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man.
Then first she calls the useful many forth; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth: Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net; The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, Law, physic, politics, and deep divines: Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls.
The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it--a Poet. Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, Admir'd and prais'd--and there the homage ends: A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find; And, to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great, A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives--tho' humbly takes enough; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!" Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) Who make poor will do wait upon I should-- We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, Heaven's attribute distinguished--to bestow! Whose arms of love would grasp the human race: Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; But there are such who court the tuneful nine-- Heavens! should the branded character be mine! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! Seek not the proofs in private life to find; Pity the best of words should be but wind! So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, They persecute you all your future days! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny fist assume the plough again; The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift! I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
* * * * *
XCIV.
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.
[I found these lines written with a pencil in one of Burns's memorandum-books: he said he had just composed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed in nothing from the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.]
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;[72] Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd well,[73] Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.[74]
Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.--
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!" With accents wild and lifted arms--she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh!
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name! No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"-- She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 72: The King's Park, at Holyrood-house.]
[Footnote 73: St. Anthony's Well.]
[Footnote 74: St. Anthony's Chapel.]
* * * * *
XCV.
EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER.
[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the poet's Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems: he has been dead many years: the Epistle was recovered, luckily, from his papers, and printed for the first time in 1834.]
In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, Nor limpet in poetic shackles: A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it--for in vain I leuk.-- The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal: Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.[75] Jenny, my Pegasean pride! Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And ay a westlin leuk she throws, While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose! Was it for this, wi' canny care, Thou bure the bard through many a shire? At howes or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled?-- O had I power like inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his godship's face; For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.-- Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, And nought but peat reek i' my head, How can I write what ye can read?-- Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, Ye'll find me in a better tune; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
ROBERT BURNS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 75: His mare.]
* * * * *
XCVI.
LINES
INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER
A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE.
[Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glencairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ellisland: beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed: a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is now in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years; he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with whom this ancient race was closed.]
Whose is that noble dauntless brow? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire? Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works inspire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian seraph eyes with awe The noble ward he loves-- Among th' illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye-- It dwells upon Glencairn.
* * * * *
XCVII.
ELEGY
ON THE YEAR 1788
A SKETCH.
[This Poem was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. The poet loved to indulge in such sarcastic sallies: it is full of character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty times.]
For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die--for that they're born, But oh! prodigious to reflec'! A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint a-head, An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead; The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks; The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil: The tither's something dour o' treadin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden-- Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet, For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, For some o' you ha'e tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en, What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again.
Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel' a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man! As muckle better as ye can.
January 1, 1789.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.
["I had intended," says Burns to Creech, 30th May, 1789, "to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent toothache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense." The poetic Address to the Toothache seems to belong to this period.]
My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee--thou hell o' a' diseases, Ay mocks our groan!
Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.
O' a' the num'rous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bears't the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!
O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!-- Gie' a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache.
* * * * *
XCIX.
ODE
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
MRS. OSWALD,
OF AUCHENCRUIVE.
[The origin of this harsh effusion shows under what feelings Burns sometimes wrote. He was, he says, on his way to Ayrshire, one stormy day in January, and had made himself comfortable, in spite of the snow-drift, over a smoking bowl, at an inn at the Sanquhar, when in wheeled the whole funeral pageantry of Mrs. Oswald. He was obliged to mount his horse and ride for quarters to New Cumnock, where, over a good fire, he penned, in his very ungallant indignation, the Ode to the lady's memory. He lived to think better of the name.]
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?
STROPHE.
View the wither'd beldam's face-- Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose. See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took--but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
ANTISTROPHE.
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
EPODE.
And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.
* * * * *
C.
FRAGMENT INSCRIBED
TO THE RIGHT HON. C.J. FOX.
[It was late in life before Burns began to think very highly of Fox: he had hitherto spoken of him rather as a rattler of dice, and a frequenter of soft company, than as a statesman. As his hopes from the Tories vanished, he began to think of the Whigs: the first did nothing, and the latter held out hopes; and as hope, he said was the cordial of the human heart, he continued to hope on.]
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction-- I sing: if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I--let the critics go whistle!
But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right;-- A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, For using thy name offers fifty excuses.
Good L--d, what is man? for as simple he looks, Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks; With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours; Mankind are his show-box--a friend, would you know him? Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him; For spite of his fine theoretic positions, Mankind is a science defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe; Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind, As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd man, No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, Nor even two different shades of the same, Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.
But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse: Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor poet, Your courage much more than your prudence you show it; In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle; Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back-stairs, and by G--he would steal 'em. Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em; It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him.
* * * * *
CI.
ON SEEING
A WOUNDED HARE
LIMP BY ME,
WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT.
[This Poem is founded on fact. A young man of the name of Thomson told me--quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem--that while Burns lived at Ellisland--he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twilight was feeding on his father's wheat-bread. The poet, on observing the hare come bleeding past him, "was in great wrath," said Thomson, "and cursed me, and said little hindered him from throwing me into the Nith; and he was able enough to do it, though I was both young and strong." The boor of Nithside did not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, used the Poem: when Burns read his remarks he said, "Gregory is a good man, but he crucifies me!"]
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field! The bitter little that of life remains: No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
* * * * *
CII.
TO DR. BLACKLOCK,
IN ANSWER TO A LETTER.
[This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man: he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, promote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life.--Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, were his three favourites.]
Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the heron south! And never drink be near his drouth! He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter: I lippen'd to the chief in trouth, And bade nae better.
But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on, And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on E'en tried the body.
But what dy'e think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a gauger--Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye'll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.
Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is-- I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms--thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.
Lord help me thro' this warld o' care! I'm weary sick o't late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers: But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers?
Come, firm Resolve, take then the van, Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e'er tread clay! And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I'm yours for ay,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
CIII.
DELIA.
AN ODE.
[These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's song, by a Person of Quality. "These lines are beyond you," he added: "the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London." Burns mused a moment, then recited "Delia, an Ode."]
Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose, But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flow'r-enamoured busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;--
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O, let me steal one liquid kiss! For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love.
* * * * *
CIV.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.
[John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig castle.
"Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! O may no son the father's honour stain, Nor ever daughter give the mother pain."
How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]
O, could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send! Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend.
But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy-- An honest Bard's esteem.
* * * * *
CV.
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES,
1 JAN. 1790.
[This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm!]
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste--the more's the pity: Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home: But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new year! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, "You're one year older this important day." If wiser too--he hinted some suggestion, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word--"think!"
Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the first blow is ever half the battle: That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! To yon old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important NOW! To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours, And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
* * * * *
CVI.
SCOTS PROLOGUE,
FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,
DUMFRIES.
[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.--Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]
What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin'? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame? For comedy abroad he need nae toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enough in Caledonian story, Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce; How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword, 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; A woman--tho' the phrase may seem uncivil-- As able and as cruel as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age: And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would take the muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time, on' lay him on his back! For us and for our stage should ony spier, "Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here!" My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, We have the honour to belong to you! We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, But like good withers, shore before ye strike.-- And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, For a' the patronage and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks: God help us! we're but poor--ye'se get but thanks.
* * * * *
CVII.
SKETCH.
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]
This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again: I see the old, bald-pated follow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer; Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow-- That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-- And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver? "Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion? "The passing moment's all we rest on!" Rest on--for what? what do we here? Or why regard the passing year? Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more? A few days more--a few years must-- Repose us in the silent dust. Then is it wise to damp our bliss? Yes--all such reasonings are amiss! The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies: That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight: That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone; Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woeful night.--
Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, On this poor being all depends, Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die.--
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
* * * * *
CVIII.
TO A GENTLEMAN
WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.
[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.]
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And, faith, to me 'twas really new! How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin'; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks: Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt: If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'; How libbet Italy was singin'; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss: Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game: How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin'; Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in: How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a--s yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser.-- A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair'd of. So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790.
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CIX.
