Poems and Songs of Robert Burns / Burns, Robert, 1759-1796Poems and Songs of Robert Burns / Burns, Robert, 1759-1796| Author: | Burns, Robert, 1759-1796 |
| Title: | Poems and Songs of Robert Burns |
| Date: | 2005-01-25 |
| Contributor(s): | Underwood, Clarence F. [Illustrator] |
| Size: | 842290 |
| Identifier: | etext1279 |
| Language: | en |
| Publisher: | Project Gutenberg |
| Rights: | GNU General Public License |
| Tag(s): | song robert burns ebook cost restrictions whatsoever poems songs project gutenberg underwood clarence illustrator |
| Versions: | original; local mirror; plain HTML (this file); concordance (most frequent 100 words, etc.) |
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Project Gutenberg's Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns, by Robert Burns
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Title: Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns
Author: Robert Burns
Release Date: January 25, 2005 [EBook #1279]
Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND SONGS OF ROBERT BURNS ***
Produced by David Widger and an Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer
POEMS AND SONGS OF ROBERT BURNS
by Robert Burns
Introductory Note
1771 - 1779
Song--Handsome Nell
Song--O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day
Song--I Dream'd I Lay
Song--I Dream'd I Lay
Song--In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer
Tragic Fragment--All villain as I am
The Tarbolton Lasses
Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear
Song--Montgomerie's Peggy
The Ploughman's Life
1780
The Ronalds Of The Bennals
Song--Here's To Thy Health
Song--The Lass Of Cessnock Banks
Song--Bonie Peggy Alison
Song--Mary Morison
1781
Winter: A Dirge
A Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish
Paraphrase Of The First Psalm
The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified
Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death
Stanzas, On The Same Occasion
1782
Fickle Fortune: A Fragment
Song--Raging Fortune--Fragment Of
I'll Go And Be A Sodger
Song--"No Churchman Am I"
My Father Was A Farmer
John Barleycorn: A Ballad
1783
Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie
Poor Mailie's Elegy
Song--The Rigs O' Barley
Song Composed In August
Song--My Nanie, O!
Song--Green Grow The Rashes
Song--Wha Is That At My Bower-Door
1784
Remorse: A Fragment
Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton
Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton
Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father's Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton
Mill
Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father
Ballad On The American War
Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine
Epistle To John Rankine
A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1
Song--O Leave Novels!
The Mauchline Lady: A Fragment
My Girl She's Airy: A Fragment
The Belles Of Mauchline
Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic
Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire
Epigram On The Said Occasion
Another On The said Occasion
On Tam The Chapman
Epitaph On John Rankine
Lines On The Author's Death
Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge
The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie
1785
Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet
Holy Willie's Prayer
Epitaph On Holy Willie
Death and Doctor Hornbook
Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard
Second Epistle To J. Lapraik
Epistle To William Simson
One Night As I Did Wander
Tho' Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part
Song--Rantin', Rovin' Robin
Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux
Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock
The Holy Fair
Third Epistle To J. Lapraik
Epistle To The Rev. John M'math
Second Epistle to Davie
Song--Young Peggy Blooms
Song--Farewell To Ballochmyle
Fragment--Her Flowing Locks
Halloween
To A Mouse
Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper
Epitaph For James Smith
Adam Armour's Prayer
The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata
Song--For A' That
Song--Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle
The Cotter's Saturday Night
Address To The Deil
Scotch Drink
1786
The Auld Farmer's New-Year--Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare,
Maggie
The Twa Dogs
The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer
The Ordination
Epistle To James Smith
The Vision
Suppressed Stanza's Of "The Vision"
The Rantin' Dog, The Daddie O't
Here's His Health In Water
Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous
The Inventory
To John Kennedy, Dumfries House
To Mr. M'Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan
To A Louse
Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More's
Song, Composed In Spring
To A Mountain Daisy,
To Ruin
The Lament
Despondency: An Ode
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, Recommending a Boy.
Versified Reply To An Invitation
Song--Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary?
My Highland Lassie, O
Epistle To A Young Friend
Address Of Beelzebub
A Dream
A Dedication To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline
The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James' Lodge, Tarbolton.
On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies
Song--Farewell To Eliza
A Bard's Epitaph
Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq.
Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
Epitaph On "Wee Johnie"
The Lass O' Ballochmyle
Lines To An Old Sweetheart
Motto Prefixed To The Author's First Publication
Lines To Mr. John Kennedy
Lines Written On A Banknote
Stanzas On Naething
The Farewell
The Calf
Nature's Law--A Poem
Song--Willie Chalmers
Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor
The Brigs Of Ayr
Fragment Of Song
Epigram On Rough Roads
Prayer--O Thou Dread Power
Song--Farewell To The Banks Of Ayr
Address To The Toothache
Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer
Masonic Song
Tam Samson's Elegy
Epistle To Major Logan
Fragment On Sensibility
A Winter Night
Song--Yon Wild Mossy Mountains
Address To Edinburgh
Address To A Haggis
1787
To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems, For A New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1,
1787.
Mr. William Smellie--A Sketch
Rattlin', Roarin' Willie
Song--Bonie Dundee
Extempore In The Court Of Session
Inscribed Under Fergusson's Portrait
Epistle To Mrs. Scott of Wauchope-House
Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl's Picture^1
Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Woods at Edinburgh.
Song--The Bonie Moor-Hen
Song--My Lord A-Hunting he is gane
Epigram At Roslin Inn
The Book-Worms
On Elphinstone's Translation Of Martial's Epigrams
Song--A Bottle And Friend
Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns
Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh
Epitaph For Mr. William Michie
Boat song--Hey, Ca' Thro'
Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee
Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church
Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech' s Absence
Note To Mr. Renton Of Lamerton
Elegy On "Stella"
The Bard At Inverary
Epigram To Miss Jean Scott
On The Death Of John M'Leod, Esq,
Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair
Impromptu On Carron Iron Works
To Miss Ferrier
Written By Somebody On The Window Of an Inn at Stirling
The Poet's Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic
The Libeller's Self-Reproof
Verses Written With A Pencil at the Inn at Kenmore
Song--The Birks Of Aberfeldy
The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water
Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.
Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands
Song--Strathallan's Lament
Verses on Castle Gordon
Song--Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky
Song--Theniel Menzies' Bonie Mary
The Bonie Lass Of Albany
On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit
Song--Blythe Was She
Song--A Rose--Bud By My Early Walk
Epitaph For Mr. W. Cruikshank
Song--The Banks Of The Devon
Song--Braving Angry Winter's Storms
Song--My Peggy's Charms
Song--The Young Highland Rover
Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787^1
On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston,
Sylvander To Clarinda
1788
Song--Love In The Guise Of Friendship
Song--Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care
Song--Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul
Song--I'm O'er Young To Marry Yet
Song--To The Weavers Gin Ye Go
Song--M'Pherson's Farewell
Song--Stay My Charmer
Song--My Hoggie
Song--Raving Winds Around Her Blowing
Song--Up In The Morning Early
Song--How Long And Dreary Is The Night
Song--Hey, The Dusty Miller
Song--Duncan Davison
Song--The Lad They Ca'Jumpin John
Song--Talk Of Him That's Far Awa
Song--To Daunton Me
Song--The Winter It Is Past
Song--The Bonie Lad That's Far Awa
Verses To Clarinda, with Drinking Glasses
Song--The Chevalier's Lament
Epistle To Hugh Parker
Song--Of A' The Airts The Wind Can Blaw
Song--I Hae a Wife O' My Ain
Lines Written In Friars'-Carse Hermitage
To Alex. Cunningham, ESQ., Writer, Edinburgh
Song.--Anna, Thy Charms
The Fete Champetre
Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry
Song.--The Day Returns
Song.--O, Were I On Parnassus Hill
A Mother's Lament
Song--The Fall Of The Leaf
Song--I Reign In Jeanie's Bosom
Song--It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonie Face
Song--Auld Lang Syne
Song--My Bonie Mary
Verses On Aa Parting Kiss
Written In Friars Carse Hermitage (Second Version)
The Poet's Progress
Elegy On The Year 1788
The Henpecked Husband
Versicles On Sign-Posts
1789
Robin Shure In Hairst
Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive
Pegasus At Wanlockhead
Sappho Redivivus--A Fragment
Song--She's Fair And Fause
Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell
Lines To John M'Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig
Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell
Caledonia--A Ballad
Verses To Miss Cruickshank
Beware O' Bonie Ann
Ode On The Departed Regency Bill
Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner
A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock
Sketch In Verse Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.
The Wounded Hare
Delia, An Ode
Song--The Gard'ner Wi' His Paidle
Song--On A Bank Of Flowers
Song--Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad
Song--The Banks Of Nith
Song--Jamie, Come Try Me
Song--I Love My Love In Secret
Song--Sweet Tibbie Dunbar
Song--The Captain's Lady
Song--John Anderson, My Jo
Song--My Love, She's But A Lassie Yet
Song--Tam Glen
Song--Carle, An The King Come
Song--The Laddie's Dear Sel'
Song--Whistle O'er The Lave O't
Song--My Eppie Adair
On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro' Scotland
Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary
The Kirk Of Scotland's Alarm
Sonnet to Robert Graham, Esq., On Receiving A Favour
Extemporaneous Effusion On being appointed to an Excise division.
Song--Willie Brew'd A Peck O' Maut^1
Song--Ca' The Yowes To The Knowes
Song--I Gaed A Waefu' Gate Yestreen
Song--Highland Harry Back Again
Song--The Battle Of Sherramuir
Song--The Braes O' Killiecrankie
Song--Awa' Whigs, Awa'
Song--A Waukrife Minnie
Song--The Captive Ribband
Song--My Heart's In The Highlands
The Whistle--A Ballad
Song--To Mary In Heaven
Epistle To Dr. Blacklock
The Five Carlins
Election Ballad For Westerha'
Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries
1790
Sketch--New Year's Day [1790]
Scots' Prologue For Mr. Sutherland
Lines To A Gentleman,
Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare
Song--The Gowden Locks Of Anna
Song--I Murder Hate
Song--Gudewife, Count The Lawin
Election Ballad At the close of the contest
for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790.
Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson
The Epitaphon Captain Matthew Henderson
Verses On Captain Grose
Tam O' Shanter: A Tale
On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child
Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo
1791
Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring
There'll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame
Song--Out Over The Forth
The Banks O' Doon (First Version)
The Banks O' Doon (Second Version)
The Banks O' Doon (Third Version)
Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn
Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart
Song--Craigieburn Wood
Song--The Bonie Wee Thing
Epigram On Miss Davies
Song--The Charms Of Lovely Davies
Song--What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi' An Auld Man
Song--The Posie
On Glenriddell's Fox Breaking His Chain
Poem On Pastoral Poetry
Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near Drumlanrig
Song--The Gallant Weaver
Epigram At Brownhill Inn^1
Song--You're Welcome, Willie Stewart
Song--Lovely Polly Stewart
Song--Fragment,--Damon And Sylvia
Song--Fragment--Johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver
Song--My Eppie Macnab
Song--Fragment--Altho' He Has Left Me
Song--O For Ane An' Twenty, Tam
Song--Thou Fair Eliza
Song--My Bonie Bell
Song--Sweet Afton
Address To The Shade Of Thomson
Song--Nithsdale's Welcome Hame
Song--Frae The Friends And Land I Love
Song--Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation
Song--Ye Jacobites By Name
Song--I Hae Been At Crookieden
Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty
Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of Fintry
The Song Of Death
Poem On Sensibility
Epigram--The Toadeater
Epigram--Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington
Epigram--The Keekin'-Glass
A Grace Before Dinner
A Grace After Dinner
Song--O May, Thy Morn
Song--Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever
Song--Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive
Song--Thou Gloomy December
Song--My Native Land Sae Far Awa
1792
Song--I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair
Lines On Fergusson, The Poet
Song--The Weary Pund O' Tow
Song--When She Cam' Ben She Bobbed
Song--Scroggam, My Dearie
Song--My Collier Laddie
Song--Sic A Wife As Willie Had
Song--Lady Mary Ann
Song--Kellyburn Braes
Song--The Slave's Lament
Song--O Can Ye Labour Lea?
