Part 2

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