THE KIRK'S ALARM;[76]
A SATIRE.
[FIRST VERSION.]
[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the Standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with reluctance.]
Orthodox, orthodox, Wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast Has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.
Dr. Mac,[77] Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error.
Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John[78] is still deaf To the church's relief, And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.
D'rymple mild,[80] D'rymple mild, Thro' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must hav ye, For preaching that three's ane an' twa.
Rumble John,[81] Rumble John, Mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the danm'd.
Simper James,[82] Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head That the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few.
Singet Sawney,[83] Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evil await? Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Though yo can do little skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.
Davie Bluster,[85] Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits; Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.
Jamy Goose,[86] Jamy Goose, Ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, For the L--d's haly ark; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.
Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie, Fie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side Ye ne'er laid astride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he ----.
Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk, Ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; Ye are rich and look big, But lay by hat and wig, And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.
Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence To havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.
Irvine side,[90] Irvine side, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, Of manhood but sum' is your share, Ye've the figure 'tis true, Even your faes will allow, And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.
Muirland Jock,[91] Muirland Jock, When the L--d makes a rock To crush Common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Holy Will,[92] Holy Will, There was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye're ta'en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie, E'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 76: This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M'Gill's Essay.]
[Footnote 77: Dr. M'Gill.]
[Footnote 78: John Ballantyne.]
[Footnote 79: Robert Aiken.]
[Footnote 80: Dr. Dalrymple.]
[Footnote 81: Mr. Russell.]
[Footnote 82: Mr. M'Kinlay.]
[Footnote 83: Mr. Moody, of Riccarton.]
[Footnote 84: Mr. Auld of Mauchline.]
[Footnote 85: Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree.]
[Footnote 86: Mr. Young, of Cumnock.]
[Footnote 87: Mr. Peebles, Ayr.]
[Footnote 88: Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.]
[Footnote 89: Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.]
[Footnote 90: Mr. George Smith, of Galston.]
[Footnote 91: Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.]
[Footnote 92: Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.]
* * * * *
CX.
THE KIRK'S ALARM.
A BALLAD.
[SECOND VERSION.]
[This version is from the papers of Miss Logan, of Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself: "Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire Which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I confess too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too." The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, "A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire."]
I.
Orthodox, orthodox, Who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience-- There's a heretic blast, Has been blawn i' the wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense, Orthodox, That what is not sense must be nonsense.
II.
Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, And strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense, Upon any pretence, Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error.
III.
Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was rash I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John is still deaf, To the church's relief, And orator Bob is its ruin, Town Of Ayr, And orator Bob is its ruin.
IV.
D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Old Satan must have ye For preaching that three's are an' twa, D'rymple mild, For preaching that three's are an' twa.
V.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin's sons, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead.
VI.
Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like aidle, And roar every note o' the damn'd, Rumble John, And roar every note o' the damn'd.
VII.
Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head, That the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few, Simper James, For puppies like you there's but few.
VIII.
Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what danger awaits? With a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For Hannibal's just at your gates, Singet Sawnie, For Hannibal's just at your gates.
IX.
Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, Ye may slander the book, And the book nought the waur--let me tell you; Tho' ye're rich and look big, Yet lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value, Andrew Gowk, And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value.
X.
Poet Willie, Poet Willie, Gie the doctor a volley, Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side, Ye ne'er laid a stride Ye only stood by when he ----, Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he ----.
XI.
Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, What mean ye? what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence, man, To havins and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie, Wi' people that ken ye nae better.
XII.
Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, O' hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the doctor's your mark, For the L--d's holy ark, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't, Jamie Goose, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.
XIII.
Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster, It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass were the king o' the brutes, Davie Bluster, If the ass were the king o' the brutes.
XIV.
Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins; If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit, To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance.
XV.
Cessnockside, Cessnockside, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, O' manhood but sma' is your share; Ye've the figure, it's true, Even our faes maun allow, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.
XVI.
Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93] Tho' ye downa do skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark.
XVII.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, Yet were she even tipsy, She could ca' us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
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