Song--The Deuks Dang O'er My Daddie
Song--The Deil's Awa Wi' The Exciseman
Song--The Country Lass
Song--Bessy And Her Spinnin' Wheel
Song--Fragment--Love For Love
Song--Saw Ye Bonie Lesley
Song--Fragment Of Song
Song--I'll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig
Song--My Wife's A Winsome Wee Thing
Song--Highland Mary
Song--Auld Rob Morris
The Rights Of Woman--Spoken by Miss Fontenelle
Epigram On Miss Fontenelle
Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson
Song--Duncan Gray
Song--A Health To Them That's Awa
A Tippling Ballad--When Princes and Prelates
1793
Song--Poortith Cauld And Restless Love
Epigram On Politics
Song--Braw Lads O' Galla Water
Sonnet Written On The Author's Birthday,
Song--Wandering Willie
Wandering Willie (Revised Version)
Lord Gregory: A Ballad
Song--Open The Door To Me, Oh
Song--Lovely Young Jessie
Song--Meg O' The Mill
Song--Meg O' The Mill (Another Version)
The Soldier's Return: A Ballad
Epigram--The True Loyal Natives
Epigram--On Commissary Goldie's Brains
Lines Inscribed In A Lady's Pocket Almanac
Epigram--Thanksgiving For A National Victory
Epigram--The Raptures Of Folly
Epigram--Kirk and State Excisemen
Extempore Reply To An Invitation
A Grace After Meat
Grace Before And After Meat
Impromptu On General Dumourier's Desertion From The French Republican
Army
Song--The Last Time I Came O'er The Moor
Song--Logan Braes
Song--Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill
Song--O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair
Bonie Jean--A Ballad
Lines On John M'Murdo, ESQ.
Epitaph On A Lap-Dog
Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway
Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan
Song--Phillis The Fair
Song--Had I A Cave
Song.--By Allan Stream
Song--Whistle, And I'll Come To You, My Lad
Song--Phillis The Queen O' The Fair
Song--Come, Let Me Take Thee To My Breast
Song--Dainty Davie
Song--Robert Bruce's March To Bannockburn
Song--Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive
Song--Down The Burn, Davie
Song--Thou Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie
Song--Where Are The Joys I have Met?
Song--Deluded Swain, The Pleasure
Song--Thine Am I, My Faithful Fair
Impromptu On Mrs. Riddell's Birthday
Song--My Spouse Nancy
Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle
Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell
1794
Remorseful Apology
Song--Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?
Song--A Fiddler In The North
The Minstrel At Lincluden
A Vision
Song--A Red, Red Rose
Song--Young Jamie, Pride Of A' The Plain
Song--The Flowery Banks Of Cree
Monody On a lady famed for her Caprice.
The Epitaph On the Same
Epigram Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell's Carriage
Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell
Epistle From Esopus To Maria
Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb
Epitaph On Capt. Lascelles
Epitaph On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe
Epitaph On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs
Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell
Song--The Lovely Lass O' Inverness
Song--Charlie, He's My Darling
Song--Bannocks O' Bear Meal
Song--The Highland Balou
The Highland Widow's Lament
Song--It Was A' For Our Rightfu' King
Ode For General Washington's Birthday
Inscription To Miss Graham Of Fintry
Song--On The Seas And Far Away
Song--Ca' The Yowes To The Knowes
Song--She Says She Loes Me Best Of A'
Epigram--On Miss Jessy Staig's recovery.
To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J-N On her Principles of Liberty and
Equality.
On Chloris Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.
On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico
Epigram On A Country Laird (Cardoness)
Epigram on the Same Laird's Country Seat
Epigram on Dr. Babinton's Looks
Epigram On A Suicide
Epigram On A Swearing Coxcomb
Epigram On An Innkeeper Nicknamed (The Marquis)
Epigram On Andrew Turner
Song--Pretty Peg
Esteem For Chloris
Song--Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly
Song--How Lang And Dreary Is The Night
Song--Inconstancy In Love
The Lover's Morning Salute To His Mistress
Song--The Winter Of Life
Song--Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves
Song--The Charming Month Of May
Song--Lassie Wi' The Lint-White Locks
Dialogue song--Philly And Willy
Song--Contented Wi' Little And Cantie Wi' Mair
Song--Farewell Thou Stream
Song--Canst Thou Leave Me Thus, My Katie
Song--My Nanie's Awa
Song--The Tear-Drop--Wae is my heart
Song--For The Sake O' Somebody
1795
Song--A Man's A Man For A' That
The Solemn League And Covenant
Lines to John Syme with a Dozen of Porter.
