Part 16

But, loyalty, truce! we’re on dangerous ground; Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer.

Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night: But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.

Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church

Who was looking up the text during sermon.

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue: ’Twas guilty sinners that he meant, Not Angels such as you.

Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher

Auld chuckie Reekie’s1 sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel burnish’d crest, Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo’es best— Willie’s awa!

O Willie was a witty wight, And had o’ things an unco’ sleight, Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, And trig an’ braw: But now they’ll busk her like a fright,— Willie’s awa!

The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d, The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d; They durst nae mair than he allow’d, That was a law: We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd; Willie’s awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, Frae colleges and boarding schools, May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw; He wha could brush them down to mools— Willie’s awa!

The brethren o’ the Commerce-chaumer May mourn their loss wi’ doolfu’ clamour; He was a dictionar and grammar Among them a’; I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer; Willie’s awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and poets pour, And toothy critics by the score, In bloody raw! The adjutant o’ a’ the core— Willie’s awa!

Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face, Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, such a brace As Rome ne’er saw; They a’ maun meet some ither place, Willie’s awa!

Poor Burns ev’n Scotch Drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken Scar’d frae it’s minnie and the cleckin, By hoodie-craw; Grieg’s gien his heart an unco kickin, Willie’s awa!

Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin blellum, And Calvin’s folk, are fit to fell him; Ilk self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum— Willie’s awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks, now roaring red, While tempests blaw; But every joy and pleasure’s fled, Willie’s awa!

May I be Slander’s common speech; A text for Infamy to preach; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw; When I forget thee, Willie Creech, Tho’ far awa!

May never wicked Fortune touzle him! May never wicked men bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessed new Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa!

Note To Mr. Renton Of Lamerton

Your billet, Sir, I grant receipt; Wi’ you I’ll canter ony gate, Tho’ ’twere a trip to yon blue warl’, Whare birkies march on burning marl: Then, Sir, God willing, I’ll attend ye, And to his goodness I commend ye.

R. Burns

Elegy On “Stella”

The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of “The voice of Cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone’s language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.—R.B.

Strait is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below.

Pardon my transport, gentle shade, While o’er the turf I bow; Thy earthy house is circumscrib’d, And solitary now.

Not one poor stone to tell thy name, Or make thy virtues known: But what avails to me—to thee, The sculpture of a stone?

I’ll sit me down upon this turf, And wipe the rising tear: The chill blast passes swiftly by, And flits around thy bier.

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, And sad their house of rest: Low lies the head, by Death’s cold arms In awful fold embrac’d.

I saw the grim Avenger stand Incessant by thy side; Unseen by thee, his deadly breath Thy lingering frame destroy’d.

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, And wither’d was thy bloom, Till the slow poison brought thy youth Untimely to the tomb.

Thus wasted are the ranks of men— Youth, Health, and Beauty fall; The ruthless ruin spreads around, And overwhelms us all.

Behold where, round thy narrow house, The graves unnumber’d lie; The multitude that sleep below Existed but to die.

Some, with the tottering steps of Age, Trod down the darksome way; And some, in youth’s lamented prime, Like thee were torn away:

Yet these, however hard their fate, Their native earth receives; Amid their weeping friends they died, And fill their fathers’ graves.

From thy lov’d friends, when first thy heart Was taught by Heav’n to glow, Far, far remov’d, the ruthless stroke Surpris’d and laid thee low.

At the last limits of our isle, Wash’d by the western wave, Touch’d by thy face, a thoughtful bard Sits lonely by thy grave.

Pensive he eyes, before him spread The deep, outstretch’d and vast; His mourning notes are borne away Along the rapid blast.

And while, amid the silent Dead Thy hapless fate he mourns, His own long sorrows freshly bleed, And all his grief returns:

Like thee, cut off in early youth, And flower of beauty’s pride, His friend, his first and only joy, His much lov’d Stella, died.

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate Resistless bears along; And the same rapid tide shall whelm The Poet and the Song.

The tear of pity which he sheds, He asks not to receive; Let but his poor remains be laid Obscurely in the grave.

His grief-worn heart, with truest joy, Shall meet he welcome shock: His airy harp shall lie unstrung, And silent on the rock.

O, my dear maid, my Stella, when Shall this sick period close, And lead the solitary bard To his belov’d repose?

The Bard At Inverary

Whoe’er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God, His Grace.

There’s naething here but Highland pride, And Highland scab and hunger: If Providence has sent me here, ’Twas surely in his anger.

Epigram To Miss Jean Scott

O had each Scot of ancient times Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward.

On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq,

Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author’s.

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella’s arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella’s morn The sun propitious smil’d; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil’d.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords That Nature finest strung; So Isabella’s heart was form’d, And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence alone Can heal the wound he gave— Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella’s spotless worth Shall happy be at last.

Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair

The lamp of day, with—ill presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell, Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train;1 Or mus’d where limpid streams, once hallow’d well,2 Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane.3

Th’ increasing blast roar’d round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing’d flew o’er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east. And ’mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, ’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d: Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d, That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar, And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.

“My patriot son fills an untimely grave!” With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; “Low lies the hand oft was stretch’d to save, Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride.

“A weeping country joins a widow’s tear; The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry; The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier; And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!

