Part 4

“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!

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 Duncan3 deep, an’ Peebles4 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.

Dalrymple6 has been lang our fae, M’Gill7 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 Wodrow10 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 Smith12 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

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!

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

“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’s3 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’ Buchan4 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,

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’s5 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!”