Inscription On Mr. Syme's Crystal Goblet
Apology To Mr. Syme For Not Dining with him
Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson
Epigram On Mr. James Gracie
Song--Bonie Peg-a-Ramsay
Inscription At Friars' Carse Hermitage
Song--Fragment--There Was A Bonie Lass
Song--Fragment--Wee Willie Gray
Song--O Aye My Wife She Dang Me
Song--Gude Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon
Song--O Steer Her Up An' Haud Her Gaun
Song--The Lass O' Ecclefechan
Song--O Let Me In Thes Ae Night
Song--I'll Aye Ca' In By Yon Town
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election--Ballad First
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election--Ballad Second
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election--Ballad Third
Inscription For An Altar Of Independence
Song--The Cardin O't, The Spinnin O't
Song--The Cooper O' Cuddy
Song--The Lass That Made The Bed To Me
Song--Had I The Wyte? She Bade Me
Song--Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat?
Song--Address To The Woodlark
Song.--On Chloris Being Ill
Song--How Cruel Are The Parents
Song--Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion
Song--'Twas Na Her Bonie Blue E'e
Song--Their Groves O'Sweet Myrtle
Song--Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near
Song--Fragment,--Why, Why Tell The Lover
Song--The Braw Wooer
Song--This Is No My Ain Lassie
Song--O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier
Song--Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham
Song--O That's The Lassie O' My Heart
Inscription to Chloris
Song--Fragment.--The Wren's Nest
Song--News, Lassies, News
Song--Crowdie Ever Mair
Song--Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet
Song--Jockey's Taen The Parting Kiss
Verses To Collector Mitchell
1796
The Dean Of Faculty
Epistle To Colonel De Peyster
Song--A Lass Wi' A Tocher
Song--The Trogger.
Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars
1. The Toast
2. The Menagerie
3. Jessie's illness
4. On Her Recovery
Song--O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass
Song--A Health To Ane I Loe Dear
Song--O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast
Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars
Song--Fairest Maid On Devon Banks
Glossary
POEMS AND SONGS OF ROBERT BURNS
Preface
Robert Burns was born near Ayr, Scotland, 25th of January, 1759. He was
the son of William Burnes, or Burness, at the time of the poet's birth a
nurseryman on the banks of the Doon in Ayrshire. His father, though
always extremely poor, attempted to give his children a fair education,
and Robert, who was the eldest, went to school for three years in a
neighboring village, and later, for shorter periods, to three other
schools in the vicinity. But it was to his father and to his own reading
that he owed the more important part of his education; and by the time
that he had reached manhood he had a good knowledge of English, a
reading knowledge of French, and a fairly wide acquaintance with the
masterpieces of English literature from the time of Shakespeare to his
own day. In 1766 William Burness rented on borrowed money the farm of
Mount Oliphant, and in taking his share in the effort to make this
undertaking succeed, the future poet seems to have seriously
overstrained his physique. In 1771 the family move to Lochlea, and Burns
went to the neighboring town of Irvine to learn flax-dressing. The only
result of this experiment, however, was the formation of an acquaintance
with a dissipated sailor, whom he afterward blamed as the prompter of
his first licentious adventures. His father died in 1784, and with his
brother Gilbert the poet rented the farm of Mossgiel; but this venture
was as unsuccessful as the others. He had meantime formed an irregular
intimacy with Jean Armour, for which he was censured by the
Kirk-session. As a result of his farming misfortunes, and the attempts
of his father-in-law to overthrow his irregular marriage with Jean, he
resolved to emigrate; and in order to raise money for the passage he
published (Kilmarnock, 1786) a volume of the poems which he had been
composing from time to time for some years. This volume was unexpectedly
successful, so that, instead of sailing for the West Indies, he went up
to Edinburgh, and during that winter he was the chief literary celebrity
of the season. An enlarged edition of his poems was published there in
1787, and the money derived from this enabled him to aid his brother in
Mossgiel, and to take and stock for himself the farm of Ellisland in
Dumfriesshire. His fame as poet had reconciled the Armours to the
connection, and having now regularly married Jean, he brought her to
Ellisland, and once more tried farming for three years. Continued
ill-success, however, led him, in 1791, to abandon Ellisland, and he moved
to Dumfries, where he had obtained a position in the Excise. But he was
now thoroughly discouraged; his work was mere drudgery; his tendency to
take his relaxation in debauchery increased the weakness of a
constitution early undermined; and he died at Dumfries in his
thirty-eighth year.
[See Burns' Birthplace: The living room in the Burns birthplace
cottage.]
It is not necessary here to attempt to disentangle or explain away the
numerous amours in which he was engaged through the greater part of his
life. It is evident that Burns was a man of extremely passionate nature
and fond of conviviality; and the misfortunes of his lot combined with
his natural tendencies to drive him to frequent excesses of
self-indulgence. He was often remorseful, and he strove painfully, if
intermittently, after better things. But the story of his life must be
admitted to be in its externals a painful and somewhat sordid chronicle.
That it contained, however, many moments of joy and exaltation is proved
by the poems here printed.
Burns' poetry falls into two main groups: English and Scottish. His
English poems are, for the most part, inferior specimens of conventional
eighteenth-century verse. But in Scottish poetry he achieved triumphs of
a quite extraordinary kind. Since the time of the Reformation and the
union of the crowns of England and Scotland, the Scots dialect had
largely fallen into disuse as a medium for dignified writing. Shortly
before Burns' time, however, Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson had been
the leading figures in a revival of the vernacular, and Burns received
from them a national tradition which he succeeded in carrying to its
highest pitch, becoming thereby, to an almost unique degree, the poet of
his people.
He first showed complete mastery of verse in the field of satire. In
"The Twa Herds," "Holy Willie's Prayer," "Address to the Unco Guid,"
"The Holy Fair," and others, he manifested sympathy with the protest of
the so-called "New Light" party, which had sprung up in opposition to
the extreme Calvinism and intolerance of the dominant "Auld Lichts." The
fact that Burns had personally suffered from the discipline of the Kirk
probably added fire to his attacks, but the satires show more than
personal animus. The force of the invective, the keenness of the wit,
and the fervor of the imagination which they displayed, rendered them an
important force in the theological liberation of Scotland.
The Kilmarnock volume contained, besides satire, a number of poems like
"The Twa Dogs" and "The Cotter's Saturday Night," which are vividly
descriptive of the Scots peasant life with which he was most familiar;
and a group like "Puir Mailie" and "To a Mouse," which, in the
tenderness of their treatment of animals, revealed one of the most
attractive sides of Burns' personality. Many of his poems were never
printed during his lifetime, the most remarkable of these being "The
Jolly Beggars," a piece in which, by the intensity of his imaginative
sympathy and the brilliance of his technique, he renders a picture of
the lowest dregs of society in such a way as to raise it into the realm
of great poetry.
But the real national importance of Burns is due chiefly to his songs.
The Puritan austerity of the centuries following the Reformation had
discouraged secular music, like other forms of art, in Scotland; and as
a result Scottish song had become hopelessly degraded in point both of
decency and literary quality. From youth Burns had been interested in
collecting the fragments he had heard sung or found printed, and he came
to regard the rescuing of this almost lost national inheritance in the
light of a vocation. About his song-making, two points are especially
noteworthy: first, that the greater number of his lyrics sprang from
actual emotional experiences; second, that almost all were composed to
old melodies. While in Edinburgh he undertook to supply material for
Johnson's "Musical Museum," and as few of the traditional songs could
appear in a respectable collection, Burns found it necessary to make
them over. Sometimes he kept a stanza or two; sometimes only a line or
chorus; sometimes merely the name of the air; the rest was his own. His
method, as he has told us himself, was to become familiar with the
traditional melody, to catch a suggestion from some fragment of the old
song, to fix upon an idea or situation for the new poem; then, humming
or whistling the tune as he went about his work, he wrought out the new
verses, going into the house to write them down when the inspiration
began to flag. In this process is to be found the explanation of much of
the peculiar quality of the songs of Burns. Scarcely any known author
has succeeded so brilliantly in combining his work with folk material,
or in carrying on with such continuity of spirit the tradition of
popular song. For George Thomson's collection of Scottish airs he
performed a function similar to that which he had had in the "Museum";
and his poetical activity during the last eight or nine years of his
life was chiefly devoted to these two publications. In spite of the fact
that he was constantly in severe financial straits, he refused to accept
any recompense for this work, preferring to regard it as a patriotic
service. And it was, indeed, a patriotic service of no small magnitude.
By birth and temperament he was singularly fitted for the task, and this
fitness is proved by the unique extent to which his productions were
accepted by his countrymen, and have passed into the life and feeling of
his race.
1771 - 1779
Song--Handsome Nell^1
Tune--"I am a man unmarried."
[Footnote 1: The first of my performances.--R. B.]
Once I lov'd a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Nell.
As bonie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu' mein,
The like I never saw.
A bonie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e;
But, without some better qualities,
She's no a lass for me.
But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a',
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
Song--O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day
Tune--"Invercauld's Reel, or Strathspey."
Choir.--O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
When coming hame on Sunday last,
Upon the road as I cam past,
Ye snufft and ga'e your head a cast--
But trowth I care't na by.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
But, if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice:
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad speir your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
There lives a lass beside yon park,
I'd rather hae her in her sark,
Than you wi' a' your thousand mark;
That gars you look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
Song--I Dream'd I Lay
I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List'ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Tress with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling drumlie wave.
Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoyed:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me--
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me--
I bear a heart shall support me still.
Song--In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer
Tune--"Go from my window, Love, do."
The sun he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retired to rest,
While here I sit, all sore beset,
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
The prosperous man is asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;
But Misery and I must watch
The surly tempest blow:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lies the dear partner of my breast;
Her cares for a moment at rest:
Must I see thee, my youthful pride,
Thus brought so very low!
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lie my sweet babies in her arms;
No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;
But for their sake my heart does ache,
With many a bitter throe:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
I once was by Fortune carest:
I once could relieve the distrest:
Now life's poor support, hardly earn'd
My fate will scarce bestow:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
No comfort, no comfort I have!
How welcome to me were the grave!
But then my wife and children dear--
O, wither would they go!
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
O whither, O whither shall I turn!
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn!
For, in this world, Rest or Peace
I never more shall know!
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
Tragic Fragment
All devil as I am--a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere but unavailing sighs
I view the helpless children of distress:
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.--
Ev'n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused--
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
Tarbolton Lasses, The
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth's a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courtin'.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie;
She's dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense--
She kens hersel she's bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.
There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
In a' King George' dominion;
If ye should doubt the truth o' this--
It's Bessy's ain opinion!
Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear
Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.
Ah, woe is me, my mother dear!
A man of strife ye've born me:
For sair contention I maun bear;
They hate, revile, and scorn me.
I ne'er could lend on bill or band,
That five per cent. might blest me;
And borrowing, on the tither hand,
The deil a ane wad trust me.
Yet I, a coin-denied wight,
By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how I am, day and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded!
Montgomerie's Peggy
Tune--"Galla Water."
Altho' my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie;
Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.
When o'er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.
Were I a baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready;
Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me,--
The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy.
Ploughman's Life, The
As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin', thir words he did say,--
There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,
And mount i' the air wi' the dew on her breast,
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing,
And at night she'll return to her nest back again.
1780
Ronalds Of The Bennals, The
In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a', man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a', man.
Their father's laird, and weel he can spare't,
Braid money to tocher them a', man;
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.
There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.
The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man,
If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',
A hint o' a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.
The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man;
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a', man.
Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a', man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.
If I should detail the pick and the wale
O' lasses that live here awa, man,
The fau't wad be mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.