“I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom’s blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.

“My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.

“And I will join a mother’s tender cares, Thro’ future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”— She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.

Impromptu On Carron Iron Works

We cam na here to view your warks, In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise: But when we tirl’d at your door Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, shou’d we to Hell’s yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us!

To Miss Ferrier

Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.

Nae heathen name shall I prefix, Frae Pindus or Parnassus; Auld Reekie dings them a’ to sticks, For rhyme-inspiring lasses.

Jove’s tunefu’ dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gien the body half an e’e, Nine Ferriers wad done better!

Last day my mind was in a bog, Down George’s Street I stoited; A creeping cauld prosaic fog My very sense doited.

Do what I dought to set her free, My saul lay in the mire; Ye turned a neuk—I saw your e’e— She took the wing like fire!

The mournfu’ sang I here enclose, In gratitude I send you, And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose, A’ gude things may attend you!

Written By Somebody On The Window

Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.

Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, And laws for Scotland’s weal ordained; But now unroof’d their palace stands, Their sceptre’s sway’d by other hands; Fallen indeed, and to the earth Whence groveling reptiles take their birth. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; An idiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best despise them most.

The Poet’s Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic

My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton. In a MS., where I met the answer, I wrote below:—

With Esop’s lion, Burns says: Sore I feel Each other’s scorn, but damn that ass’ heel!

The Libeller’s Self-Reproof1

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Says, the more ’tis a truth, sir, the more ’tis a libel!

Verses Written With A Pencil

Over the Chimney—piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O’er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep,

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till fam’d Breadalbane opens to my view.— The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods wild scatter’d, clothe their ample sides; Th’ outstretching lake, imbosomed ’mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay meand’ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side, The lawns wood-fring’d in Nature’s native taste, The hillocks dropt in Nature’s careless haste, The arches striding o’er the new-born stream, The village glittering in the noontide beam—

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand’ring by the hermit’s mossy cell; The sweeping theatre of hanging woods, Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—

Here Poesy might wake her heav’n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil’d, Misfortunes lighten’d steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heav’nward stretch her scan, And injur’d Worth forget and pardon man.

Song—The Birks Of Aberfeldy

Tune—“The Birks of Abergeldie.”

Chorus.—Bonie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy!

Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o’er the crystal streamlets plays; Come let us spend the lightsome days, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c.

While o’er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c.

The braes ascend like lofty wa’s, The foaming stream deep-roaring fa’s, O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws— The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c.

The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers, White o’er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi’ misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c.

Let Fortune’s gifts at randoe flee, They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me; Supremely blest wi’ love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonie lassie, &c.

The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water

To the noble Duke of Athole.

My lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.1

The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray;

If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As poet Burns came by. That, to a bard, I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry; A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.

Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying each large spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’, Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober lav’rock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs; Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat, From prone-descending show’rs.

And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds, with all their wealth, As empty idle care; The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms, The hour of heav’n to grace; And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadow’s wat’ry bed: Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn.

So may old Scotia’s darling hope, Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land! So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonie lasses!

Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.

Written with a Pencil on the Spot.

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewles Echo’s ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding lours: Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils—

Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands

When Death’s dark stream I ferry o’er, A time that surely shall come, In Heav’n itself I’ll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome.

Strathallan’s Lament1

Thickest night, o’erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o’er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of Right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour’s war we strongly waged, But the Heavens denied success. Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us— But a world without a friend.

Castle Gordon

Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by Winter’s chains; Glowing here on golden sands, There immix’d with foulest stains From Tyranny’s empurpled hands; These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gray, Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil; Or the ruthless native’s way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave; Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle Gordon.

Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood: Life’s poor day I’ll musing rave And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonie Castle Gordon.

Song—Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky

Tune—“The Ruffian’s Rant.”

A’ The lads o’ Thorniebank, When they gae to the shore o’ Bucky, They’ll step in an’ tak a pint Wi’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky.

Chorus.—Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews gude ale at shore o’ Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky.

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean I wat she is a daintie chuckie; And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed O’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, &c.

Theniel Menzies’ Bonie Mary

Air—“The Ruffian’s Rant,” or “Roy’s Wife.”

In comin by the brig o’ Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry; As day was dawnin in the sky, We drank a health to bonie Mary.

Chorus.—Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, Charlie Grigor tint his plaidie, Kissin’ Theniel’s bonie Mary.

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown’s a berry; And aye they dimpl’t wi’ a smile, The rosy cheeks o’ bonie Mary. Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, &c.

We lap a’ danc’d the lee-lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary; But Charlie gat the spring to pay For kissin Theniel’s bonie Mary. Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, &c.

The Bonie Lass Of Albany1

Tune—“Mary’s Dream.”

My heart is wae, and unco wae, To think upon the raging sea, That roars between her gardens green An’ the bonie Lass of Albany.

This lovely maid’s of royal blood That ruled Albion’s kingdoms three, But oh, alas! for her bonie face, They’ve wrang’d the Lass of Albany.

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde There sits an isle of high degree, And a town of fame whose princely name Should grace the Lass of Albany.

But there’s a youth, a witless youth, That fills the place where she should be; We’ll send him o’er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany.