Part 15

“See stern Oppression’s iron grip, Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o’er a land! Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o’er proud Property, extended wide; And eyes the simple, rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show— A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefin’d— Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!

“Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour’s lofty brow, The pow’rs you proudly own? Is there, beneath Love’s noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone? Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares: This boasted Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray’rs! Perhaps this hour, in Misery’s squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

“Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfy’d keen nature’s clamorous call, Stretch’d on his straw, he lays himself to sleep; While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill, o’er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view, But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel Fortune’s undeserved blow? Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hail’d the morning with a cheer, A cottage-rousing craw. But deep this truth impress’d my mind— Thro’ all His works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.

Song—Yon Wild Mossy Mountains

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather to feed, And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie’s rich valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores, To me hae the charms o’yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream, Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath; For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o’er us unheeded flie the swift hours o’love.

She is not the fairest, altho’ she is fair; O’ nice education but sma’ is her share; Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo’e the dear lassie because she lo’es me.

To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? And when wit and refinement hae polish’d her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e’e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me; And the heart beating love as I’m clasp’d in her arms, O, these are my lassie’s all-conquering charms!

Address To Edinburgh

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet, Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs: From marking wildly scatt’red flow’rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in they honour’d shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labours plies; There Architecture’s noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise: Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg’d, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale: Attentive still to Sorrow’s wail, Or modest Merit’s silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never Envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye, Heaven’s beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own His work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, And mark’d with many a seamy scar: The pond’rous wall and massy bar, Grim—rising o’er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately Dome, Where Scotia’s kings of other years, Fam’d heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang’d the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam! Tho’ rigid Law cries out ’twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore: Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac’d grim Danger’s loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow’rs; Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet, Sat Legislation’s sovereign pow’rs: From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Address To A Haggis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer Gie her a haggis!

1787

To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.

Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin’s simple tale.

Our sex with guile, and faithless love, Is charg’d, perhaps too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you.

Mr. William Smellie—A Sketch

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came; The old cock’d hat, the grey surtout the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, ’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night: His uncomb’d grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch’d A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d; Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie1

As I cam by Crochallan, I cannilie keekit ben; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en’; Sittin at yon boord-en, And amang gude companie; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, You’re welcome hame to me!

Song—Bonie Dundee

My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie! My blessin’s upon thy e’e-brie! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou’s aye the dearer, and dearer to me!

But I’ll big a bow’r on yon bonie banks, Whare Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear; An’ I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

Extempore In The Court Of Session

Tune—“Killiercrankie.”

Lord Advocate

He clenched his pamphlet in his fist, He quoted and he hinted, Till, in a declamation-mist, His argument he tint it: He gaped for’t, he graped for’t, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short, He eked out wi’ law, man.

Mr. Erskine

Collected, Harry stood awee, Then open’d out his arm, man;

His Lordship sat wi’ ruefu’ e’e, And ey’d the gathering storm, man: Like wind-driven hail it did assail’ Or torrents owre a lin, man: The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man.

Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet1

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, “No storied urn nor animated bust;” This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way, To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust.

Additional Stanzas

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired, Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state, And, thankless, starv’d what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives A brother Bard—he can no more bestow: But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, A nobler monument than Art can shew.

Inscribed Under Fergusson’s Portrait

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure. O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! Why is the Bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

Epistle To Mrs. Scott

Gudewife of Wauchope—House, Roxburghshire.

Gudewife,

I Mind it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh; An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon’d was, An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, Wearing the day awa.

E’en then, a wish, (I mind its pow’r), A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake Some usefu’ plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, An’ spar’d the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e’er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o’ sang, In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, Wild floated in my brain; ’Till on that har’st I said before, May partner in the merry core, She rous’d the forming strain; I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pawky een That gart my heart-strings tingle; I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says: Wi’ merry dance in winter days, An’ we to share in common; The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe, The saul o’ life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu’ o’ your mither; She, honest woman, may think shame That ye’re connected with her: Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; ’Twad please me to the nine. I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap, Douce hingin owre my curple, Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial purple. Farewell then, lang hale then, An’ plenty be your fa; May losses and crosses Ne’er at your hallan ca’!

R. Burns March, 1787

Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture1

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E’en rooted foes admire?

Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works admire.

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian Seraph eyes with awe The noble Ward he loves.

Among the illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may’st discern, Mark Scotia’s fond-returning eye,— It dwells upon Glencairn.

Prologue

Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787.

When, by a generous Public’s kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted—honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor’s lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue’s glow, But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe?

Poor is the task to please a barb’rous throng, It needs no Siddons’ powers in Southern’s song; But here an ancient nation, fam’d afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war. Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I’m honour’d to appear?

Where every science, every nobler art, That can inform the mind or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam; Here History paints with elegance and force The tide of Empire’s fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, And Harley rouses all the God in man. When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace Can only charm us in the second place), Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I’ve met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive. No hundred—headed riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet; Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name: Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise, with generous disdain At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain; Still Self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

The Bonie Moor-Hen

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discover’d a bonie moor-hen.

Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men, I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men; Take some on the wing, and some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

Sweet—brushing the dew from the brown heather bells Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells; Her plumage outlustr’d the pride o’ the spring And O! as she wanton’d sae gay on the wing. I rede you, &c.

Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill, In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae— His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. I rede you,&c.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. I rede you, &c.

Song—My Lord A-Hunting

Chorus.—My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t.

My lord a-hunting he is gone, But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane; By Colin’s cottage lies his game, If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. My lady’s gown, &c.

My lady’s white, my lady’s red, And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude; But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher gude; Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. My lady’s gown, &c.

Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass, There wons auld Colin’s bonie lass, A lily in a wilderness. My lady’s gown, &c.

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o’lovers’ hymns: The diamond-dew in her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims. My lady’s gown, &c.

My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, The flower and fancy o’ the west; But the lassie than a man lo’es best, O that’s the lass to mak him blest. My lady’s gown, &c.

Epigram At Roslin Inn

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

Epigram Addressed To An Artist

Dear , I’ll gie ye some advice, You’ll tak it no uncivil: You shouldna paint at angels mair, But try and paint the devil.

To paint an Angel’s kittle wark, Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger: You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face, But no sae weel a stranger.—R. B.

The Book-Worms

Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But O respect his lordship’s taste, And spare his golden bindings.

On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams

O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed no further, ’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.

Song—A Bottle And Friend

There’s nane that’s blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c.

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o’ care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man.

Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns

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

Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol’s brain, For few sic feasts you’ve gotten; And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart, For deil a bit o’t’s rotten.

Epitaph For Mr. William Michie

Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

Here lie Willie Michie’s banes; O Satan, when ye tak him, Gie him the schulin o’ your weans, For clever deils he’ll mak them!

Boat song—Hey, Ca’ Thro’

Up wi’ the carls o’ Dysart, And the lads o’ Buckhaven, And the kimmers o’ Largo, And the lasses o’ Leven.

Chorus.—Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, For we hae muckle ado. Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, For we hae muckle ado;

We hae tales to tell, An’ we hae sangs to sing; We hae pennies tae spend, An’ we hae pints to bring. Hey, ca’ thro’, &c.

We’ll live a’ our days, And them that comes behin’, Let them do the like, An’ spend the gear they win. Hey, ca’ thro’, &c.

Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee

With an Impression of the Author’s Portrait.

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected; A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now ’tis despis’d and neglected.

Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh, Still more if that wand’rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne: My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry: Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title’s avow’d by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th’ Electoral stem? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them.