I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.
Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,
Nor hae't in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach's as proud as them a', man.
Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.
My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,
O'pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man;
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.
My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets sae braw, man.
I never had frien's weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a', man.
I never was cannie for hoarding o' money,
Or claughtin't together at a', man;
I've little to spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling I awe, man.
Song--Here's To Thy Health
Tune--"Laggan Burn."
Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,
Gude nicht and joy be wi' thee;
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I lo'e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty pink,
But I can live without thee:
I vow and swear I dinna care,
How lang ye look about ye.
Thou'rt aye sae free informing me,
Thou hast nae mind to marry;
I'll be as free informing thee,
Nae time hae I to tarry:
I ken thy frien's try ilka means
Frae wedlock to delay thee;
Depending on some higher chance,
But fortune may betray thee.
I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me;
For I'm as free as any he;
Sma' siller will relieve me.
I'll count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I'll enjoy it;
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,
As lang's I get employment.
But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
And, aye until ye try them,
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care;
They may prove waur than I am.
But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I'll come and see thee;
For the man that loves his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him weary.
Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The^1
[Footnote 1: The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant
wench, daughter of a "Farmer Lang".]
A Song of Similes
Tune--"If he be a Butcher neat and trim."
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;
Could I describe her shape and mein;
Our lasses a' she far excels,
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She's sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She's stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her looks are like the vernal May,
When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her hair is like the curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her bosom's like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen;
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her roguish een.
Song--Bonie Peggy Alison
Tune--"The Braes o' Balquhidder."
Chor.--And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
And I'll kiss thee o'er again:
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonie Peggy Alison.
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near
I evermair defy them, O!
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O!
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.
And by thy een sae bonie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.
Song--Mary Morison
Tune--"Bide ye yet."
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely was I bide the stour,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said among them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."
Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
1781
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,"
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.
Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish
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!
Paraphrase Of The First Psalm
The man, in life wherever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!
Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.
That man shall flourish like the trees,
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.
But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.
For why? that God the good adore,
Hath giv'n them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.
First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!
Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath Thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at Thy command;
That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds
This universal frame,
From countless, unbeginning time
Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods of years
Which seem to us so vast,
Appear no more before Thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.
Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;
Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!"
Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.
They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night cut down it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.
Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death
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.
Stanzas, On The Same Occasion
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have 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 part 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!
1782
Fickle Fortune: A Fragment
Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
She pormis'd fair and perform'd but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.
I'll act with prudence as far 's I'm able,
But if success I must never find,
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
Raging Fortune--Fragment Of Song
O raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
O raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow, O!
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O!
But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O!
But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O!
Impromptu--"I'll Go And Be A Sodger"
O why the deuce should I repine,
And be an ill foreboder?
I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine,
I'll go and be a sodger!
I gat some gear wi' mickle care,
I held it weel thegither;
But now it's gane, and something mair--
I'll go and be a sodger!
Song--"No Churchman Am I"
Tune--"Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let's fly."
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother--his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
for sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
"Life's cares they are comforts"--a maxim laid down
By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.
A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May ev'ry true Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.
My Father Was A Farmer
Tune--"The weaver and his shuttle, O."
My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:
Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.
In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune's favour, O;
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass'd and tir'd at last, with Fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;
The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,
Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O:
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur'd folly, O:
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
John Barleycorn: A Ballad
There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
1783
Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie, The Author's Only Pet Yowe., The
An Unco Mournfu' Tale
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was 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 he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At langth poor Mailie silence brak.
"O thou, whase 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, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!
"Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' aye was guid 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, an' tods, an' butcher's 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' taets o' hay an' ripps o' corn.
"An' may they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets--
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail!
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro the shears:
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' neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up,
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But aye 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!
Poor Mailie's Elegy
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 o' 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 an' neebor dear
In Mailie dead.
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran 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, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships,
Frae 'yont the Tweed.
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie's dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing--a raip!
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 bonie 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!
Song--The Rigs O' Barley
Tune--"Corn Rigs are bonie."
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;
The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
Song Composed In August
Tune--"I had a horse, I had nae mair."
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev'ry happy creature.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
Song
Tune--"My Nanie, O."
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nanie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.
My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true;
As spotless as she's bonie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be,
I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O.
Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by;
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O:
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, O.
Song--Green Grow The Rashes
A Fragment
Chor.--Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
The war'ly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Song--Wha Is That At My Bower-Door
Tune--"Lass, an I come near thee."
"Wha is that at my bower-door?"
"O wha is it but Findlay!"
"Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here:"
"Indeed maun I," quo' Findlay;
"What mak' ye, sae like a thief?"
"O come and see," quo' Findlay;
"Before the morn ye'll work mischief:"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"Gif I rise and let you in"--
"Let me in," quo' Findlay;
"Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay;
"In my bower if ye should stay"--
"Let me stay," quo' Findlay;
"I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"Here this night if ye remain"--
"I'll remain," quo' Findlay;
"I dread ye'll learn the gate again;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"What may pass within this bower"--
"Let it pass," quo' Findlay;
"Ye maun conceal till your last hour:"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
1784
Remorse: A Fragment
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, "It was no deed of mine:"
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added, "Blame thy foolish self!"
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt--
Of guilt, perhaps, when 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!
Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton
Here Souter Hood in death does sleep;
To hell if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
He'll haud it weel thegither.
Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton
Here lies Boghead amang the dead
In hopes to get salvation;
But if such as he in Heav'n may be,
Then welcome, hail! damnation.
Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father's Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill
An honest man here lies at rest
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth,
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so informed:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend!
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend;
The pitying heart that felt for human woe,
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
The friend of man--to vice alone a foe;
For "ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."^1
[Footnote 1: Goldsmith.--R.B.]
Ballad On The American War
Tune--"Killiecrankie."
When Guilford good our pilot stood
An' did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less, in full congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.
Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
Was kept at Boston--ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,
Sir-Loin he hacked sma', man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,
An' did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.
Then Montague, an' Guilford too,
Began to fear, a fa', man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an' Fox united stocks,
An' bore him to the wa', man.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,
On Chatham's boy did ca', man;
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew,
"Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"
Behind the throne then Granville's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man:
An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man;
Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An' Caledon threw by the drone,
An' did her whittle draw, man;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet,
That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.
I am a keeper of the law
In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me gin I fa',
Ae way or ither,
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',
Breaks a' thegither.
I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice;
Yet never met wi' that surprise
That broke my rest;
But now a rumour's like to rise--
A whaup's i' the nest!
Epistle To John Rankine
Enclosing Some Poems
O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nick's.
Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,
An' fill them fou;
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
Are a' seen thro'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it--
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.
Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:
It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,
An' danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,
At Bunkjer's Hill.
'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun'--
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;
But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.
Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.
But by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear!
The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by
For my gowd guinea,
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' baith a yellow George to claim,
An' thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When time's expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
The First Instance That Entitled Him To
The Venerable Appellation Of Father
Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My bonie lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear, and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.
Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better ha'f o't.
Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,
As ony brat o' wedlock's bed,
In a' thy station.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee,
The cost nor shame o't,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o't.
Song--O Leave Novels^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel;
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part--
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;
The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
Fragment--The Mauchline Lady
Tune--"I had a horse, I had nae mair."
When first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady;
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
A mistress still I had aye.
But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin anybody,
My heart was caught, before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
Fragment--My Girl She's Airy
Tune--"Black Jock."
My girl she's airy, she's buxom and gay;
Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;
A touch of her lips it ravishes quite:
She's always good natur'd, good humour'd, and free;
She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me;
I never am happy when out of her sight.
The Belles Of Mauchline
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a';
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris, they'd gotten it a'.
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw:
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.
Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes;
O Death, it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch
Into thy dark dominion!
Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire
As father Adam first was fool'd,
(A case that's still too common,)
Here lies man a woman ruled,
The devil ruled the woman.
Epigram On The Said Occasion
O Death, had'st thou but spar'd his life,
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged the wife,
And a' been weel content.
Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,
The swap we yet will do't;
Tak thou the carlin's carcase aff,
Thou'se get the saul o'boot.
Another
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
When deprived of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he show'd her,
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder.
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion,
When called on to order the fun'ral direction,
Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,
Not to show her respect, but--to save the expense!
On Tam The Chapman
As Tam the chapman on a day,
Wi'Death forgather'd by the way,
Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight so famous,
And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down his pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack:
His social, friendly, honest heart
Sae tickled Death, they could na part;
Sae, after viewing knives and garters,
Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.
Epitaph On John Rankine
Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie--maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad--
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,
"By God I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this damn'd infernal clan!"
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
"Lord God!" quoth he, "I have it now;
There's just the man I want, i' faith!"
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.
Lines On The Author's Death
Written With The Supposed View Of
Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet's Interment
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face 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 has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.
"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending 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--
Shew man was made to mourn.
"A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds in ev'ry 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 heav'n-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, tho' 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 pow'r
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 last!
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 for those
That weary-laden mourn!"
The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie
An Unco Mournfu' Tale
"Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,"--Pope.
O a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,
About the dykes?
The twa best herds in a' the wast,
The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast
These five an' twenty simmers past--
Oh, dool to tell!
Hae had a bitter black out-cast
Atween themsel'.
O, Moddie,^1 man, an' wordy Russell,^2
How could you raise so vile a bustle;
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
An' think it fine!
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,
Sin' I hae min'.
O, sirs! whae'er wad hae 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 soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, drank,--
O, sic a feast!
[Footnote 1: Rev. Mr. Moodie of Riccarton.]
[Footnote 2: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]
The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,
He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,
Baith out an in;
An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
An' sell their skin.
What herd like Russell tell'd his tale;
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
Owre a' the height;
An' 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 disagree't,
And names, like "villain," "hypocrite,"
Ilk ither gi'en,
While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite,
Say neither's liein!
A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
There's Duncan^3 deep, an' Peebles^4 shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them, het an' 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.
[Footnote 3: Dr. Robert Duncan of Dundonald.]
[Footnote 4: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-on-Ayr.]
[Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Auld of Mauchline.]
Dalrymple^6 has been lang our fae,
M'Gill^7 has wrought us meikle wae,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,^8
And baith the Shaws,^9
That aft hae made us black an' blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.
Auld Wodrow^10 lang has hatch'd mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him,^11
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.
And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain wad openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel',
There's Smith^12 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 cowe the lairds,
An' get the brutes the power themsel's
To choose their herds.
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance,
An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banished o'er the sea to France:
Let him bark there.
Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence
[Footnote 6: Rev. Dr. Dalrymple of Ayr.]
[Footnote 7: Rev. Wm. M'Gill, colleague of Dr. Dalrymple.]
[Footnote 8: Minister of St. Quivox.]
[Footnote 9: Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of
Coylton.]
[Footnote 10: Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton.]
[Footnote 11: Rev. John M'Math, a young assistant and successor
to Wodrow.]
[Footnote 12: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,
An' guid M'Math,
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.
1785
Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet
January
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
An' hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An' 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-folk's 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.
It's hardly in a body's pow'r
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:
"Mair spier na, nor fear na,"^1
Auld age ne'er mind a feg;
The last o't, the warst o't
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is doubtless, great distress!
[Footnote 1: Ramsay.--R. B.]
Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile;
An' mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.
What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal',
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 an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,
An' sing't when we hae done.
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
An' 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 aye's the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.
Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge an' drive thro' wet and 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!
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce,
Nor make our 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 an' crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.
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;
An' joys that riches ne'er could buy,
An' 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,
An' sets me a' on flame!
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!
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 ev'ry care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band--
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean!
O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank an' file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus an' 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, an' jimp,
And 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.
Holy Willie's Prayer
"And send the godly in a pet to pray."--Pope.
Argument.
Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of
Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering,
which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry
which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a
gentleman in Mauchline--a Mr. Gavin Hamilton--Holy Willie and his
priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came
off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert
Aiken, Mr. Hamilton's counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton's being one
of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the
county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him [Holy Willie]
at his devotions, as follows:--
O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best Thysel',
Sends ane to heaven an' 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,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore Thy sight,
For gifts an' grace
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve most just damnation
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere 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 lakes,
Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to their stakes.
Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a' Thy flock.
O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear,
An' singin there, an' dancin here,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by Thy fear
Free frae them a'.
But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust:
An' sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd wi' 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' Leezie's lass, three times I trow--
But Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high shou'd turn,
That 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,
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' public shame.
Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts;
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin arts,
Wi' great and sma',
Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts
He steals awa.
An' when we chasten'd him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
An' set the warld in a roar
O' laughing at us;--
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare
Upo' their heads;
Lord visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin,
An' p-'d wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.
Lord, in Thy day o' 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,
An' dinna spare.
But, Lord, remember me an' mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral an' divine,
That I for grace an' gear may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
Epitaph On Holy Willie
Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks 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 haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.
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.
Death and Doctor Hornbook
A True Story
Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers they hae 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 befell,
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell
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 whiles, but yet too tent aye
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd eye
Frae ghaists an' witches.
The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a my pow'r,
I set mysel';
But whether she had three or four,
I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
An' todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho' leeward whiles, against my will,
I took a bicker.
I there wi' Something did forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae'd 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!"^1
I seem'd to make a kind o' stan'
But naething spak;
At length, says I, "Friend! whare 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 maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith
See, there's a gully!"
"Gudeman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,
I'm no designed to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
To be mislear'd;
I wad na mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard."
"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't;
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks an tak a seat--
Come, gie's your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house."^2
[Footnote 1: This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785.--R.B.]
[Footnote 2: An epidemical fever was then raging in that
country.--R.B.]
"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^3 ta'en up the trade,
And faith! he'll waur me.
"Ye ken Hornbook i' the clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan^4
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
An' pouk my hips.
"See, here's a scythe, an' there's dart,
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
An' cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f-t,
Damn'd haet they'll kill!
"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
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,
An' had sae fortify'd the part,
[Footnote 3: This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally
a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by
intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary,
surgeon, and physician.--R.B.]
[Footnote 4: Burchan's Domestic Medicine.--R.B.]
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,
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it,
Just--in a kail-blade, an' sent 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 an' whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kind 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 an' pease,
He has't in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, 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 Johnie Ged's^5 Hole now,"
Quoth 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 needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They'll 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 country 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 bonie 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.
[Footnote 5: The grave-digger.--R.B.]
"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 damn'd dirt:
"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited sot,
As dead's a herrin;
Neist 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.
Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard
April 1, 1785
While briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien',
I pray excuse.
On Fasten--e'en we had a rockin,
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun and 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 ought describ'd sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I "Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
An' sae about him there I speir't;
Then a' that kent him round declar'd
He had ingine;
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 an' Teviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' 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 maybe 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 tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, tho' hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's the bauld an' 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 fu',
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 mony still
As far abuse me.
There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses--Gude forgie me!
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
Maybe 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, war'ly 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 gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
Second Epistle To J. Lapraik
April 21, 1785
While new-ca'd kye 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, with 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 an' something lazy:
Quo' she, "Ye ken we've been sae busy
This month an' mair,
That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
An' something sair."
Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jade!
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 shaw 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 and warp;
She's but a bitch.
She 's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, 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 upon 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 an' sklent;
Or pursue-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.
An' 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 heaven, 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,
And none but he."
O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers o' the 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 nievefu' 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!
Epistle To William Simson
Schoolmaster, Ochiltree.--May, 1785
I gat your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
And 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 E'nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow'd his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lassies 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 style;
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 an' Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon
Naebody sings.
Th' Illissus, 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 moors red-brown wi' heather bells,
Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Suthron 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 died!
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 trottin burn's meander,
An' no think lang:
O sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!
The war'ly 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 tools an' taxes;
While moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies;
While terra firma, on her axis,
Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,
In Robert Burns.
Postcript
My memory's no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this "new-light,"
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,
They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie;
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon
Gaed past their viewin;
An' shortly after she was done
They gat a new ane.
This passed for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;
An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an' lang.
Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk
An' out of' sight,
An' backlins-comin to the leuk
She grew mair bright.
This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;
The herds and hissels were alarm'd
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better wer inform'd,
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;
An monie a fallow gat his licks,
Wi' hearty crunt;
An' some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang'd an' brunt.
This game was play'd in mony lands,
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks;
Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe;
Till now, amaist on ev'ry knowe
Ye'll find ane plac'd;
An' some their new-light fair avow,
Just quite barefac'd.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;
Mysel', I've even seen them greetin
Wi' girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word an' write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor touns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight;
An' stay ae month amang the moons
An' see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them;
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,
The hindmaist shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them
Just i' their pouch;
An' when the new-light billies see them,
I think they'll crouch!
Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a "moonshine matter";
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulyie,
I hope we bardies ken some better
Than mind sic brulyie.
One Night As I Did Wander
Tune--"John Anderson, my jo."
One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoo