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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:49 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:49 -0700 |
| commit | 2972558578015e340ce7f3611a781c9960e80a29 (patch) | |
| tree | efb680031a3d5cf7840b57c477602717c9700305 /1279-h | |
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| -rw-r--r-- | 1279-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 832818 bytes |
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diff --git a/1279-h/1279-h.htm b/1279-h/1279-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ab871a --- /dev/null +++ b/1279-h/1279-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,30613 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>Poems and Songs of Robert Burns | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> +<style> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + +.pre { font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%; white-space: pre;} +.cellpaddingborder {padding:4px; border-width: 3px;} +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +.big {font-size: x-large;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1279 ***</div> + <h1> + <b><i>POEMS AND SONGS OF ROBERT BURNS</i></b> + </h1> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <h2> + by Robert Burns + </h2> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <table style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <table class='cellpaddingborder'> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1771"><b>1771 - 1779</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1780"><b> 1780</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1781"><b> 1781</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1782"><b> 1782</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1783"><b> 1783</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1784"><b> 1784</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1785"><b> 1785</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1786"><b> 1786</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1787"><b> 1787</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1788"><b> 1788 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1789"><b> 1789 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1790"><b> 1790 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1791"><b> 1791 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1792"><b> 1792 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1793"><b> 1793 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1794"><b> 1794 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1795"><b> 1795 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link1796"><b> 1796 </b></a> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br> <br> <br> <br> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <span class='big'><b>CONTENTS</b></span> + </p> + <p> + <br> <a href="#link2H_GLOS"> <span class='big'><b>Glossary</b></span> </a><br> <br> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> <b>Preface</b> </a><br> <a id="link1771"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>1771 - 1779</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Song—Handsome Nell </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Song—O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Song—I Dream’d I Lay </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Song—In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Tragic Fragment </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Tarbolton Lasses, The </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Montgomerie’s Peggy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Ploughman’s Life, The </a><br> <a id="link1780"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>1780</b> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Ronalds Of The Bennals, The </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Song—Here’s To Thy Health </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Song—Bonie Peggy Alison </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Song—Mary Morison </a><br> <a id="link1781"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> <b>1781</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Winter: A Dirge </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Paraphrase Of The First Psalm </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm + Versified, The </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Prayer, In The + Prospect Of Death </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Stanzas, On The + Same Occasion </a><br> <a id="link1782"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> <b>1782</b> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> + Fickle Fortune: A Fragment </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Raging + Fortune—Fragment Of Song </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> + Impromptu—“I’ll Go And Be A Sodger” </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Song—“No Churchman Am I” </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> My Father Was A Farmer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> John Barleycorn: A Ballad </a><br> <a id="link1783"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> <b>1783</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Death And Dying Words Of Poor + Mailie, The Author’s Only Pet Yowe., The </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> Poor Mailie’s Elegy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Song—The Rigs O’ Barley </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> Song Composed In August </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> Song </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Song—Green + Grow The Rashes </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> Song—Wha Is + That At My Bower-Door </a><br> <a id="link1784"></a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> <b>1784</b> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> + Remorse: A Fragment </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Epitaph On Wm. + Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Epitaph On + James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father’s Friend, + Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> Epitaph + On My Ever Honoured Father </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> Ballad On + The American War </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> Reply To An + Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet, </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> Epistle To John Rankine </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> A Poet’s Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter<sup>1</sup> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> Song—O Leave Novels<sup>1</sup> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> Fragment—The Mauchline Lady </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> Fragment—My Girl She’s Airy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> The Belles Of Mauchline </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> Epigram On The Said Occasion </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> Another </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> On + Tam The Chapman </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> Epitaph On John + Rankine </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> Lines On The Author’s Death + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie </a><br> + <a id="link1785"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> <b>1785</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> Holy Willie’s Prayer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> Epitaph On Holy Willie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> Death and Doctor Hornbook </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> Second Epistle To J. Lapraik </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> Epistle To William Simson </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> Postcript </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> One + Night As I Did Wander </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> Tho’ Cruel + Fate Should Bid Us Part </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> Song—Rantin’, + Rovin’ Robin<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> Elegy On The Death Of + Robert Ruisseaux<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> Epistle To John + Goldie, In Kilmarnock </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> The Holy + Fair<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> Third Epistle To J. Lapraik + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> Epistle To The Rev. John M’math </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> Second Epistle to Davie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> Song—Young Peggy Blooms </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> Song—Farewell To Ballochmyle </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> Fragment—Her Flowing Locks </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> Halloween<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> + To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, + 1785 </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> Epitaph For James Smith </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> Adam Armour’s Prayer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> Song—For A’ That<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> Song—Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> The Cotter’s Saturday Night </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> Address To The Deil </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> Scotch Drink </a><br> <a id="link1786"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> <b>1786</b> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation + To His Auld Mare, Maggie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> The Twa + Dogs<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> The Author’s Earnest Cry And + Prayer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> The Ordination </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> Epistle To James Smith </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> The Vision </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> + Suppressed Stanza’s Of “The Vision” </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> + Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> The Inventory<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> + To John Kennedy, Dumfries House </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> To + Mr. M’Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> To A + Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> Song, Composed In Spring </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> To A Mountain Daisy, </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> To Ruin </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> The + Lament </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> Despondency: An Ode </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> Versified Reply To An Invitation </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> Song—Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary? + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> Song—My Highland Lassie, O + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> Epistle To A Young Friend </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> Address Of Beelzebub </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> A Dream </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> A + Dedication </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> Versified Note To Dr. + Mackenzie, Mauchline </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> The Farewell To + the Brethren of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton. </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> Song—Farewell To Eliza </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> A Bard’s Epitaph </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> Epitaph On “Wee Johnie” </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> The Lass O’ Ballochmyle </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> Lines To An Old Sweetheart </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> Motto Prefixed To The Author’s First Publication + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> Lines To Mr. John Kennedy </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> Lines Written On A Banknote </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> Stanzas On Naething </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> The Farewell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> + Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora. </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> The + Calf </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> Nature’s Law—A Poem </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> Song—Willie Chalmers </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A + Tailor </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> The Brigs Of Ayr </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> Fragment Of Song </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> Epigram On Rough Roads </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> Prayer—O Thou Dread Power </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> Address To The Toothache </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> Masonic Song </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> + Tam Samson’s Elegy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> The Epitaph </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> Per Contra </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> + Epistle To Major Logan </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> Fragment On + Sensibility </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> A Winter Night </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> Song—Yon Wild Mossy Mountains </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> Address To Edinburgh </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> Address To A Haggis </a><br> <a id="link1787"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> <b>1787</b> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0158"> To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A + New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0159"> Mr. + William Smellie—A Sketch </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0160"> Song—Bonie + Dundee </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0161"> Extempore In The Court Of + Session </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0162"> Inscription For The + Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0163"> + Epistle To Mrs. Scott </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0164"> Verses + Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_PROL"> Prologue </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0166"> The + Bonie Moor-Hen </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0167"> Song—My Lord + A-Hunting </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0168"> Epigram At Roslin Inn </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0169"> Epigram Addressed To An Artist </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0170"> The Book-Worms </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0171"> + On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0172"> Song—A Bottle And Friend </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0173"> Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, + Edinburgh </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0174"> Epitaph For Mr. William + Michie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0175"> Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., + Of Woodhouselee </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0176"> Epigram To Miss + Ainslie In Church </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0177"> Burlesque Lament + For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher </a><br> <a href="#linkrenton"> Note to Mr. Renton </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0178"> + Elegy On “Stella” </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0179"> The Bard At + Inverary </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0180"> Epigram To Miss Jean Scott + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0181"> On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq, + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0182"> Elegy On The Death Of Sir James + Hunter Blair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0183"> Impromptu On Carron + Iron Works </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0184"> To Miss Ferrier </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0185"> Written By Somebody On The Window </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0186"> The Poet’s Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious + Critic </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0187"> The Libeller’s Self-Reproof<sup>1</sup> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0188"> Verses Written With A Pencil </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0189"> Song—The Birks Of Aberfeldy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0190"> The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0191"> Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness. </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0192"> Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The + Highlands </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0193"> Strathallan’s Lament<sup>1</sup> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0194"> Castle Gordon </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0195"> Song—Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0196"> Theniel Menzies’ Bonie Mary </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0197"> The Bonie Lass Of Albany<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0198"> On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0199"> Blythe Was She<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0200"> A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk </a><br> <a href="#linkdevon"> Song—The Banks of the Devon </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0201"> Epitaph For Mr. W. Cruikshank<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0202"> Braving Angry Winter’s Storms </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0203"> Song—My Peggy’s Charms </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0204"> The Young Highland Rover </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0205"> Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787<sup>1</sup> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0206"> On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of + Arniston, </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0207"> Sylvander To Clarinda<sup>1</sup> + </a><br> <a id="link1788"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0208"> <b>1788</b> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0209"> + Love In The Guise Of Friendship </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0210"> Go + On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0211"> + Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0212"> I’m + O’er Young To Marry Yet </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0213"> To The + Weavers Gin Ye Go </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0214"> M’Pherson’s + Farewell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0215"> Stay My Charmer </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0216"> Song—My Hoggie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0217"> Raving Winds Around Her Blowing </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0218"> Up In The Morning Early </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0219"> Hey, The Dusty Miller </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0220"> Duncan Davison </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0221"> + The Lad They Ca’Jumpin John </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0222"> Talk Of + Him That’s Far Awa </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0223"> To Daunton Me + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0224"> The Winter It Is Past </a><br> <a href="#linkbonie_lad"> The Bonie Lad That’s Far Awa </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0225"> Verses To Clarinda </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0226"> The Chevalier’s Lament </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0227"> Epistle To Hugh Parker </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0228"> Of A’ The Airts The Wind Can Blaw<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0229"> Song—I Hae a Wife O’ My Ain </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0230"> Lines Written In Friars’-Carse Hermitage </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0231"> To Alex. Cunningham, ESQ., Writer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0232"> Song.—Anna, Thy Charms </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0233"> The Fete Champetre </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0234"> Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0235"> Song.—The Day Returns </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0236"> Song.—O, Were I On Parnassus Hill </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0237"> A Mother’s Lament </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0238"> The Fall Of The Leaf </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0239"> I Reign In Jeanie’s Bosom </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0240"> Auld Lang Syne </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0241"> + My Bonie Mary </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0242"> The Parting Kiss </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0243"> Written In Friar’s-Carse Hermitage </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0244"> The Poet’s Progress </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0245"> Elegy On The Year 1788 </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0246"> The Henpecked Husband </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0247"> Versicles On Sign-Posts </a><br> <a id="link1789"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0248"> <b>1789</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0249"> Robin Shure In Hairst </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0250"> Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of + Auchencruive </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0251"> Pegasus At Wanlockhead + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0252"> Sappho Redivivus—A Fragment + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0253"> Song—She’s Fair And Fause </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0254"> Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0255"> Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0256"> Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0257"> Caledonia—A Ballad </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0258"> To Miss Cruickshank </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0259"> Beware O’ Bonie Ann </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0260"> Ode On The Departed Regency Bill </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0261"> Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0262"> A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0263"> Sketch In Verse </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0264"> The Wounded Hare </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0265"> Delia, An Ode </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0266"> + The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0267"> On A + Bank Of Flowers </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0268"> Young Jockie Was The + Blythest Lad </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0269"> The Banks Of Nith </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0270"> Jamie, Come Try Me </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0271"> I Love My Love In Secret </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0272"> Sweet Tibbie Dunbar </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0273"> The Captain’s Lady </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0274"> John Anderson, My Jo </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0275"> My Love, She’s But A Lassie Yet </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0276"> Song—Tam Glen </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0277"> Carle, An The King Come </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0278"> The Laddie’s Dear Sel’ </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0279"> Whistle O’er The Lave O’t </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0280"> My Eppie Adair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0281"> + On The Late Captain Grose’s Peregrinations Thro’ Scotland </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0282"> Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0283"> The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0284"> Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0285"> Sonnet On Receiving A Favour </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0286"> Extemporaneous Effusion </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0287"> Song—Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut<sup>1</sup> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0288"> Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0289"> I Gaed A Waefu’ Gate Yestreen </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0290"> Highland Harry Back Again </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0291"> The Battle Of Sherramuir </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0292"> The Braes O’ Killiecrankie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0293"> Awa’ Whigs, Awa’ </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0294"> A Waukrife Minnie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0295"> The Captive Ribband </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0296"> My Heart’s In The Highlands </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0297"> The Whistle—A Ballad </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0298"> To Mary In Heaven </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0299"> Epistle To Dr. Blacklock </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0300"> The Five Carlins </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0301"> Election Ballad For Westerha’ </a><br> <a href="#link2H_PROL_2"> Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries </a><br> + <a id="link1790"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0303"> <b>1790</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0304"> Sketch—New Year’s Day [1790] + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0305"> Scots’ Prologue For Mr. Sutherland + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0306"> Lines To A Gentleman, </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0307"> Elegy On Willie Nicol’s Mare </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0308"> The Gowden Locks Of Anna </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0309"> Postscript </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0310"> + Song—I Murder Hate </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0311"> Gudewife, + Count The Lawin </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0312"> Election Ballad </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0313"> Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0314"> The Epitaph </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0315"> + Verses On Captain Grose </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0316"> Tam O’ + Shanter </a><br> <a href="#linkposthumous"> On The Birth Of A + Posthumous Child </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0317"> Elegy On The Late + Miss Burnet Of Monboddo </a><br> <a id="link1791"></a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0318"> <b>1791</b> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0319"> + Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0320"> There’ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0321"> Song—Out Over The Forth </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0322"> The Banks O’ Doon—First Version </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0323"> The Banks O’ Doon—Second Version </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0324"> The Banks O’ Doon—Third Version </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0325"> Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0326"> Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0327"> Craigieburn Wood </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0328"> Epigram On Miss Davies </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0329"> The Charms Of Lovely Davies </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0330"> What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi’ An Auld Man </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0331"> The Posie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0332"> + On Glenriddell’s Fox Breaking His Chain </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0333"> Poem On Pastoral Poetry </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0334"> Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near + Drumlanrig </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0335"> The Gallant Weaver </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0336"> Epigram At Brownhill Inn<sup>1</sup> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0337"> Lovely Polly Stewart </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0338"> Fragment,—Damon And Sylvia </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0339"> Johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0340"> My Eppie Macnab </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0341"> + Altho’ He Has Left Me </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0342"> My Tocher’s + The Jewel </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0343"> O For Ane An’ Twenty, Tam + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0344"> Thou Fair Eliza </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0345"> My Bonie Bell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0346"> + Sweet Afton </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0347"> Address To The Shade Of + Thomson </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0348"> Nithsdale’s Welcome Hame + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0349"> Frae The Friends And Land I Love + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0350"> Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0351"> Ye Jacobites By Name </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0352"> I Hae Been At Crookieden </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0353"> O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0354"> Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0355"> Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of + Fintry </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0356"> The Song Of Death </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0357"> Poem On Sensibility </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0358"> The Toadeater </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0359"> + Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0360"> The Keekin’-Glass </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0361"> A Grace Before Dinner, Extempore </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0362"> A Grace After Dinner, Extempore </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0363"> O May, Thy Morn </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0364"> + Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0365"> + Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0366"> + Thou Gloomy December </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0367"> My Native Land + Sae Far Awa </a><br> <a id="link1792"></a><br> <a href="#linkyr1792"><b>1792</b></a> <br> <a href="#linkconfess"> I do + Confess Thou Art Sae Fair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0369"> Lines On + Fergusson, The Poet </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0370"> The Weary Pund + O’ Tow </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0371"> When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0372"> Scroggam, My Dearie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0373"> My Collier Laddie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0374"> Sic A Wife As Willie Had </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0375"> Lady Mary Ann </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0376"> + Kellyburn Braes </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0377"> The Slave’s Lament + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0378"> O Can Ye Labour Lea? </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0379"> The Deuks Dang O’er My Daddie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0380"> The Deil’s Awa Wi’ The Exciseman </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0381"> The Country Lass </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0382"> Bessy And Her Spinnin’ Wheel </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0383"> Love For Love </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0384"> + Saw Ye Bonie Lesley </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0385"> Fragment Of Song + </a><br> <a href="#linklea_rig"> I’ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0386"> My Wife’s A Winsome Wee Thing </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0387"> Highland Mary </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0388"> + Auld Rob Morris </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0389"> The Rights Of Woman + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0390"> Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In + A Favourite Character </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0391"> Extempore On + Some Commemorations Of Thomson </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0392"> + Duncan Gray </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0393"> Here’s A Health To Them + That’s Awa </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0394"> A Tippling Ballad </a><br> + <a id="link1793"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0395"> <b>1793</b> + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0396"> Poortith Cauld And Restless Love + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0397"> On Politics </a><br> <a href="#linkbraw_lads"> Braw Lads O’ Galla Water </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0398"> Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday, </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0399"> Wandering Willie—First Version </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0400"> Wandering Willie—Revised Version </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0401"> Lord Gregory </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0402"> + Open The Door To Me, Oh </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0403"> Lovely Young + Jessie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0404"> Meg O’ The Mill </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0405"> Meg O’ The Mill—Another Version </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0406"> The Soldier’s Return </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0407"> Versicles, A.D. 1793 </a><br> <a href="#linknatives"> The True Loyal Natives </a><br> <a href="#linkgoldie"> On Commissary Goldie’s Brains </a><br> <a href="#linkalmanac"> Lines Inscribed In A Lady’s Pocket Almanac </a><br> + <a href="#linkvictory"> Thanksgiving For A National Victory </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0408"> Lines On The Commemoration Of Rodney’s Victory + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0409"> The Raptures Of Folly </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0410"> Kirk and State Excisemen </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0411"> Extempore Reply To An Invitation </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0412"> Grace After Meat </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0413"> Grace Before And After Meat </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0414"> Impromptu On General Dumourier’s Desertion From + The French Republican Army </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0415"> The Last + Time I Came O’er The Moor </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0416"> Logan + Braes </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0417"> Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0418"> O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0419"> Bonie Jean—A Ballad </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0420"> Lines On John M’Murdo, ESQ. </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0421"> Epitaph On A Lap-Dog </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0422"> Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0423"> Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0424"> Song—Phillis The Fair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0425"> Song—Had I A Cave </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0426"> Song—By Allan Stream </a><br> <a href="#linkwhistle"> Whistle, And I’ll Come To You, My Lad </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0427"> Phillis The Queen O’ The Fair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0428"> Come, Let Me Take Thee To My Breast </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0429"> Dainty Davie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0430"> + Robert Bruce’s March To Bannockburn </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0431"> + Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0432"> + Down The Burn, Davie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0433"> Thou Hast Left + Me Ever, Jamie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0434"> Where Are The Joys I + have Met? </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0435"> Deluded Swain, The + Pleasure </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0436"> Thine Am I, My Faithful + Fair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0437"> On Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday </a><br> + <a href="#linknancy"> My Spouse Nancy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0438"> + Address </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0439"> Complimentary Epigram On + Maria Riddell </a><br> <a id="link1794"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0440"> <b>1794</b> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0441"> + Remorseful Apology </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0442"> Wilt Thou Be My + Dearie? </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0443"> A Fiddler In The North </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0444"> The Minstrel At Lincluden </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0445"> A Vision </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0446"> A + Red, Red Rose </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0447"> Young Jamie, Pride Of + A’ The Plain </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0448"> The Flowery Banks Of + Cree </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0449"> Monody </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0450"> The Epitaph </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0451"> + Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell’s Carriage </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0452"> Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0453"> Epistle From Esopus To Maria </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0454"> Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb </a><br> <a href="#linklascelles"> On Capt. Lascelles </a><br> <a href="#linkgraham"> + On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe </a><br> <a href="#linkbushby"> On + John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0455"> + Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0456"> + The Lovely Lass O’ Inverness </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0457"> + Charlie, He’s My Darling </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0458"> Bannocks O’ + Bear Meal </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0459"> The Highland Balou </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0460"> The Highland Widow’s Lament </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0461"> It Was A’ For Our Rightfu’ King </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0462"> Ode For General Washington’s Birthday </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0463"> Inscription To Miss Graham Of Fintry </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0464"> On The Seas And Far Away </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0465"> Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes—Second Version + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0466"> She Says She Loes Me Best Of A’ </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0467"> To Dr. Maxwell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0468"> To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J—N </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0469"> On Chloris </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0470"> + On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0471"> + Epigram On A Country Laird, </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0472"> On Being + Shewn A Beautiful Country Seat </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0473"> On + Hearing It Asserted Falsehood </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0474"> On A + Suicide </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0475"> On A Swearing Coxcomb </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0476"> On An Innkeeper Nicknamed “The Marquis” </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0477"> On Andrew Turner </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0478"> Pretty Peg </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0479"> + Esteem For Chloris </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0480"> Saw Ye My Dear, + My Philly </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0481"> How Lang And Dreary Is The + Night </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0482"> Inconstancy In Love </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0483"> The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0484"> The Winter Of Life </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0485"> Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0486"> The Charming Month Of May </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0487"> Lassie Wi’ The Lint-White Locks </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0488"> Dialogue song—Philly And Willy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0489"> Contented Wi’ Little And Cantie Wi’ Mair </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0490"> Farewell Thou Stream </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0491"> Canst Thou Leave Me Thus, My Katie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0492"> My Nanie’s Awa </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0493"> + The Tear-Drop </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0494"> For The Sake O’ + Somebody </a><br> <a id="link1795"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0495"> <b>1795</b> </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0496"> A + Man’s A Man For A’ That </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0497"> Craigieburn + Wood </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0498"> Versicles of 1795 </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0499"> The Solemn League And Covenant </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0500"> Lines sent with a Present of a Dozen of Porter. + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0501"> Inscription On A Goblet </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0502"> Apology For Declining An Invitation To Dine </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0503"> Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0504"> Epigram On Mr. James Gracie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0505"> Bonie Peg-a-Ramsay </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0506"> Inscription At Friars’ Carse Hermitage </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0507"> There Was A Bonie Lass </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0508"> Wee Willie Gray </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0509"> + O Aye My Wife She Dang Me </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0510"> Gude Ale + Keeps The Heart Aboon </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0511"> O Steer Her Up + An’ Haud Her Gaun </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0512"> The Lass O’ + Ecclefechan </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0513"> O Let Me In Thes Ae + Night </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0514"> Her Answer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0515"> I’ll Aye Ca’ In By Yon Town </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0516"> O Wat Ye Wha’s In Yon Town </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0517"> Ballads on Mr. Heron’s Election, 1795 </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0518"> Inscription For An Altar Of Independence </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0519"> The Cardin O’t, The Spinnin O’t </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0520"> The Cooper O’ Cuddy </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0521"> The Lass That Made The Bed To Me </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0522"> Had I The Wyte? She Bade Me </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0523"> Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat? </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0524"> Address To The Woodlark </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0525"> Song.—On Chloris Being Ill </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0526"> How Cruel Are The Parents </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0527"> Mark Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0528"> ’Twas Na Her Bonie Blue E’e </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0529"> Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0530"> Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0531"> Fragment,—Why, Why Tell The Lover </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0532"> The Braw Wooer </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0533"> This Is No My Ain Lassie </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0534"> O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0535"> Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0536"> O That’s The Lassie O’ My Heart </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0537"> Inscription </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0538"> + Fragment.—Leezie Lindsay </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0539"> + Fragment.—The Wren’s Nest </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0540"> + News, Lassies, News </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0541"> Crowdie Ever + Mair </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0542"> Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet + </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0543"> Jockey’s Taen The Parting Kiss </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0544"> Verses To Collector Mitchell </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0545"> Postscript </a><br> <a id="link1796"></a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0546"> <b>1796</b> </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0547"> The Dean Of Faculty </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0548"> Epistle To Colonel De Peyster </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0549"> A Lass Wi’ A Tocher </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0550"> Heron Election Ballad, No. IV. </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0551"> Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars </a><br> + <a href="#link2H_4_0552"> O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0553"> A Health To Ane I Loe Dear </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0554"> O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0555"> Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars </a><br> <a href="#link2H_4_0556"> Fairest Maid On Devon Banks </a><br><br> <br> + <a href="#link2H_GLOS"> <span class='big'><b>Glossary</b></span> </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> <br> <a id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Preface + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> <a id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1771 - 1779 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Handsome Nell<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“I am a man unmarried.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + [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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Invercauld’s Reel, or Strathspey.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—I Dream’d I Lay + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Go from my window, Love, do.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Tragic Fragment + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Tarbolton Lasses, The + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Montgomerie’s Peggy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Galla Water.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ploughman’s Life, The + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1780 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ronalds Of The Bennals, The + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Here’s To Thy Health + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Laggan Burn.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [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.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Bonie Peggy Alison + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Braes o’ Balquhidder.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Mary Morison + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1781 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Winter: A Dirge + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Paraphrase Of The First Psalm + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Stanzas, On The Same Occasion + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1782 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fickle Fortune: A Fragment + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Raging Fortune—Fragment Of Song + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Impromptu—“I’ll Go And Be A Sodger” + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—“No Churchman Am I” + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Father Was A Farmer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The weaver and his shuttle, O.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + John Barleycorn: A Ballad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1783 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie, The Author’s Only Pet Yowe., The + </h2></div> + <h3> + An Unco Mournfu’ Tale + </h3> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Poor Mailie’s Elegy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—The Rigs O’ Barley + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Corn Rigs are bonie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song Composed In August + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“My Nanie, O.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Green Grow The Rashes + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Wha Is That At My Bower-Door + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Lass, an I come near thee.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + “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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1784 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Remorse: A Fragment + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father’s Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton + Mill + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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.”<sup>1</sup> + + [Footnote 1: Goldsmith.—R.B.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ballad On The American War + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Killiecrankie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet, + </h2></div> + <p> + That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To John Rankine + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Poet’s Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.] + + The First Instance That Entitled Him To + The Venerable Appellation Of Father +</div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—O Leave Novels<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment—The Mauchline Lady + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment—My Girl She’s Airy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Black Jock.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Belles Of Mauchline + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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’. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On The Said Occasion + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Another + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Tam The Chapman + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On John Rankine + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines On The Author’s Death + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Written With The Supposed View Of + Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet’s Interment +</div> +<div class='pre'> + He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, + And a green grassy hillock hides his head; + Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + An Unco Mournfu’ Tale +</div> +<div class='pre'> + “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,<sup>1</sup> man, an’ wordy Russell,<sup>2</sup> + 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<sup>3</sup> deep, an’ Peebles<sup>4</sup> shaul, + But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,<sup>5</sup> + 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<sup>6</sup> has been lang our fae, + M’Gill<sup>7</sup> has wrought us meikle wae, + An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae,<sup>8</sup> + And baith the Shaws,<sup>9</sup> + That aft hae made us black an’ blae, + Wi’ vengefu’ paws. + + Auld Wodrow<sup>10</sup> lang has hatch’d mischief; + We thought aye death wad bring relief; + But he has gotten, to our grief, + Ane to succeed him,<sup>11</sup> + 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<sup>12</sup> 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1785 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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,”<sup>1</sup> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Holy Willie’s Prayer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + “And send the godly in a pet to pray.”—Pope. +</div> + <p> + Argument. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On Holy Willie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Death and Doctor Hornbook + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A True Story +</div> +<div class='pre'> + 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!”<sup>1</sup> + 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.”<sup>2</sup> + + [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<sup>3</sup> 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<sup>4</sup> + 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<sup>5</sup> 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Second Epistle To J. Lapraik + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To William Simson + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Postcript + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + One Night As I Did Wander + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + One night as I did wander, + When corn begins to shoot, + I sat me down to ponder + Upon an auld tree root; + Auld Ayr ran by before me, + And bicker’d to the seas; + A cushat crooded o’er me, + That echoed through the braes + . . . . . . . +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Tho’ Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Northern Lass.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, + Far as the pole and line, + Her dear idea round my heart, + Should tenderly entwine. + Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl, + And oceans roar between; + Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, + I still would love my Jean. + . . . . . . . +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Rantin’, Rovin’ Robin<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.] + + Tune—“Daintie Davie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + There was a lad was born in Kyle, + But whatna day o’ whatna style, + I doubt it’s hardly worth the while + To be sae nice wi’ Robin. + + Chor.—Robin was a rovin’ boy, + Rantin’, rovin’, rantin’, rovin’, + Robin was a rovin’ boy, + Rantin’, rovin’, Robin! + + Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane + Was five-and-twenty days begun<sup>2</sup>, + ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar’ win’ + Blew hansel in on Robin. + Robin was, &c. + + [Footnote 2: January 25, 1759, the date of my + bardship’s vital existence.—R.B.] + + The gossip keekit in his loof, + Quo’ scho, “Wha lives will see the proof, + This waly boy will be nae coof: + I think we’ll ca’ him Robin.” + Robin was, &c. + + “He’ll hae misfortunes great an’ sma’, + But aye a heart aboon them a’, + He’ll be a credit till us a’— + We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.” + Robin was, &c. + + “But sure as three times three mak nine, + I see by ilka score and line, + This chap will dearly like our kin’, + So leeze me on thee! Robin.” + Robin was, &c. + + “Guid faith,” quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar + The bonie lasses lie aspar; + But twenty fauts ye may hae waur + So blessins on thee! Robin.” + Robin was, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Now Robin lies in his last lair, + He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair; + Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare, + Nae mair shall fear him; + Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, + E’er mair come near him. + + To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him, + Except the moment that they crush’d him; + For sune as chance or fate had hush’d ’em + Tho’ e’er sae short. + Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lash’d ’em, + And thought it sport. + + [Footnote 1: Ruisseaux is French for rivulets + or “burns,” a translation of his name.] + + Tho’he was bred to kintra-wark, + And counted was baith wight and stark, + Yet that was never Robin’s mark + To mak a man; + But tell him, he was learn’d and clark, + Ye roos’d him then! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Author Of The Gospel Recovered.—August, 1785 + + O Gowdie, terror o’ the whigs, + Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs! + Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, + Girns an’ looks back, + Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues + May seize you quick. + + Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition! + Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition: + Fye: bring Black Jock,<sup>1</sup> her state physician, + To see her water; + Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion + She’ll ne’er get better. + + Enthusiasm’s past redemption, + Gane in a gallopin’ consumption: + Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption, + Can ever mend her; + Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, + She’ll soon surrender. + + Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, + For every hole to get a stapple; + But now she fetches at the thrapple, + An’ fights for breath; + Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,<sup>2</sup> + Near unto death. + + It’s you an’ Taylor<sup>3</sup> are the chief + To blame for a’ this black mischief; + + [Footnote 1: The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 2: Mr. Russell’s Kirk.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. Taylor of Norwich.—R. B.] + + But, could the Lord’s ain folk get leave, + A toom tar barrel + An’ twa red peats wad bring relief, + And end the quarrel. + + For me, my skill’s but very sma’, + An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’; + But quietlins-wise, between us twa, + Weel may you speed! + And tho’ they sud your sair misca’, + Ne’er fash your head. + + E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker! + The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker; + And still ’mang hands a hearty bicker + O’ something stout; + It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker, + And helps his wit. + + There’s naething like the honest nappy; + Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy, + Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy, + ’Tween morn and morn, + As them wha like to taste the drappie, + In glass or horn? + + I’ve seen me dazed upon a time, + I scarce could wink or see a styme; + Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,— + Ought less is little— + Then back I rattle on the rhyme, + As gleg’s a whittle. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Holy Fair<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A robe of seeming truth and trust + Hid crafty Observation; + And secret hung, with poison’d crust, + The dirk of Defamation: + + [Footnote 1: “Holy Fair” is a common phrase in the west of Scotland + for a sacramental occasion.—R. B.] + + A mask that like the gorget show’d, + Dye-varying on the pigeon; + And for a mantle large and broad, + He wrapt him in Religion. + Hypocrisy A-La-Mode + + Upon a simmer Sunday morn + When Nature’s face is fair, + I walked forth to view the corn, + An’ snuff the caller air. + The rising sun owre Galston muirs + Wi’ glorious light was glintin; + The hares were hirplin down the furrs, + The lav’rocks they were chantin + Fu’ sweet that day. + + As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad, + To see a scene sae gay, + Three hizzies, early at the road, + Cam skelpin up the way. + Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black, + But ane wi’ lyart lining; + The third, that gaed a wee a-back, + Was in the fashion shining + Fu’ gay that day. + + The twa appear’d like sisters twin, + In feature, form, an’ claes; + Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin, + An’ sour as only slaes: + The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp, + As light as ony lambie, + An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop, + As soon as e’er she saw me, + Fu’ kind that day. + + Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass, + I think ye seem to ken me; + I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face + But yet I canna name ye.” + Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak, + An’ taks me by the han’s, + “Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck + Of a’ the ten comman’s + A screed some day.” + + “My name is Fun—your cronie dear, + The nearest friend ye hae; + An’ this is Superstitution here, + An’ that’s Hypocrisy. + I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, + To spend an hour in daffin: + Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair, + We will get famous laughin + At them this day.” + + Quoth I, “Wi’ a’ my heart, I’ll do’t; + I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on, + An’ meet you on the holy spot; + Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!” + Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, + An’ soon I made me ready; + For roads were clad, frae side to side, + Wi’ mony a weary body + In droves that day. + + Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, + Gaed hoddin by their cotters; + There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, + Are springing owre the gutters. + The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, + In silks an’ scarlets glitter; + Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, + An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter, + Fu’ crump that day. + + When by the plate we set our nose, + Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, + A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, + An’ we maun draw our tippence. + Then in we go to see the show: + On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin; + Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools, + An’ some are busy bleth’rin + Right loud that day. + + Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs, + An’ screen our countra gentry; + There Racer Jess,<sup>2</sup> an’ twa-three whores, + Are blinkin at the entry. + Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads, + Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck; + An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads, + Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, + For fun this day. + + Here, some are thinkin on their sins, + An’ some upo’ their claes; + Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins, + Anither sighs an’ prays: + On this hand sits a chosen swatch, + Wi’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces; + On that a set o’ chaps, at watch, + Thrang winkin on the lasses + To chairs that day. + + O happy is that man, an’ blest! + Nae wonder that it pride him! + Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, + Comes clinkin down beside him! + Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back, + He sweetly does compose him; + Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, + An’s loof upon her bosom, + Unkend that day. + + Now a’ the congregation o’er + Is silent expectation; + For Moodie<sup>3</sup> speels the holy door, + Wi’ tidings o’ damnation: + + [Footnote 2: Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of + Possie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian.] + + [Footnote 3: Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.] + + Should Hornie, as in ancient days, + ’Mang sons o’ God present him, + The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face, + To ’s ain het hame had sent him + Wi’ fright that day. + + Hear how he clears the point o’ faith + Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin! + Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, + He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin! + His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout, + His eldritch squeel an’ gestures, + O how they fire the heart devout, + Like cantharidian plaisters + On sic a day! + + But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice, + There’s peace an’ rest nae langer; + For a’ the real judges rise, + They canna sit for anger, + Smith<sup>4</sup> opens out his cauld harangues, + On practice and on morals; + An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs, + To gie the jars an’ barrels + A lift that day. + + What signifies his barren shine, + Of moral powers an’ reason? + His English style, an’ gesture fine + Are a’ clean out o’ season. + Like Socrates or Antonine, + Or some auld pagan heathen, + The moral man he does define, + But ne’er a word o’ faith in + That’s right that day. + + In guid time comes an antidote + Against sic poison’d nostrum; + For Peebles,<sup>5</sup> frae the water-fit, + Ascends the holy rostrum: + + [Footnote 4: Rev. George Smith of Galston.] + + [Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.] + + See, up he’s got, the word o’ God, + An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it, + While Common-sense has taen the road, + An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate<sup>6</sup> + Fast, fast that day. + + Wee Miller<sup>7</sup> neist the guard relieves, + An’ Orthodoxy raibles, + Tho’ in his heart he weel believes, + An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables: + But faith! the birkie wants a manse, + So, cannilie he hums them; + Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense + Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him + At times that day. + + Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills, + Wi’ yill-caup commentators; + Here ’s cryin out for bakes and gills, + An’ there the pint-stowp clatters; + While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang, + Wi’ logic an’ wi’ scripture, + They raise a din, that in the end + Is like to breed a rupture + O’ wrath that day. + + Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair + Than either school or college; + It kindles wit, it waukens lear, + It pangs us fou o’ knowledge: + Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep, + Or ony stronger potion, + It never fails, or drinkin deep, + To kittle up our notion, + By night or day. + + The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent + To mind baith saul an’ body, + Sit round the table, weel content, + An’ steer about the toddy: + + [Footnote 6: A street so called which faces the tent in + Mauchline.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 7: Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.] + + On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk, + They’re makin observations; + While some are cozie i’ the neuk, + An’ forming assignations + To meet some day. + + But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts, + Till a’ the hills are rairin, + And echoes back return the shouts; + Black Russell is na sparin: + His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords, + Divide the joints an’ marrow; + His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell, + Our vera “sauls does harrow” + Wi’ fright that day! + + A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit, + Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane, + Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat, + Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! + The half-asleep start up wi’ fear, + An’ think they hear it roarin; + When presently it does appear, + ’Twas but some neibor snorin + Asleep that day. + + ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell, + How mony stories past; + An’ how they crouded to the yill, + When they were a’ dismist; + How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups, + Amang the furms an’ benches; + An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps, + Was dealt about in lunches + An’ dawds that day. + + In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, + An’ sits down by the fire, + Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; + The lasses they are shyer: + The auld guidmen, about the grace + Frae side to side they bother; + Till some ane by his bonnet lays, + An’ gies them’t like a tether, + Fu’ lang that day. + + Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, + Or lasses that hae naething! + Sma’ need has he to say a grace, + Or melvie his braw claithing! + O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel’ + How bonie lads ye wanted; + An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel + Let lasses be affronted + On sic a day! + + Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow, + Begins to jow an’ croon; + Some swagger hame the best they dow, + Some wait the afternoon. + At slaps the billies halt a blink, + Till lasses strip their shoon: + Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink, + They’re a’ in famous tune + For crack that day. + + How mony hearts this day converts + O’ sinners and o’ lasses! + Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane + As saft as ony flesh is: + There’s some are fou o’ love divine; + There’s some are fou o’ brandy; + An’ mony jobs that day begin, + May end in houghmagandie + Some ither day. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Third Epistle To J. Lapraik + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie, + Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonie; + Now, when ye’re nickin down fu’ cannie + The staff o’ bread, + May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y + To clear your head. + + May Boreas never thresh your rigs, + Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, + Sendin the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggs + Like drivin wrack; + But may the tapmost grain that wags + Come to the sack. + + I’m bizzie, too, an’ skelpin at it, + But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it; + Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it + Wi’ muckle wark, + An’ took my jocteleg an whatt it, + Like ony clark. + + It’s now twa month that I’m your debtor, + For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, + Abusin me for harsh ill-nature + On holy men, + While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better, + But mair profane. + + But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, + Let’s sing about our noble sel’s: + We’ll cry nae jads frae heathen hills + To help, or roose us; + But browster wives an’ whisky stills, + They are the muses. + + Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, + An’ if ye mak’ objections at it, + Then hand in neive some day we’ll knot it, + An’ witness take, + An’ when wi’ usquabae we’ve wat it + It winna break. + + But if the beast an’ branks be spar’d + Till kye be gaun without the herd, + And a’ the vittel in the yard, + An’ theekit right, + I mean your ingle-side to guard + Ae winter night. + + Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitae + Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty, + Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty, + An’ be as canty + As ye were nine years less than thretty— + Sweet ane an’ twenty! + + But stooks are cowpit wi’ the blast, + And now the sinn keeks in the west, + Then I maun rin amang the rest, + An’ quat my chanter; + Sae I subscribe myself’ in haste, + Yours, Rab the Ranter. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To The Rev. John M’math + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sept. 13, 1785. + + Inclosing A Copy Of “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” + Which He Had Requested, Sept. 17, 1785 + + While at the stook the shearers cow’r + To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r, + Or in gulravage rinnin scowr + To pass the time, + To you I dedicate the hour + In idle rhyme. + + My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet + On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet, + Is grown right eerie now she’s done it, + Lest they should blame her, + An’ rouse their holy thunder on it + An anathem her. + + I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy, + That I, a simple, country bardie, + Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, + Wha, if they ken me, + Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, + Lowse hell upon me. + + But I gae mad at their grimaces, + Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, + Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces, + Their raxin conscience, + Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces + Waur nor their nonsense. + + There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast, + Wha has mair honour in his breast + Than mony scores as guid’s the priest + Wha sae abus’d him: + And may a bard no crack his jest + What way they’ve us’d him? + + See him, the poor man’s friend in need, + The gentleman in word an’ deed— + An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed + By worthless, skellums, + An’ not a muse erect her head + To cowe the blellums? + + O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts + To gie the rascals their deserts, + I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts, + An’ tell aloud + Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts + To cheat the crowd. + + God knows, I’m no the thing I should be, + Nor am I even the thing I could be, + But twenty times I rather would be + An atheist clean, + Than under gospel colours hid be + Just for a screen. + + An honest man may like a glass, + An honest man may like a lass, + But mean revenge, an’ malice fause + He’ll still disdain, + An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws, + Like some we ken. + + They take religion in their mouth; + They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth, + For what?—to gie their malice skouth + On some puir wight, + An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth, + To ruin straight. + + All hail, Religion! maid divine! + Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, + Who in her rough imperfect line + Thus daurs to name thee; + To stigmatise false friends of thine + Can ne’er defame thee. + + Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain, + An’ far unworthy of thy train, + With trembling voice I tune my strain, + To join with those + Who boldly dare thy cause maintain + In spite of foes: + + In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs, + In spite o’ undermining jobs, + In spite o’ dark banditti stabs + At worth an’ merit, + By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes, + But hellish spirit. + + O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, + Within thy presbyterial bound + A candid liberal band is found + Of public teachers, + As men, as Christians too, renown’d, + An’ manly preachers. + + Sir, in that circle you are nam’d; + Sir, in that circle you are fam’d; + An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d + (Which gies you honour) + Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d, + An’ winning manner. + + Pardon this freedom I have ta’en, + An’ if impertinent I’ve been, + Impute it not, good Sir, in ane + Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye, + But to his utmost would befriend + Ought that belang’d ye. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Second Epistle to Davie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Brother Poet + + Auld Neibour, + I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor, + For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter; + Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter, + Ye speak sae fair; + For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter + Some less maun sair. + + Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, + Lang may your elbuck jink diddle, + To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle + O’ war’ly cares; + Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle + Your auld grey hairs. + + But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; + I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit; + An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit + Until ye fyke; + Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit, + Be hain’t wha like. + + For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, + Rivin the words to gar them clink; + Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink, + Wi’ jads or masons; + An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think + Braw sober lessons. + + Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, + Commen’ to me the bardie clan; + Except it be some idle plan + O’ rhymin clink, + The devil haet,—that I sud ban— + They ever think. + + Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin, + Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin, + But just the pouchie put the neive in, + An’ while ought’s there, + Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’, + An’ fash nae mair. + + Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure, + My chief, amaist my only pleasure; + At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, + The Muse, poor hizzie! + Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure, + She’s seldom lazy. + + Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie: + The warl’ may play you mony a shavie; + But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, + Tho’ e’er sae puir, + Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie + Frae door tae door. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Young Peggy Blooms + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Loch Eroch-side.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, + Her blush is like the morning, + The rosy dawn, the springing grass, + With early gems adorning. + Her eyes outshine the radiant beams + That gild the passing shower, + And glitter o’er the crystal streams, + And cheer each fresh’ning flower. + + Her lips, more than the cherries bright, + A richer dye has graced them; + They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight, + And sweetly tempt to taste them; + Her smile is as the evening mild, + When feather’d pairs are courting, + And little lambkins wanton wild, + In playful bands disporting. + + Were Fortune lovely Peggy’s foe, + Such sweetness would relent her; + As blooming spring unbends the brow + Of surly, savage Winter. + Detraction’s eye no aim can gain, + Her winning pow’rs to lessen; + And fretful Envy grins in vain + The poison’d tooth to fasten. + + Ye Pow’rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, + From ev’ry ill defend her! + Inspire the highly-favour’d youth + The destinies intend her: + Still fan the sweet connubial flame + Responsive in each bosom; + And bless the dear parental name + With many a filial blossom. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Farewell To Ballochmyle + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Miss Forbe’s farewell to Banff.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + The Catrine woods were yellow seen, + The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, + Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, + But nature sicken’d on the e’e. + Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, + Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while; + And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang, + Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle! + + Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, + Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair; + Ye birdies dumb, in with’ring bowers, + Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. + But here, alas! for me nae mair + Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; + Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr, + Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment—Her Flowing Locks + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing, + Adown her neck and bosom hing; + How sweet unto that breast to cling, + And round that neck entwine her! + + Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew, + O’ what a feast her bonie mou’! + Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, + A crimson still diviner! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Halloween<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [Footnote 1: Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, + and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful + midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the + fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand + anniversary,.—R.B.] +</div> + <p> + The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but + for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions + of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some + account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with + prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying + into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its + rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a + philosophic mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal, to see the + remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.—R.B. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, + The simple pleasure of the lowly train; + To me more dear, congenial to my heart, + One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—Goldsmith. + + Upon that night, when fairies light + On Cassilis Downans<sup>2</sup> dance, + Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, + On sprightly coursers prance; + Or for Colean the rout is ta’en, + Beneath the moon’s pale beams; + There, up the Cove,<sup>3</sup> to stray an’ rove, + Amang the rocks and streams + To sport that night; + + [Footnote 2: Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, + in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of + Cassilis.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 3: A noted cavern near Colean house, called the + Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is + famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of + fairies.—R.B.] + + Amang the bonie winding banks, + Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear; + Where Bruce<sup>4</sup> ance rul’d the martial ranks, + An’ shook his Carrick spear; + Some merry, friendly, countra-folks + Together did convene, + To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks, + An’ haud their Halloween + Fu’ blythe that night. + + [Footnote 4: The famous family of that name, the ancestors + of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of + Carrick.—R.B.] + + The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat, + Mair braw than when they’re fine; + Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe, + Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’: + The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs + Weel-knotted on their garten; + Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs + Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin + Whiles fast at night. + + Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail, + Their stocks<sup>5</sup> maun a’ be sought ance; + + [Footnote 5: The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each + a “stock,” or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, + with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being + big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size + and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the + husband or wife. If any “yird,” or earth, stick to the root, + that is “tocher,” or fortune; and the taste of the + “custock,” that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of + the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, + to give them their ordinary appellation, the “runts,” are + placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the + Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the + house are, according to the priority of placing the “runts,” + the names in question.—R. B.] + + They steek their een, and grape an’ wale + For muckle anes, an’ straught anes. + Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift, + An’ wandered thro’ the bow-kail, + An’ pou’t for want o’ better shift + A runt was like a sow-tail + Sae bow’t that night. + + Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, + They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther; + The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin, + Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther: + An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour, + Wi’ joctelegs they taste them; + Syne coziely, aboon the door, + Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d them + To lie that night. + + The lassies staw frae ’mang them a’, + To pou their stalks o’ corn;<sup>6</sup> + But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about, + Behint the muckle thorn: + He grippit Nelly hard and fast: + Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses; + But her tap-pickle maist was lost, + Whan kiutlin in the fause-house<sup>7</sup> + Wi’ him that night. + + [Footnote 6: They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at + three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk + wants the “top-pickle,” that is, the grain at the top of the + stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed + anything but a maid.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 7: When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being + too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, + etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening + in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he + calls a “fause-house.”—R.B.] + + The auld guid-wife’s weel-hoordit nits<sup>8</sup> + Are round an’ round dividend, + An’ mony lads an’ lasses’ fates + Are there that night decided: + Some kindle couthie side by side, + And burn thegither trimly; + Some start awa wi’ saucy pride, + An’ jump out owre the chimlie + Fu’ high that night. + + [Footnote 8: Burning the nuts is a favorite charm. They name + the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in + the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or + start from beside one another, the course and issue of the + courtship will be.—R.B.] + + Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e; + Wha ’twas, she wadna tell; + But this is Jock, an’ this is me, + She says in to hersel’: + He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him, + As they wad never mair part: + Till fuff! he started up the lum, + An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart + To see’t that night. + + Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt, + Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie; + An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, + To be compar’d to Willie: + Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling, + An’ her ain fit, it brunt it; + While Willie lap, and swore by jing, + ’Twas just the way he wanted + To be that night. + + Nell had the fause-house in her min’, + She pits hersel an’ Rob in; + In loving bleeze they sweetly join, + Till white in ase they’re sobbin: + Nell’s heart was dancin at the view; + She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t: + Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou’, + Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t, + Unseen that night. + + But Merran sat behint their backs, + Her thoughts on Andrew Bell: + She lea’es them gashin at their cracks, + An’ slips out—by hersel’; + She thro’ the yard the nearest taks, + An’ for the kiln she goes then, + An’ darklins grapit for the bauks, + And in the blue-clue<sup>9</sup> throws then, + Right fear’t that night. + + [Footnote 9: Whoever would, with success, try this spell, + must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all + alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the “pot” a + clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; + and, toward the latter end, something will hold the thread: + demand, “Wha hauds?” i.e., who holds? and answer will be + returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and + surname of your future spouse.—R.B.] + + An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat— + I wat she made nae jaukin; + Till something held within the pat, + Good Lord! but she was quaukin! + But whether ’twas the deil himsel, + Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’, + Or whether it was Andrew Bell, + She did na wait on talkin + To spier that night. + + Wee Jenny to her graunie says, + “Will ye go wi’ me, graunie? + I’ll eat the apple at the glass,<sup>10</sup> + I gat frae uncle Johnie:” + She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt, + In wrath she was sae vap’rin, + She notic’t na an aizle brunt + Her braw, new, worset apron + Out thro’ that night. + + [Footnote 10: Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; + eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should + comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjungal + companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping + over your shoulder.—R.B.] + + “Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face! + I daur you try sic sportin, + As seek the foul thief ony place, + For him to spae your fortune: + Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! + Great cause ye hae to fear it; + For mony a ane has gotten a fright, + An’ liv’d an’ died deleerit, + On sic a night. + + “Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, + I mind’t as weel’s yestreen— + I was a gilpey then, I’m sure + I was na past fyfteen: + The simmer had been cauld an’ wat, + An’ stuff was unco green; + An’ eye a rantin kirn we gat, + An’ just on Halloween + It fell that night. + + “Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen, + A clever, sturdy fallow; + His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean, + That lived in Achmacalla: + He gat hemp-seed,<sup>11</sup> I mind it weel, + An’he made unco light o’t; + But mony a day was by himsel’, + He was sae sairly frighted + That vera night.” + + [Footnote 11: Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of + hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently + draw after you. Repeat now and then: “Hemp-seed, I saw thee, + hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my + true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left + shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person + invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions + say, “Come after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; + in which case, it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, + and say: “Come after me and harrow thee.”—R.B.] + + Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, + An’ he swoor by his conscience, + That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; + For it was a’ but nonsense: + The auld guidman raught down the pock, + An’ out a handfu’ gied him; + Syne bad him slip frae’ mang the folk, + Sometime when nae ane see’d him, + An’ try’t that night. + + He marches thro’ amang the stacks, + Tho’ he was something sturtin; + The graip he for a harrow taks, + An’ haurls at his curpin: + And ev’ry now an’ then, he says, + “Hemp-seed I saw thee, + An’ her that is to be my lass + Come after me, an’ draw thee + As fast this night.” + + He wistl’d up Lord Lennox’ March + To keep his courage cherry; + Altho’ his hair began to arch, + He was sae fley’d an’ eerie: + Till presently he hears a squeak, + An’ then a grane an’ gruntle; + He by his shouther gae a keek, + An’ tumbled wi’ a wintle + Out-owre that night. + + He roar’d a horrid murder-shout, + In dreadfu’ desperation! + An’ young an’ auld come rinnin out, + An’ hear the sad narration: + He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw, + Or crouchie Merran Humphie— + Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’; + And wha was it but grumphie + Asteer that night! + + Meg fain wad to the barn gaen, + To winn three wechts o’ naething;<sup>12</sup> + But for to meet the deil her lane, + She pat but little faith in: + + [Footnote 12: This charm must likewise be performed + unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both + doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is + danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, + and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in + winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a + “wecht,” and go through all the attitudes of letting down + corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third + time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the + windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in + question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the + employment or station in life.—R.B.] + + She gies the herd a pickle nits, + An’ twa red cheekit apples, + To watch, while for the barn she sets, + In hopes to see Tam Kipples + That vera night. + + She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw, + An’owre the threshold ventures; + But first on Sawnie gies a ca’, + Syne baudly in she enters: + A ratton rattl’d up the wa’, + An’ she cry’d Lord preserve her! + An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’, + An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour, + Fu’ fast that night. + + They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice; + They hecht him some fine braw ane; + It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice<sup>13</sup> + Was timmer-propt for thrawin: + He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak + For some black, grousome carlin; + An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke, + Till skin in blypes cam haurlin + Aff’s nieves that night. + + [Footnote 13: Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a + “bear-stack,” and fathom it three times round. The last + fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the + appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.—R.B.] + + A wanton widow Leezie was, + As cantie as a kittlen; + But och! that night, amang the shaws, + She gat a fearfu’ settlin! + She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn, + An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin; + Whare three lairds’ lan’s met at a burn,<sup>14</sup> + To dip her left sark-sleeve in, + Was bent that night. + + [Footnote 14: You go out, one or more (for this is a social + spell), to a south running spring, or rivulet, where “three + lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to + bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it + to dry. Lie awake, and, some time near midnight, an + apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in + question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the + other side of it.—R.B.] + + Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays, + As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t; + Whiles round a rocky scar it strays, + Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t; + Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays, + Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle; + Whiles cookit undeneath the braes, + Below the spreading hazel + Unseen that night. + + Amang the brachens, on the brae, + Between her an’ the moon, + The deil, or else an outler quey, + Gat up an’ ga’e a croon: + Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool; + Near lav’rock-height she jumpit, + But mist a fit, an’ in the pool + Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, + Wi’ a plunge that night. + + In order, on the clean hearth-stane, + The luggies<sup>15</sup> three are ranged; + An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en + To see them duly changed: + Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys + Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire, + Because he gat the toom dish thrice, + He heav’d them on the fire + In wrath that night. + + [Footnote 15: Take three dishes, put clean water in one, + foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold + a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are + ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the + clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the + bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the + empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage + at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the + arrangement of the dishes is altered.—R.B.] + + Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks, + I wat they did na weary; + And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes— + Their sports were cheap an’ cheery: + Till butter’d sowens,<sup>16</sup> wi’ fragrant lunt, + + [Footnote 16: Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, + is always the Halloween Supper.—R.B.] + + Set a’ their gabs a-steerin; + Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt, + They parted aff careerin + Fu’ blythe that night. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1785 + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, + O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! + Thou need na start awa sae hasty, + Wi’ bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, + Wi’ murd’ring pattle! + + I’m truly sorry man’s dominion, + Has broken nature’s social union, + An’ justifies that ill opinion, + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, + An’ fellow-mortal! + + I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen icker in a thrave + ’S a sma’ request; + I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, + An’ never miss’t! + + Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! + It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! + An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, + O’ foggage green! + An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, + Baith snell an’ keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, + An’ weary winter comin fast, + An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell— + Till crash! the cruel coulter past + Out thro’ thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, + Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! + Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, + An’ cranreuch cauld! + + But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, + In proving foresight may be vain; + The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ’men + Gang aft agley, + An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, + For promis’d joy! + + Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me + The present only toucheth thee: + But, Och! I backward cast my e’e. + On prospects drear! + An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, + I guess an’ fear! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here lies Johnie Pigeon; + What was his religion? + Whae’er desires to ken, + To some other warl’ + Maun follow the carl, + For here Johnie Pigeon had nane! + + Strong ale was ablution, + Small beer persecution, + A dram was memento mori; + But a full-flowing bowl + Was the saving his soul, + And port was celestial glory. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph For James Smith + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’, + He aften did assist ye; + For had ye staid hale weeks awa, + Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye. + + Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press + To school in bands thegither, + O tread ye lightly on his grass,— + Perhaps he was your father! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Adam Armour’s Prayer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Gude pity me, because I’m little! + For though I am an elf o’ mettle, + An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle, + Jink there or here, + Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle, + I’m unco queer. + + An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case; + For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace, + Because we stang’d her through the place, + An’ hurt her spleuchan; + For whilk we daurna show our face + Within the clachan. + + An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows, + And hunted, as was William Wallace, + Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows, + An’ sodgers baith; + But Gude preserve us frae the gallows, + That shamefu’ death! + + Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’— + O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell! + There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell + Wi’ hideous din, + And if he offers to rebel, + Then heave him in. + + When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink, + An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink, + May Sautan gie her doup a clink + Within his yett, + An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink, + Red-reekin het. + + Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry— + Some devil seize them in a hurry, + An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry + Straught through the lake, + An’ gie their hides a noble curry + Wi’ oil of aik! + + As for the jurr-puir worthless body! + She’s got mischief enough already; + Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy + She’s suffer’d sair; + But, may she wintle in a woody, + If she wh-e mair! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0089"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.] + + Recitativo + + When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, + Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, + Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast; + When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte, + And infant frosts begin to bite, + In hoary cranreuch drest; + Ae night at e’en a merry core + O’ randie, gangrel bodies, + In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore, + To drink their orra duddies; + Wi’ quaffing an’ laughing, + They ranted an’ they sang, + Wi’ jumping an’ thumping, + The vera girdle rang, + + First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, + Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags, + + And knapsack a’ in order; + His doxy lay within his arm; + Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm + She blinkit on her sodger; + An’ aye he gies the tozie drab + The tither skelpin’ kiss, + While she held up her greedy gab, + Just like an aumous dish; + Ilk smack still, did crack still, + Just like a cadger’s whip; + Then staggering an’ swaggering + He roar’d this ditty up— +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“Soldier’s Joy.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, + And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; + This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, + When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. + Lal de daudle, &c. + + My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last, + When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram: + and I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d, + And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. + + I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries, + And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; + Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, + I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. + + And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, + And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum, + I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, + As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum. + + What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, + Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, + When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell, + I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + He ended; and the kebars sheuk, + Aboon the chorus roar; + While frighted rattons backward leuk, + An’ seek the benmost bore: + A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, + He skirl’d out, encore! + But up arose the martial chuck, + An’ laid the loud uproar. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“Sodger Laddie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when, + And still my delight is in proper young men; + Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, + No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie, + Sing, lal de lal, &c. + + The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, + To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; + His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, + Transported I was with my sodger laddie. + + But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch; + The sword I forsook for the sake of the church: + He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body, + ’Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie. + + Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, + The regiment at large for a husband I got; + From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, + I asked no more but a sodger laddie. + + But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair, + Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair, + His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy, + My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie. + + And now I have liv’d—I know not how long, + And still I can join in a cup and a song; + But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, + Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk, + Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler-hizzie; + They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk, + Between themselves they were sae busy: + At length, wi’ drink an’ courting dizzy, + He stoiter’d up an’ made a face; + Then turn’d an’ laid a smack on Grizzie, + Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou; + Sir Knave is a fool in a session; + He’s there but a ’prentice I trow, + But I am a fool by profession. + + My grannie she bought me a beuk, + An’ I held awa to the school; + I fear I my talent misteuk, + But what will ye hae of a fool? + + For drink I would venture my neck; + A hizzie’s the half of my craft; + But what could ye other expect + Of ane that’s avowedly daft? + + I ance was tied up like a stirk, + For civilly swearing and quaffin; + I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk, + For towsing a lass i’ my daffin. + + Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, + Let naebody name wi’ a jeer; + There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court + A tumbler ca’d the Premier. + + Observ’d ye yon reverend lad + Mak faces to tickle the mob; + He rails at our mountebank squad,— + It’s rivalship just i’ the job. + + And now my conclusion I’ll tell, + For faith I’m confoundedly dry; + The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’, + Guid Lord! he’s far dafter than I. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, + Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterlin; + For mony a pursie she had hooked, + An’ had in mony a well been douked; + Her love had been a Highland laddie, + But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie! + Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began + To wail her braw John Highlandman. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“O, an ye were dead, Guidman.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + A Highland lad my love was born, + The Lalland laws he held in scorn; + But he still was faithfu’ to his clan, + My gallant, braw John Highlandman. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + Sing hey my braw John Highlandman! + Sing ho my braw John Highlandman! + There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’ + Was match for my John Highlandman. + + With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid, + An’ guid claymore down by his side, + The ladies’ hearts he did trepan, + My gallant, braw John Highlandman. + Sing hey, &c. + + We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey, + An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay; + For a Lalland face he feared none,— + My gallant, braw John Highlandman. + Sing hey, &c. + + They banish’d him beyond the sea. + But ere the bud was on the tree, + Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, + Embracing my John Highlandman. + Sing hey, &c. + + But, och! they catch’d him at the last, + And bound him in a dungeon fast: + My curse upon them every one, + They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman! + Sing hey, &c. + + And now a widow, I must mourn + The pleasures that will ne’er return: + The comfort but a hearty can, + When I think on John Highlandman. + Sing hey, &c. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle, + Wha us’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle. + Her strappin limb and gausy middle + (He reach’d nae higher) + Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle, + An’ blawn’t on fire. + + Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e, + He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three, + Then in an arioso key, + The wee Apoll + Set off wi’ allegretto glee + His giga solo. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“Whistle owre the lave o’t.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Let me ryke up to dight that tear, + An’ go wi’ me an’ be my dear; + An’ then your every care an’ fear + May whistle owre the lave o’t. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + I am a fiddler to my trade, + An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I played, + The sweetest still to wife or maid, + Was whistle owre the lave o’t. + + At kirns an’ weddins we’se be there, + An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare! + We’ll bowse about till Daddie Care + Sing whistle owre the lave o’t. + I am, &c. + + Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke, + An’ sun oursel’s about the dyke; + An’ at our leisure, when ye like, + We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t. + I am, &c. + + But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms, + An’ while I kittle hair on thairms, + Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sic harms, + May whistle owre the lave o’t. + I am, &c. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, + As weel as poor gut-scraper; + He taks the fiddler by the beard, + An’ draws a roosty rapier— + He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth, + To speet him like a pliver, + Unless he would from that time forth + Relinquish her for ever. + + Wi’ ghastly e’e poor tweedle-dee + Upon his hunkers bended, + An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face, + An’ so the quarrel ended. + But tho’ his little heart did grieve + When round the tinkler prest her, + He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve, + When thus the caird address’d her: +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“Clout the Cauldron.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + My bonie lass, I work in brass, + A tinkler is my station: + I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground + In this my occupation; + I’ve taen the gold, an’ been enrolled + In many a noble squadron; + But vain they search’d when off I march’d + To go an’ clout the cauldron. + I’ve taen the gold, &c. + + Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp, + With a’ his noise an’ cap’rin; + An’ take a share with those that bear + The budget and the apron! + And by that stowp! my faith an’ houp, + And by that dear Kilbaigie,<sup>1</sup> + If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant, + May I ne’er weet my craigie. + And by that stowp, &c. + + [Footnote 1: A peculiar sort of whisky so called, + a great favorite with Poosie Nansie’s clubs.—R.B.] +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + The caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair + In his embraces sunk; + Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair, + An’ partly she was drunk: + Sir Violino, with an air + That show’d a man o’ spunk, + Wish’d unison between the pair, + An’ made the bottle clunk + To their health that night. + + But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, + That play’d a dame a shavie— + The fiddler rak’d her, fore and aft, + Behint the chicken cavie. + Her lord, a wight of Homer’s craft,<sup>2</sup> + Tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie, + He hirpl’d up, an’ lap like daft, + An’ shor’d them Dainty Davie. + O’ boot that night. + + He was a care-defying blade + As ever Bacchus listed! + Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid, + His heart, she ever miss’d it. + He had no wish but—to be glad, + Nor want but—when he thirsted; + He hated nought but—to be sad, + An’ thus the muse suggested + His sang that night. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“For a’ that, an’ a’ that.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + I am a Bard of no regard, + Wi’ gentle folks an’ a’ that; + But Homer-like, the glowrin byke, + Frae town to town I draw that. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + For a’ that, an’ a’ that, + An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that; + I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’, + I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that. + + [Footnote 2: Homer is allowed to be the + oldest ballad-singer on record.—R.B.] + + I never drank the Muses’ stank, + Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that; + But there it streams an’ richly reams, + My Helicon I ca’ that. + For a’ that, &c. + + Great love Idbear to a’ the fair, + Their humble slave an’ a’ that; + But lordly will, I hold it still + A mortal sin to thraw that. + For a’ that, &c. + + In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, + Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that; + But for how lang the flie may stang, + Let inclination law that. + For a’ that, &c. + + Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft, + They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that; + But clear your decks, and here’s—“The Sex!” + I like the jads for a’ that. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + For a’ that, an’ a’ that, + An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that; + My dearest bluid, to do them guid, + They’re welcome till’t for a’ that. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Recitativo + + So sang the bard—and Nansie’s wa’s + Shook with a thunder of applause, + Re-echo’d from each mouth! + They toom’d their pocks, they pawn’d their duds, + They scarcely left to co’er their fuds, + To quench their lowin drouth: + Then owre again, the jovial thrang + The poet did request + To lowse his pack an’ wale a sang, + A ballad o’ the best; + He rising, rejoicing, + Between his twa Deborahs, + Looks round him, an’ found them + Impatient for the chorus. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Air + + Tune—“Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + See the smoking bowl before us, + Mark our jovial ragged ring! + Round and round take up the chorus, + And in raptures let us sing— +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + A fig for those by law protected! + Liberty’s a glorious feast! + Courts for cowards were erected, + Churches built to please the priest. + + What is title, what is treasure, + What is reputation’s care? + If we lead a life of pleasure, + ’Tis no matter how or where! + A fig for, &c. + + With the ready trick and fable, + Round we wander all the day; + And at night in barn or stable, + Hug our doxies on the hay. + A fig for, &c. + + Does the train-attended carriage + Thro’ the country lighter rove? + Does the sober bed of marriage + Witness brighter scenes of love? + A fig for, &c. + + Life is al a variorum, + We regard not how it goes; + Let them cant about decorum, + Who have character to lose. + A fig for, &c. + + Here’s to budgets, bags and wallets! + Here’s to all the wandering train. + Here’s our ragged brats and callets, + One and all cry out, Amen! +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + A fig for those by law protected! + Liberty’s a glorious feast! + Courts for cowards were erected, + Churches built to please the priest. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0090"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—For A’ That<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“For a’ that.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Tho’ women’s minds, like winter winds, + May shift, and turn, an’ a’ that, + The noblest breast adores them maist— + A consequence I draw that. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus + + For a’ that, an’ a’ that, + And twice as meikle’s a’ that; + The bonie lass that I loe best + She’ll be my ain for a’ that. + + Great love I bear to a’ the fair, + Their humble slave, an’ a’ that; + But lordly will, I hold it still + A mortal sin to thraw that. + For a’ that, &c. + + But there is ane aboon the lave, + Has wit, and sense, an’ a’ that; + A bonie lass, I like her best, + And wha a crime dare ca’ that? + For a’ that, &c. + + In rapture sweet this hour we meet, + Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that, + + [Footnote 1: A later version of “I am a bard + of no regard” in “The Jolly Beggars.”] + + But for how lang the flie may stang, + Let inclination law that. + For a’ that, &c. + + Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft. + They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that; + But clear your decks, and here’s—“The Sex!” + I like the jads for a’ that. + For a’ that, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0091"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The bob O’ Dumblane.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O Merry hae I been teethin’ a heckle, + An’ merry hae I been shapin’ a spoon; + O merry hae I been cloutin’ a kettle, + An’ kissin’ my Katie when a’ was done. + O a’ the lang day I ca’ at my hammer, + An’ a’ the lang day I whistle and sing; + O a’ the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, + An’ a’ the lang night as happy’s a king. + + Bitter in idol I lickit my winnins + O’ marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: + Blest be the hour she cool’d in her linnens, + And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave! + Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie; + O come to my arms and kiss me again! + Drucken or sober, here’s to thee, Katie! + An’ blest be the day I did it again. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0092"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Cotter’s Saturday Night + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq., of Ayr. + + Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, + Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; + Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, + The short and simple annals of the Poor. + Gray. + + My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend! + No mercenary bard his homage pays; + With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, + My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise: + To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, + The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene, + The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, + What Aiken in a cottage would have been; + Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween! + + November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; + The short’ning winter-day is near a close; + The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; + The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose: + The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,— + This night his weekly moil is at an end, + Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, + Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, + And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend. + + At length his lonely cot appears in view, + Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; + Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through + To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee. + His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, + His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, + The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, + Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, + And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. + + Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, + At service out, amang the farmers roun’; + Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin + A cannie errand to a neibor town: + Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, + In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e— + Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, + Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, + To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. + + With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet, + And each for other’s weelfare kindly speirs: + The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet: + Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. + The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; + Anticipation forward points the view; + The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears, + Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; + The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. + + Their master’s and their mistress’ command, + The younkers a’ are warned to obey; + And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, + And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play; + “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, + And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; + Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, + Implore His counsel and assisting might: + They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.” + + But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; + Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, + Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor, + To do some errands, and convoy her hame. + The wily mother sees the conscious flame + Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; + With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name, + While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; + Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake. + + Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; + A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye; + Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; + The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. + The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, + But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; + The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy + What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave, + Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. + + O happy love! where love like this is found: + O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! + I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, + And sage experience bids me this declare,— + “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare— + One cordial in this melancholy vale, + ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair + In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale, + Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.” + + Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, + A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! + That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, + Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? + Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth! + Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? + Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, + Points to the parents fondling o’er their child? + Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild? + + But now the supper crowns their simple board, + The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food; + The sowp their only hawkie does afford, + That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: + The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, + To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; + And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid: + The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell + How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell. + + The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, + They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; + The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, + The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride: + His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, + His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; + Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, + He wales a portion with judicious care; + And “Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air. + + They chant their artless notes in simple guise, + They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; + Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise; + Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; + Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame; + The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: + Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame; + The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise; + Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise. + + The priest-like father reads the sacred page, + How Abram was the friend of God on high; + Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage + With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; + Or how the royal bard did groaning lie + Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; + Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; + Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire; + Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. + + Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, + How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; + How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, + Had not on earth whereon to lay His head: + How His first followers and servants sped; + The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: + How he, who lone in Patmos banished, + Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, + And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command. + + Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King, + The saint, the father, and the husband prays: + Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”<sup>1</sup> + That thus they all shall meet in future days, + There, ever bask in uncreated rays, + No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, + Together hymning their Creator’s praise, + In such society, yet still more dear; + While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere + + Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride, + In all the pomp of method, and of art; + When men display to congregations wide + + [Footnote 1: Pope’s “Windsor Forest.”—R.B.] + + Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart! + The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert, + The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; + But haply, in some cottage far apart, + May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul; + And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. + + Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way; + The youngling cottagers retire to rest: + The parent-pair their secret homage pay, + And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, + That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, + And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, + Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, + For them and for their little ones provide; + But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. + + From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs, + That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad: + Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, + “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;” + And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, + The cottage leaves the palace far behind; + What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load, + Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, + Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d! + + O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! + For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, + Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil + Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! + And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent + From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile! + Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, + A virtuous populace may rise the while, + And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle. + + O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide, + That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, + Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride, + Or nobly die, the second glorious part: + (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art, + His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) + O never, never Scotia’s realm desert; + But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard + In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0093"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To The Deil + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow’rs + That led th’ embattl’d Seraphim to war— + Milton. + + O Thou! whatever title suit thee— + Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, + Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie, + Clos’d under hatches, + Spairges about the brunstane cootie, + To scaud poor wretches! + + Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, + An’ let poor damned bodies be; + I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, + Ev’n to a deil, + To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me, + An’ hear us squeel! + + Great is thy pow’r an’ great thy fame; + Far ken’d an’ noted is thy name; + An’ tho’ yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame, + Thou travels far; + An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame, + Nor blate, nor scaur. + + Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion, + For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin; + Whiles, on the strong-wind’d tempest flyin, + Tirlin the kirks; + Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, + Unseen thou lurks. + + I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say, + In lanely glens ye like to stray; + Or where auld ruin’d castles grey + Nod to the moon, + Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, + Wi’ eldritch croon. + + When twilight did my graunie summon, + To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman! + Aft’yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin, + Wi’ eerie drone; + Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortrees comin, + Wi’ heavy groan. + + Ae dreary, windy, winter night, + The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light, + Wi’ you, mysel’ I gat a fright, + Ayont the lough; + Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, + Wi’ wavin’ sough. + + The cudgel in my nieve did shake, + Each brist’ld hair stood like a stake, + When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,” + Amang the springs, + Awa ye squatter’d like a drake, + On whistlin’ wings. + + Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags, + Tell how wi’ you, on ragweed nags, + They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags, + Wi’ wicked speed; + And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, + Owre howkit dead. + + Thence countra wives, wi’ toil and pain, + May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain; + For oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en + By witchin’ skill; + An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gane + As yell’s the bill. + + Thence mystic knots mak great abuse + On young guidmen, fond, keen an’ crouse, + When the best wark-lume i’ the house, + By cantrip wit, + Is instant made no worth a louse, + Just at the bit. + + When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, + An’ float the jinglin’ icy boord, + Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, + By your direction, + And ’nighted trav’llers are allur’d + To their destruction. + + And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies + Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is: + The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies + Delude his eyes, + Till in some miry slough he sunk is, + Ne’er mair to rise. + + When masons’ mystic word an’ grip + In storms an’ tempests raise you up, + Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, + Or, strange to tell! + The youngest brither ye wad whip + Aff straught to hell. + + Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard, + When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d, + An’ all the soul of love they shar’d, + The raptur’d hour, + Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird, + In shady bower;<sup>1</sup> + + Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! + Ye cam to Paradise incog, + + [Footnote 1: The verse originally ran: “Lang syne, in Eden’s + happy scene When strappin Adam’s days were green, And Eve + was like my bonie Jean, My dearest part, A dancin, sweet, + young handsome quean, O’ guileless heart.”] + + An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue, + (Black be your fa’!) + An’ gied the infant warld a shog, + ’Maist rui’d a’. + + D’ye mind that day when in a bizz + Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz, + Ye did present your smoutie phiz + ’Mang better folk, + An’ sklented on the man of Uzz + Your spitefu’ joke? + + An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall, + An’ brak him out o’ house an hal’, + While scabs and botches did him gall, + Wi’ bitter claw; + An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul’, + Was warst ava? + + But a’ your doings to rehearse, + Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce, + Sin’ that day Michael<sup>2</sup> did you pierce, + Down to this time, + Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse, + In prose or rhyme. + + An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin, + A certain bardie’s rantin, drinkin, + Some luckless hour will send him linkin + To your black pit; + But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin, + An’ cheat you yet. + + But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben! + O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’! + Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— + Stil hae a stake: + I’m wae to think up’ yon den, + Ev’n for your sake! + + [Footnote 2: Vide Milton, Book vi.—R. B.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0094"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Scotch Drink + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Gie him strong drink until he wink, + That’s sinking in despair; + An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid, + That’s prest wi’ grief and care: + There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse, + Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, + Till he forgets his loves or debts, + An’ minds his griefs no more. + + (Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.) + + Let other poets raise a fracas + ’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, + An’ crabbit names an’stories wrack us, + An’ grate our lug: + I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, + In glass or jug. + + O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink! + Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink, + Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, + In glorious faem, + Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink, + To sing thy name! + + Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, + An’ aits set up their awnie horn, + An’ pease and beans, at e’en or morn, + Perfume the plain: + Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, + Thou king o’ grain! + + On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, + In souple scones, the wale o’food! + Or tumblin in the boiling flood + Wi’ kail an’ beef; + But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood, + There thou shines chief. + + Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us leevin; + Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin, + When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin; + But, oil’d by thee, + The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin, + Wi’ rattlin glee. + + Thou clears the head o’doited Lear; + Thou cheers ahe heart o’ drooping Care; + Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair, + At’s weary toil; + Though even brightens dark Despair + Wi’ gloomy smile. + + Aft, clad in massy siller weed, + Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head; + Yet, humbly kind in time o’ need, + The poor man’s wine; + His weep drap parritch, or his bread, + Thou kitchens fine. + + Thou art the life o’ public haunts; + But thee, what were our fairs and rants? + Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts, + By thee inspired, + When gaping they besiege the tents, + Are doubly fir’d. + + That merry night we get the corn in, + O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! + Or reekin on a New-year mornin + In cog or bicker, + An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, + An’ gusty sucker! + + When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, + An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, + O rare! to see thee fizz an freath + I’ th’ luggit caup! + Then Burnewin comes on like death + At every chap. + + Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; + The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, + Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, + The strong forehammer, + Till block an’ studdie ring an reel, + Wi’ dinsome clamour. + + When skirling weanies see the light, + Though maks the gossips clatter bright, + How fumblin’ cuiffs their dearies slight; + Wae worth the name! + Nae howdie gets a social night, + Or plack frae them. + + When neibors anger at a plea, + An’ just as wud as wud can be, + How easy can the barley brie + Cement the quarrel! + It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee, + To taste the barrel. + + Alake! that e’er my muse has reason, + To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! + But mony daily weet their weason + Wi’ liquors nice, + An’ hardly, in a winter season, + E’er Spier her price. + + Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! + Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash! + Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, + O’ half his days; + An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash + To her warst faes. + + Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! + Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, + Poor, plackless devils like mysel’! + It sets you ill, + Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, + Or foreign gill. + + May gravels round his blather wrench, + An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch, + What twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch + O’ sour disdain, + Out owre a glass o’ whisky-punch + Wi’ honest men! + + O Whisky! soul o’ plays and pranks! + Accept a bardie’s gratfu’ thanks! + When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks + Are my poor verses! + Thou comes—they rattle in their ranks, + At ither’s a-s! + + Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! + Scotland lament frae coast to coast! + Now colic grips, an’ barkin hoast + May kill us a’; + For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast + Is ta’en awa? + + Thae curst horse-leeches o’ the’ Excise, + Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! + Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice! + There, seize the blinkers! + An’ bake them up in brunstane pies + For poor damn’d drinkers. + + Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still + Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whisky gill, + An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, + Tak a’ the rest, + An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill + Directs thee best. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0095"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1786 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0096"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year. + + A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! + Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie: + Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie, + I’ve seen the day + Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie, + Out-owre the lay. + + Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy, + An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie, + I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie, + A bonie gray: + He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee, + Ance in a day. + + Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, + A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank; + An’ set weel down a shapely shank, + As e’er tread yird; + An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank, + Like ony bird. + + It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year, + Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear; + He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear, + An’ fifty mark; + Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear, + An’ thou was stark. + + When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, + Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie: + Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie, + Ye ne’er was donsie; + But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, + An’ unco sonsie. + + That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride, + When ye bure hame my bonie bride: + An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride, + Wi’ maiden air! + Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide + For sic a pair. + + Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, + An’ wintle like a saumont coble, + That day, ye was a jinker noble, + For heels an’ win’! + An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble, + Far, far, behin’! + + When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh, + An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, + How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh + An’ tak the road! + Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh, + An’ ca’t thee mad. + + When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow, + We took the road aye like a swallow: + At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, + For pith an’ speed; + But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollowm + Whare’er thou gaed. + + The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle + Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle; + But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle, + An’ gar’t them whaizle: + Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle + O’ saugh or hazel. + + Thou was a noble fittie-lan’, + As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! + Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun, + In guid March-weather, + Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’, + For days thegither. + + Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit; + But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, + An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket, + Wi’ pith an’ power; + Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit + An’ slypet owre. + + When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep, + An’ threaten’d labour back to keep, + I gied thy cog a wee bit heap + Aboon the timmer: + I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep, + For that, or simmer. + + In cart or car thou never reestit; + The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it; + Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit, + Then stood to blaw; + But just thy step a wee thing hastit, + Thou snoov’t awa. + + My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’, + Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; + Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa, + That thou hast nurst: + They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, + The vera warst. + + Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, + An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! + An’ mony an anxious day, I thought + We wad be beat! + Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, + Wi’ something yet. + + An’ think na’, my auld trusty servan’, + That now perhaps thou’s less deservin, + An’ thy auld days may end in starvin; + For my last fow, + A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane + Laid by for you. + + We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; + We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; + Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether + To some hain’d rig, + Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, + Wi’ sma’ fatigue. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0097"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Twa Dogs<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Tale + + ’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle, + That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, + Upon a bonie day in June, + When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon, + Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, + Forgather’d ance upon a time. + + The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, + Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure: + His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, + Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; + But whalpit some place far abroad, + Whare sailors gang to fish for cod. + + His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar + Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar; + But though he was o’ high degree, + The fient a pride, nae pride had he; + But wad hae spent an hour caressin, + Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin: + At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, + Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, + But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, + An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him. + + The tither was a ploughman’s collie— + A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, + Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him, + And in freak had Luath ca’d him, + After some dog in Highland Sang,<sup>2</sup> + Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang. + + He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, + As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. + His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face + Aye gat him friends in ilka place; + His breast was white, his touzie back + Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; + His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, + Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl. + + [Footnote 1: Luath was Burns’ own dog.] + + [Footnote 2: Luath, Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.”—R. B.] + + Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, + And unco pack an’ thick thegither; + Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit; + Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit; + Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, + An’ worry’d ither in diversion; + Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown + Upon a knowe they set them down. + An’ there began a lang digression. + About the “lords o’ the creation.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Caesar + + I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, + What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; + An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, + What way poor bodies liv’d ava. + + Our laird gets in his racked rents, + His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: + He rises when he likes himsel’; + His flunkies answer at the bell; + He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; + He draws a bonie silken purse, + As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks, + The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks. + + Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling + At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; + An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin, + Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan + Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie, + That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. + Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, + Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, + Better than ony tenant-man + His Honour has in a’ the lan’: + An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, + I own it’s past my comprehension. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Luath + + Trowth, Caesar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh: + A cottar howkin in a sheugh, + Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke, + Baring a quarry, an’ sic like; + Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, + A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, + An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep + Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape. + + An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, + Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters, + Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, + An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger: + But how it comes, I never kent yet, + They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; + An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, + Are bred in sic a way as this is. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Caesar + + But then to see how ye’re negleckit, + How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit! + Lord man, our gentry care as little + For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle; + They gang as saucy by poor folk, + As I wad by a stinkin brock. + + I’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,— + An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,— + Poor tenant bodies, scant o’cash, + How they maun thole a factor’s snash; + He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear + He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; + While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, + An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! + + I see how folk live that hae riches; + But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Luath + + They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think. + Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, + They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, + The view o’t gives them little fright. + + Then chance and fortune are sae guided, + They’re aye in less or mair provided: + An’ tho’ fatigued wi’ close employment, + A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment. + + The dearest comfort o’ their lives, + Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; + The prattling things are just their pride, + That sweetens a’ their fire-side. + + An’ whiles twalpennie worth o’ nappy + Can mak the bodies unco happy: + They lay aside their private cares, + To mind the Kirk and State affairs; + They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests, + Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts, + Or tell what new taxation’s comin, + An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. + + As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, + They get the jovial, rantin kirns, + When rural life, of ev’ry station, + Unite in common recreation; + Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth + Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth. + + That merry day the year begins, + They bar the door on frosty win’s; + The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, + An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam; + The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, + Are handed round wi’ right guid will; + The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, + The young anes rantin thro’ the house— + My heart has been sae fain to see them, + That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them. + + Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, + Sic game is now owre aften play’d; + There’s mony a creditable stock + O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, + Are riven out baith root an’ branch, + Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, + Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster + In favour wi’ some gentle master, + Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, + For Britain’s guid his saul indentin— +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Caesar + + Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: + For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. + Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him: + An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him: + At operas an’ plays parading, + Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: + Or maybe, in a frolic daft, + To Hague or Calais takes a waft, + To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl, + To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’. + + There, at Vienna, or Versailles, + He rives his father’s auld entails; + Or by Madrid he takes the rout, + To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt; + Or down Italian vista startles, + + Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: + Then bowses drumlie German-water, + To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter, + An’ clear the consequential sorrows, + Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. + + For Britain’s guid! for her destruction! + Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Luath + + Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate + They waste sae mony a braw estate! + Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d + For gear to gang that gate at last? + + O would they stay aback frae courts, + An’ please themsels wi’ country sports, + It wad for ev’ry ane be better, + The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! + For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, + Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; + Except for breakin o’ their timmer, + Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer, + Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, + The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk, + + But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, + Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? + Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, + The very thought o’t need na fear them. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Caesar + + Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, + The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! + + It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, + Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat: + They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, + An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: + But human bodies are sic fools, + For a’ their colleges an’ schools, + That when nae real ills perplex them, + They mak enow themsel’s to vex them; + An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, + In like proportion, less will hurt them. + + A country fellow at the pleugh, + His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; + A country girl at her wheel, + Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel; + But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, + Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst. + They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy; + Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; + Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless; + Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless. + + An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races, + Their galloping through public places, + There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, + The joy can scarcely reach the heart. + + The men cast out in party-matches, + Then sowther a’ in deep debauches. + Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, + Niest day their life is past enduring. + + The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, + As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; + But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, + They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither. + Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, + They sip the scandal-potion pretty; + Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks + Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; + Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard, + An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard. + + There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman; + But this is gentry’s life in common. + + By this, the sun was out of sight, + An’ darker gloamin brought the night; + The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; + The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; + When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, + Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; + An’ each took aff his several way, + Resolv’d to meet some ither day. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0098"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch + Representatives in the House of Commons.<sup>1</sup> + + Dearest of distillation! last and best— + + —How art thou lost!— +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Parody on Milton. + + Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, + Wha represent our brughs an’ shires, + An’ doucely manage our affairs + In parliament, + To you a simple poet’s pray’rs + Are humbly sent. + + Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! + Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce, + To see her sittin on her arse + Low i’ the dust, + And scriechinhout prosaic verse, + An like to brust! + + [Footnote 1: This was written before the Act anent the + Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and + the author return their most grateful thanks.—R.B.] + + Tell them wha hae the chief direction, + Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, + E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction + On aqua-vitae; + An’ rouse them up to strong conviction, + An’ move their pity. + + Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth + The honest, open, naked truth: + Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, + His servants humble: + The muckle deevil blaw you south + If ye dissemble! + + Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? + Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! + Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom + Wi’ them wha grant them; + If honestly they canna come, + Far better want them. + + In gath’rin votes you were na slack; + Now stand as tightly by your tack: + Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, + An’ hum an’ haw; + But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack + Before them a’. + + Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; + Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; + An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle, + Seizin a stell, + Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel, + Or limpet shell! + + Then, on the tither hand present her— + A blackguard smuggler right behint her, + An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner + Colleaguing join, + Picking her pouch as bare as winter + Of a’ kind coin. + + Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, + But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, + To see his poor auld mither’s pot + Thus dung in staves, + An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat + By gallows knaves? + + Alas! I’m but a nameless wight, + Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight? + But could I like Montgomeries fight, + Or gab like Boswell,<sup>2</sup> + There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, + An’ tie some hose well. + + God bless your Honours! can ye see’t— + The kind, auld cantie carlin greet, + An’ no get warmly to your feet, + An’ gar them hear it, + An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat + Ye winna bear it? + + Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, + To round the period an’ pause, + An’ with rhetoric clause on clause + To mak harangues; + Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s + Auld Scotland’s wrangs. + + Dempster,<sup>3</sup> a true blue Scot I’se warran’; + Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;<sup>4</sup> + An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron, + The Laird o’ Graham;<sup>5</sup> + An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’, + Dundas his name:<sup>6</sup> + + Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;<sup>7</sup> + True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;<sup>8</sup> + + [Footnote 2: James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.] + + [Footnote 3: George Dempster of Dunnichen.] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.] + + [Footnote 5: The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of + Montrose.] + + [Footnote 6: Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.] + + [Footnote 7: Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.] + + [Footnote 8: Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke + of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, + afterward President of the Court of Session.] + + An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;<sup>9</sup> + An’ mony ithers, + Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully + Might own for brithers. + + See sodger Hugh,<sup>10</sup> my watchman stented, + If poets e’er are represented; + I ken if that your sword were wanted, + Ye’d lend a hand; + But when there’s ought to say anent it, + Ye’re at a stand. + + Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, + To get auld Scotland back her kettle; + Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, + Ye’ll see’t or lang, + She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, + Anither sang. + + This while she’s been in crankous mood, + Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; + (Deil na they never mair do guid, + Play’d her that pliskie!) + An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud + About her whisky. + + An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, + Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, + An’durk an’ pistol at her belt, + She’ll tak the streets, + An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, + I’ the first she meets! + + For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, + An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, + An’ to the muckle house repair, + Wi’ instant speed, + An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear, + To get remead. + + [Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.] + + [Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.] + + Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, + May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks; + But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! + E’en cowe the cadie! + An’ send him to his dicing box + An’ sportin’ lady. + + Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, <sup>11</sup> + I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, + An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s <sup>12</sup> + Nine times a-week, + If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, + Was kindly seek. + + Could he some commutation broach, + I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, + He needna fear their foul reproach + Nor erudition, + Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, + The Coalition. + + Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; + She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; + An’ if she promise auld or young + To tak their part, + Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, + She’ll no desert. + + And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, + May still you mither’s heart support ye; + Then, tho’a minister grow dorty, + An’ kick your place, + Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty, + Before his face. + + God bless your Honours, a’ your days, + Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise, + + [Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.] + + [Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, + where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld + Scotch Drink.—R.B.] + + In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, + That haunt St. Jamie’s! + Your humble poet sings an’ prays, + While Rab his name is. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Postscript + + Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies + See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise; + Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies, + But, blythe and frisky, + She eyes her freeborn, martial boys + Tak aff their whisky. + + What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms, + While fragrance blooms and beauty charms, + When wretches range, in famish’d swarms, + The scented groves; + Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms + In hungry droves! + + Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; + They downa bide the stink o’ powther; + Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither + To stan’ or rin, + Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther, + To save their skin. + + But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, + Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, + Say, such is royal George’s will, + An’ there’s the foe! + He has nae thought but how to kill + Twa at a blow. + + Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; + Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; + Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him; + An’ when he fa’s, + His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him + In faint huzzas. + + Sages their solemn een may steek, + An’ raise a philosophic reek, + An’ physically causes seek, + In clime an’ season; + But tell me whisky’s name in Greek + I’ll tell the reason. + + Scotland, my auld, respected mither! + Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, + Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather, + Ye tine your dam; + Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! + Take aff your dram! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0099"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Ordination + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n— + To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n. + + Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an’ claw, + An’ pour your creeshie nations; + An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, + Of a’ denominations; + Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’ + An’ there tak up your stations; + Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw, + An’ pour divine libations + For joy this day. + + Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell, + Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;<sup>1</sup> + But Oliphant<sup>2</sup> aft made her yell, + An’ Russell<sup>3</sup> sair misca’d her: + This day Mackinlay<sup>4</sup> taks the flail, + An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! + He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, + An’ set the bairns to daud her + Wi’ dirt this day. + + [Footnote 1: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the + admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the + “Laigh Kirk.”—R.B.] + + [Footnote 2: Rev. James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, + Kilmarnock.] + + [Footnote 3: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.] + + [Footnote 4: Rev. James Mackinlay.] + + Mak haste an’ turn King David owre, + And lilt wi’ holy clangor; + O’ double verse come gie us four, + An’ skirl up the Bangor: + This day the kirk kicks up a stoure; + Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, + For Heresy is in her pow’r, + And gloriously she’ll whang her + Wi’ pith this day. + + Come, let a proper text be read, + An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, + How graceless Ham<sup>5</sup> leugh at his dad, + Which made Canaan a nigger; + Or Phineas<sup>6</sup> drove the murdering blade, + Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour; + Or Zipporah,<sup>7</sup> the scauldin jad, + Was like a bluidy tiger + I’ th’ inn that day. + + There, try his mettle on the creed, + An’ bind him down wi’ caution, + That stipend is a carnal weed + He taks by for the fashion; + And gie him o’er the flock, to feed, + And punish each transgression; + Especial, rams that cross the breed, + Gie them sufficient threshin; + Spare them nae day. + + Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, + An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; + Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, + Because thy pasture’s scanty; + For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail + Shall fill thy crib in plenty, + An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, + No gi’en by way o’ dainty, + But ilka day. + + [Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.—R. B.] + + [Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.—R. B] + + Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep, + To think upon our Zion; + And hing our fiddles up to sleep, + Like baby-clouts a-dryin! + Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep, + And o’er the thairms be tryin; + Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, + And a’ like lamb-tails flyin + Fu’ fast this day. + + Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, + Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; + As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, + Has proven to its ruin:<sup>8</sup> + Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, + He saw mischief was brewin; + An’ like a godly, elect bairn, + He’s waled us out a true ane, + And sound, this day. + + Now Robertson<sup>9</sup> harangue nae mair, + But steek your gab for ever; + Or try the wicked town of Ayr, + For there they’ll think you clever; + Or, nae reflection on your lear, + Ye may commence a shaver; + Or to the Netherton<sup>10</sup> repair, + An’ turn a carpet weaver + Aff-hand this day. + + Mu’trie<sup>11</sup> and you were just a match, + We never had sic twa drones; + Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, + Just like a winkin baudrons, + And aye he catch’d the tither wretch, + To fry them in his caudrons; + But now his Honour maun detach, + Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons, + Fast, fast this day. + + [Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.] + + [Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.] + + [Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.] + + [Footnote 11: The Rev. John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay + succeeded.] + + See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes + She’s swingein thro’ the city! + Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! + I vow it’s unco pretty: + There, Learning, with his Greekish face, + Grunts out some Latin ditty; + And Common-sense is gaun, she says, + To mak to Jamie Beattie + Her plaint this day. + + But there’s Morality himsel’, + Embracing all opinions; + Hear, how he gies the tither yell, + Between his twa companions! + See, how she peels the skin an’ fell, + As ane were peelin onions! + Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, + An’ banish’d our dominions, + Henceforth this day. + + O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! + Come bouse about the porter! + Morality’s demure decoys + Shall here nae mair find quarter: + Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys + That heresy can torture; + They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse, + And cowe her measure shorter + By th’ head some day. + + Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, + And here’s—for a conclusion— + To ev’ry New Light<sup>12</sup> mother’s son, + From this time forth, Confusion! + If mair they deave us wi’ their din, + Or Patronage intrusion, + We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin, + We’ll rin them aff in fusion + Like oil, some day. + + [Footnote 12: “New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of + Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of + Norwich has so strenuously defended.—R. B.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0100"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To James Smith + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! + Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society! + I owe thee much—Blair. + + Dear Smith, the slee’st, pawkie thief, + That e’er attempted stealth or rief! + Ye surely hae some warlock-brief + Owre human hearts; + For ne’er a bosom yet was prief + Against your arts. + + For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, + An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon, + Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon, + Just gaun to see you; + An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done, + Mair taen I’m wi’ you. + + That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, + To mak amends for scrimpit stature, + She’s turn’d you off, a human creature + On her first plan, + And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature + She’s wrote the Man. + + Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme, + My barmie noddle’s working prime. + My fancy yerkit up sublime, + Wi’ hasty summon; + Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time + To hear what’s comin? + + Some rhyme a neibor’s name to lash; + Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; + Some rhyme to court the countra clash, + An’ raise a din; + For me, an aim I never fash; + I rhyme for fun. + + The star that rules my luckless lot, + Has fated me the russet coat, + An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; + But, in requit, + Has blest me with a random-shot + O’countra wit. + + This while my notion’s taen a sklent, + To try my fate in guid, black prent; + But still the mair I’m that way bent, + Something cries “Hooklie!” + I red you, honest man, tak tent? + Ye’ll shaw your folly; + + “There’s ither poets, much your betters, + Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, + Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, + A’ future ages; + Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, + Their unknown pages.” + + Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs, + To garland my poetic brows! + Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs + Are whistlin’ thrang, + An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes + My rustic sang. + + I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed + How never-halting moments speed, + Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; + Then, all unknown, + I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead + Forgot and gone! + + But why o’ death being a tale? + Just now we’re living sound and hale; + Then top and maintop crowd the sail, + Heave Care o’er-side! + And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, + Let’s tak the tide. + + This life, sae far’s I understand, + Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, + Where Pleasure is the magic-wand, + That, wielded right, + Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, + Dance by fu’ light. + + The magic-wand then let us wield; + For ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, + See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, + Wi’ wrinkl’d face, + Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, + We’ creepin pace. + + When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin, + Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; + An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin, + An’ social noise: + An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman, + The Joy of joys! + + O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning, + Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! + Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, + We frisk away, + Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning, + To joy an’ play. + + We wander there, we wander here, + We eye the rose upon the brier, + Unmindful that the thorn is near, + Among the leaves; + And tho’ the puny wound appear, + Short while it grieves. + + Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot, + For which they never toil’d nor swat; + They drink the sweet and eat the fat, + But care or pain; + And haply eye the barren hut + With high disdain. + + With steady aim, some Fortune chase; + Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; + Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, + An’ seize the prey: + Then cannie, in some cozie place, + They close the day. + + And others, like your humble servan’, + Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin, + To right or left eternal swervin, + They zig-zag on; + Till, curst with age, obscure an’ starvin, + They aften groan. + + Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— + But truce with peevish, poor complaining! + Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning? + E’n let her gang! + Beneath what light she has remaining, + Let’s sing our sang. + + My pen I here fling to the door, + And kneel, ye Pow’rs! and warm implore, + “Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, + In all her climes, + Grant me but this, I ask no more, + Aye rowth o’ rhymes. + + “Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds, + Till icicles hing frae their beards; + Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, + And maids of honour; + An’ yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, + Until they sconner. + + “A title, Dempster<sup>1</sup> merits it; + A garter gie to Willie Pitt; + Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, + In cent. per cent.; + But give me real, sterling wit, + And I’m content. + + [Footnote 1: George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P.] + + “While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale, + I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, + Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail, + Wi’ cheerfu’ face, + As lang’s the Muses dinna fail + To say the grace.” + + An anxious e’e I never throws + Behint my lug, or by my nose; + I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows + As weel’s I may; + Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, + I rhyme away. + + O ye douce folk that live by rule, + Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an’cool, + Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! + How much unlike! + Your hearts are just a standing pool, + Your lives, a dyke! + + Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces + In your unletter’d, nameless faces! + In arioso trills and graces + Ye never stray; + But gravissimo, solemn basses + Ye hum away. + + Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; + Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise + The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, + The rattling squad: + I see ye upward cast your eyes— + Ye ken the road! + + Whilst I—but I shall haud me there, + Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— + Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, + But quat my sang, + Content wi’ you to mak a pair. + Whare’er I gang. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0101"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Vision + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Duan First<sup>1</sup> + + The sun had clos’d the winter day, + The curless quat their roarin play, + And hunger’d maukin taen her way, + To kail-yards green, + While faithless snaws ilk step betray + Whare she has been. + + The thresher’s weary flingin-tree, + The lee-lang day had tired me; + And when the day had clos’d his e’e, + Far i’ the west, + Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, + I gaed to rest. + + There, lanely by the ingle-cheek, + I sat and ey’d the spewing reek, + That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek, + The auld clay biggin; + An’ heard the restless rattons squeak + About the riggin. + + All in this mottie, misty clime, + I backward mus’d on wasted time, + How I had spent my youthfu’ prime, + An’ done nae thing, + But stringing blethers up in rhyme, + For fools to sing. + + Had I to guid advice but harkit, + I might, by this, hae led a market, + Or strutted in a bank and clarkit + My cash-account; + While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. + Is a’ th’ amount. + + [Footnote 1: Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different + divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. 2 of + M’Pherson’s translation.—R. B.] + + I started, mutt’ring, “blockhead! coof!” + And heav’d on high my waukit loof, + To swear by a’ yon starry roof, + Or some rash aith, + That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof + Till my last breath— + + When click! the string the snick did draw; + An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’; + An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw, + Now bleezin bright, + A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, + Come full in sight. + + Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; + The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht + I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht + In some wild glen; + When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht, + An’ stepped ben. + + Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs + Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows; + I took her for some Scottish Muse, + By that same token; + And come to stop those reckless vows, + Would soon been broken. + + A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace” + Was strongly marked in her face; + A wildly-witty, rustic grace + Shone full upon her; + Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space, + Beam’d keen with honour. + + Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen, + Till half a leg was scrimply seen; + An’ such a leg! my bonie Jean + Could only peer it; + Sae straught, sae taper, tight an’ clean— + Nane else came near it. + + Her mantle large, of greenish hue, + My gazing wonder chiefly drew: + Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw + A lustre grand; + And seem’d, to my astonish’d view, + A well-known land. + + Here, rivers in the sea were lost; + There, mountains to the skies were toss’t: + Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast, + With surging foam; + There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast, + The lordly dome. + + Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods; + There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: + Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods, + On to the shore; + And many a lesser torrent scuds, + With seeming roar. + + Low, in a sandy valley spread, + An ancient borough rear’d her head; + Still, as in Scottish story read, + She boasts a race + To ev’ry nobler virtue bred, + And polish’d grace.<sup>2</sup> + + By stately tow’r, or palace fair, + Or ruins pendent in the air, + Bold stems of heroes, here and there, + I could discern; + Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare, + With feature stern. + + My heart did glowing transport feel, + To see a race heroic<sup>3</sup> wheel, + + [Footnote 2: The seven stanzas following this were first + printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787. Other stanzas, never + published by Burns himself, are given on p. 180.] + + [Footnote 3: The Wallaces.—R. B.] + + And brandish round the deep-dyed steel, + In sturdy blows; + While, back-recoiling, seem’d to reel + Their Suthron foes. + + His Country’s Saviour,<sup>4</sup> mark him well! + Bold Richardton’s heroic swell;<sup>5</sup> + The chief, on Sark who glorious fell,<sup>6</sup> + In high command; + And he whom ruthless fates expel + His native land. + + There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade + Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,<sup>7</sup> + I mark’d a martial race, pourtray’d + In colours strong: + Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d, + They strode along. + + Thro’ many a wild, romantic grove,<sup>8</sup> + Near many a hermit-fancied cove + (Fit haunts for friendship or for love, + In musing mood), + An aged Judge, I saw him rove, + Dispensing good. + + With deep-struck, reverential awe, + The learned Sire and Son I saw:<sup>9</sup> + To Nature’s God, and Nature’s law, + They gave their lore; + This, all its source and end to draw, + That, to adore. + + [Footnote 4: William Wallace.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 5: Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the + immortal preserver of Scottish independence.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 6: Wallace, laird of Craigie, who was second in + command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle + on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious + victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and + intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of + his wounds after the action.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 7: Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the + district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as + tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of + Coilsfield, where his burial—place is still shown.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 8: Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice— + Clerk.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 9: Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and + present Professor Stewart.—R.B.] + + Brydon’s brave ward<sup>10</sup> I well could spy, + Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye: + Who call’d on Fame, low standing by, + To hand him on, + Where many a patriot-name on high, + And hero shone. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Duan Second + + With musing-deep, astonish’d stare, + I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair; + A whispering throb did witness bear + Of kindred sweet, + When with an elder sister’s air + She did me greet. + + “All hail! my own inspired bard! + In me thy native Muse regard; + Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, + Thus poorly low; + I come to give thee such reward, + As we bestow! + + “Know, the great genius of this land + Has many a light aerial band, + Who, all beneath his high command, + Harmoniously, + As arts or arms they understand, + Their labours ply. + + “They Scotia’s race among them share: + Some fire the soldier on to dare; + Some rouse the patriot up to bare + Corruption’s heart: + Some teach the bard—a darling care— + The tuneful art. + + “’Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, + They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; + + [Footnote 10: Colonel Fullarton.—R.B. This gentleman had + travelled under the care of Patrick Brydone, author of a + well-known “Tour Through Sicily and Malta.”] + + Or, ’mid the venal senate’s roar, + They, sightless, stand, + To mend the honest patriot-lore, + And grace the hand. + + “And when the bard, or hoary sage, + Charm or instruct the future age, + They bind the wild poetric rage + In energy, + Or point the inconclusive page + Full on the eye. + + “Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young; + Hence, Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue; + Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sung + His ’Minstrel lays’; + Or tore, with noble ardour stung, + The sceptic’s bays. + + “To lower orders are assign’d + The humbler ranks of human-kind, + The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind, + The artisan; + All choose, as various they’re inclin’d, + The various man. + + “When yellow waves the heavy grain, + The threat’ning storm some strongly rein; + Some teach to meliorate the plain + With tillage-skill; + And some instruct the shepherd-train, + Blythe o’er the hill. + + “Some hint the lover’s harmless wile; + Some grace the maiden’s artless smile; + Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil + For humble gains, + And make his cottage-scenes beguile + His cares and pains. + + “Some, bounded to a district-space + Explore at large man’s infant race, + To mark the embryotic trace + Of rustic bard; + And careful note each opening grace, + A guide and guard. + + “Of these am I—Coila my name: + And this district as mine I claim, + Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, + Held ruling power: + I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, + Thy natal hour. + + “With future hope I oft would gaze + Fond, on thy little early ways, + Thy rudely, caroll’d, chiming phrase, + In uncouth rhymes; + Fir’d at the simple, artless lays + Of other times. + + “I saw thee seek the sounding shore, + Delighted with the dashing roar; + Or when the North his fleecy store + Drove thro’ the sky, + I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar + Struck thy young eye. + + “Or when the deep green-mantled earth + Warm cherish’d ev’ry floweret’s birth, + And joy and music pouring forth + In ev’ry grove; + I saw thee eye the general mirth + With boundless love. + + “When ripen’d fields and azure skies + Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, + I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys, + And lonely stalk, + To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise, + In pensive walk. + + “When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, + Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along, + Those accents grateful to thy tongue, + Th’ adored Name, + I taught thee how to pour in song, + To soothe thy flame. + + “I saw thy pulse’s maddening play, + Wild send thee Pleasure’s devious way, + Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray, + By passion driven; + But yet the light that led astray + Was light from Heaven. + + “I taught thy manners-painting strains, + The loves, the ways of simple swains, + Till now, o’er all my wide domains + Thy fame extends; + And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, + Become thy friends. + + “Thou canst not learn, nor I can show, + To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow; + Or wake the bosom-melting throe, + With Shenstone’s art; + Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow + Warm on the heart. + + “Yet, all beneath th’ unrivall’d rose, + T e lowly daisy sweetly blows; + Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws + His army shade, + Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, + Adown the glade. + + “Then never murmur nor repine; + Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; + And trust me, not Potosi’s mine, + Nor king’s regard, + Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, + A rustic bard. + + “To give my counsels all in one, + Thy tuneful flame still careful fan: + Preserve the dignity of Man, + With soul erect; + And trust the Universal Plan + Will all protect. + + “And wear thou this”—she solemn said, + And bound the holly round my head: + The polish’d leaves and berries red + Did rustling play; + And, like a passing thought, she fled + In light away. + + [To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Burns presented a manuscript copy of + the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of + Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in + his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his + second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses + which he left unpublished.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0102"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Suppressed Stanza’s Of “The Vision” + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + After 18th stanza of the text (at “His native land”):— + + With secret throes I marked that earth, + That cottage, witness of my birth; + And near I saw, bold issuing forth + In youthful pride, + A Lindsay race of noble worth, + Famed far and wide. + + Where, hid behind a spreading wood, + An ancient Pict-built mansion stood, + I spied, among an angel brood, + A female pair; + Sweet shone their high maternal blood, + And father’s air.<sup>1</sup> + + An ancient tower<sup>2</sup> to memory brought + How Dettingen’s bold hero fought; + Still, far from sinking into nought, + It owns a lord + Who far in western climates fought, + With trusty sword. + + [Footnote 1: Sundrum.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 2: Stair.—R.B.] + + Among the rest I well could spy + One gallant, graceful, martial boy, + The soldier sparkled in his eye, + A diamond water. + I blest that noble badge with joy, + That owned me frater.<sup>3</sup> +</div> +<div class='pre'> + After 20th stanza of the text (at “Dispensing good”):— + + Near by arose a mansion fine<sup>4</sup> + The seat of many a muse divine; + Not rustic muses such as mine, + With holly crown’d, + But th’ ancient, tuneful, laurell’d Nine, + From classic ground. + + I mourn’d the card that Fortune dealt, + To see where bonie Whitefoords dwelt;<sup>5</sup> + But other prospects made me melt, + That village near;<sup>6</sup> + There Nature, Friendship, Love, I felt, + Fond-mingling, dear! + + Hail! Nature’s pang, more strong than death! + Warm Friendship’s glow, like kindling wrath! + Love, dearer than the parting breath + Of dying friend! + Not ev’n with life’s wild devious path, + Your force shall end! + + The Power that gave the soft alarms + In blooming Whitefoord’s rosy charms, + Still threats the tiny, feather’d arms, + The barbed dart, + While lovely Wilhelmina warms + The coldest heart.<sup>7</sup> +</div> +<div class='pre'> + After 21st stanza of the text (at “That, to adore”):— + + Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid,<sup>8</sup> + Where lately Want was idly laid, + + [Footnote 3: Captain James Montgomerie, Master of St. James’ + Lodge, Tarbolton, to which the author has the honour to + belong.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 4: Auchinleck.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 5: Ballochmyle.] + + [Footnote 6: Mauchline.] + + [Footnote 7: Miss Wilhelmina Alexander.] + + [Footnote 8: Cumnock.—R.B.] + + I marked busy, bustling Trade, + In fervid flame, + Beneath a Patroness’ aid, + of noble name. + + Wild, countless hills I could survey, + And countless flocks as wild as they; + But other scenes did charms display, + That better please, + Where polish’d manners dwell with Gray, + In rural ease.<sup>9</sup> + + Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound;<sup>10</sup> + And Irwine, marking out the bound, + Enamour’d of the scenes around, + Slow runs his race, + A name I doubly honour’d found,<sup>11</sup> + With knightly grace. + + Brydon’s brave ward,<sup>12</sup> I saw him stand, + Fame humbly offering her hand, + And near, his kinsman’s rustic band,<sup>13</sup> + With one accord, + Lamenting their late blessed land + Must change its lord. + + The owner of a pleasant spot, + Near and sandy wilds, I last did note;<sup>14</sup> + A heart too warm, a pulse too hot + At times, o’erran: + But large in ev’ry feature wrote, + Appear’d the Man. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + The Rantin’ Dog, The Daddie O’t + + Tune—“Whare’ll our guidman lie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O wha my babie-clouts will buy? + O wha will tent me when I cry? + Wha will kiss me where I lie? + The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t. + + [Footnote 9: Mr. Farquhar Gray.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 10: Auchinskieth.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 11: Caprington.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 12: Colonel Fullerton.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 13: Dr. Fullerton.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 14: Orangefield.—R.B.] + + O wha will own he did the faut? + O wha will buy the groanin maut? + O wha will tell me how to ca’t? + The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t. + + When I mount the creepie-chair, + Wha will sit beside me there? + Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair, + The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t. + + Wha will crack to me my lane? + Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain? + Wha will kiss me o’er again? + The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Here’s His Health In Water + + Tune—“The Job of Journey-work.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Altho’ my back be at the wa’, + And tho’ he be the fautor; + Altho’ my back be at the wa’, + Yet, here’s his health in water. + O wae gae by his wanton sides, + Sae brawlie’s he could flatter; + Till for his sake I’m slighted sair, + And dree the kintra clatter: + But tho’ my back be at the wa’, + And tho’ he be the fautor; + But tho’ my back be at the wa’, + Yet here’s his health in water! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0103"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My Son, these maxims make a rule, + An’ lump them aye thegither; + The Rigid Righteous is a fool, + The Rigid Wise anither: + The cleanest corn that ere was dight + May hae some pyles o’ caff in; + So ne’er a fellow-creature slight + For random fits o’ daffin. + + (Solomon.—Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.) + + O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’, + Sae pious and sae holy, + Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell + Your neibours’ fauts and folly! + Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, + Supplied wi’ store o’ water; + The heaped happer’s ebbing still, + An’ still the clap plays clatter. + + Hear me, ye venerable core, + As counsel for poor mortals + That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door + For glaikit Folly’s portals: + I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, + Would here propone defences— + Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, + Their failings and mischances. + + Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared, + And shudder at the niffer; + But cast a moment’s fair regard, + What maks the mighty differ; + Discount what scant occasion gave, + That purity ye pride in; + And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave), + Your better art o’ hidin. + + Think, when your castigated pulse + Gies now and then a wallop! + What ragings must his veins convulse, + That still eternal gallop! + Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, + Right on ye scud your sea-way; + But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, + It maks a unco lee-way. + + See Social Life and Glee sit down, + All joyous and unthinking, + Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown + Debauchery and Drinking: + O would they stay to calculate + Th’ eternal consequences; + Or your more dreaded hell to state, + Damnation of expenses! + + Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, + Tied up in godly laces, + Before ye gie poor Frailty names, + Suppose a change o’ cases; + A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug, + A treach’rous inclination— + But let me whisper i’ your lug, + Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. + + Then gently scan your brother man, + Still gentler sister woman; + Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, + To step aside is human: + One point must still be greatly dark,— + The moving Why they do it; + And just as lamely can ye mark, + How far perhaps they rue it. + + Who made the heart, ’tis He alone + Decidedly can try us; + He knows each chord, its various tone, + Each spring, its various bias: + Then at the balance let’s be mute, + We never can adjust it; + What’s done we partly may compute, + But know not what’s resisted. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0104"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Inventory<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes + + Sir, as your mandate did request, + I send you here a faithfu’ list, + O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith, + To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith. + + Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, + I hae four brutes o’ gallant mettle, + As ever drew afore a pettle. + My hand-afore ’s a guid auld has-been, + An’ wight an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been: + My hand-ahin ’s a weel gaun fillie, + That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.<sup>2</sup> + An’ your auld borough mony a time + In days when riding was nae crime. + But ance, when in my wooing pride + I, like a blockhead, boost to ride, + The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to, + (Lord pardon a’ my sins, an’ that too!) + I play’d my fillie sic a shavie, + She’s a’ bedevil’d wi’ the spavie. + My furr-ahin ’s a wordy beast, + As e’er in tug or tow was traced. + The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastle, + A damn’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie! + Foreby a cowt, o’ cowts the wale, + As ever ran afore a tail: + Gin he be spar’d to be a beast, + He’ll draw me fifteen pund at least. + Wheel-carriages I ha’e but few, + Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new; + An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, + Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken; + I made a poker o’ the spin’le, + An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le. + + [Footnote 1: The “Inventory” was addressed to + Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.] + + [Footnote 2: Kilmarnock.—R. B.] + + For men, I’ve three mischievous boys, + Run-deils for ranting an’ for noise; + A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’ other: + Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. + I rule them as I ought, discreetly, + An’ aften labour them completely; + An’ aye on Sundays duly, nightly, + I on the Questions targe them tightly; + Till, faith! wee Davock’s grown sae gleg, + Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg, + He’ll screed you aff Effectual Calling, + As fast as ony in the dwalling. + + I’ve nane in female servant station, + (Lord keep me aye frae a’ temptation!) + I hae nae wife—and thay my bliss is, + An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses; + An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, + I ken the deevils darena touch me. + Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented, + Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted! + My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, + She stares the daddy in her face, + Enough of ought ye like but grace; + But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady, + I’ve paid enough for her already; + An’ gin ye tax her or her mither, + By the Lord, ye’se get them a’ thegither! + + And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, + Nae kind of licence out I’m takin: + Frae this time forth, I do declare + I’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair; + Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle, + Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; + My travel a’ on foot I’ll shank it, + I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude the thankit! + The kirk and you may tak you that, + It puts but little in your pat; + Sae dinna put me in your beuk, + Nor for my ten white shillings leuk. + + This list, wi’ my ain hand I wrote it, + The day and date as under noted; + Then know all ye whom it concerns, + Subscripsi huic, + + Robert Burns. + Mossgiel, February 22, 1786. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0105"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To John Kennedy, Dumfries House + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse + E’er bring you in by Mauchlin corse, + (Lord, man, there’s lasses there wad force + A hermit’s fancy; + An’ down the gate in faith they’re worse, + An’ mair unchancy). + + But as I’m sayin, please step to Dow’s, + An’ taste sic gear as Johnie brews, + Till some bit callan bring me news + That ye are there; + An’ if we dinna hae a bouze, + I’se ne’er drink mair. + + It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow, + Then like a swine to puke an’ wallow; + But gie me just a true good fallow, + Wi’ right ingine, + And spunkie ance to mak us mellow, + An’ then we’ll shine. + + Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk, + Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, + An’ sklent on poverty their joke, + Wi’ bitter sneer, + Wi’ you nae friendship I will troke, + Nor cheap nor dear. + + But if, as I’m informed weel, + Ye hate as ill’s the very deil + The flinty heart that canna feel— + Come, sir, here’s to you! + Hae, there’s my haun’, I wiss you weel, + An’ gude be wi’ you. + + Robt. Burness. + Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0106"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Mr. M’Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + In answer to an obliging Letter he sent + in the commencement of my poetic career. + + Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card, + I trow it made me proud; + “See wha taks notice o’ the bard!” + I lap and cried fu’ loud. + + Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, + The senseless, gawky million; + I’ll cock my nose abune them a’, + I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan! + + ’Twas noble, sir; ’twas like yourself’, + To grant your high protection: + A great man’s smile ye ken fu’ well + Is aye a blest infection. + + Tho’, by his banes wha in a tub + Match’d Macedonian Sandy! + On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub, + I independent stand aye,— + + And when those legs to gude, warm kail, + Wi’ welcome canna bear me, + A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, + An’ barley-scone shall cheer me. + + Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath + O’ mony flow’ry simmers! + An’ bless your bonie lasses baith, + I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers! + + An’ God bless young Dunaskin’s laird, + The blossom of our gentry! + An’ may he wear and auld man’s beard, + A credit to his country. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0107"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To A Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? + Your impudence protects you sairly; + I canna say but ye strunt rarely, + Owre gauze and lace; + Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely + On sic a place. + + Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, + Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner, + How daur ye set your fit upon her— + Sae fine a lady? + Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner + On some poor body. + + Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle; + There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, + Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle, + In shoals and nations; + Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle + Your thick plantations. + + Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight, + Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight; + Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right, + Till ye’ve got on it— + The verra tapmost, tow’rin height + O’ Miss’ bonnet. + + My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, + As plump an’ grey as ony groset: + O for some rank, mercurial rozet, + Or fell, red smeddum, + I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t, + Wad dress your droddum. + + I wad na been surpris’d to spy + You on an auld wife’s flainen toy; + Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy, + On’s wyliecoat; + But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye! + How daur ye do’t? + + O Jeany, dinna toss your head, + An’ set your beauties a’ abread! + Ye little ken what cursed speed + The blastie’s makin: + Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread, + Are notice takin. + + O wad some Power the giftie gie us + To see oursels as ithers see us! + It wad frae mony a blunder free us, + An’ foolish notion: + What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us, + An’ ev’n devotion! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0108"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Presented to the Author by a Lady. + + Thou flatt’ring mark of friendship kind, + Still may thy pages call to mind + The dear, the beauteous donor; + Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part, + Yet such a head, and more the heart + Does both the sexes honour: + She show’d her taste refin’d and just, + When she selected thee; + Yet deviating, own I must, + For sae approving me: + But kind still I’ll mind still + The giver in the gift; + I’ll bless her, an’ wiss her + A Friend aboon the lift. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0109"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song, Composed In Spring + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Jockey’s Grey Breeks.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Again rejoicing Nature sees + Her robe assume its vernal hues: + Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, + All freshly steep’d in morning dews. + + Chorus.—And maun I still on Menie doat, + And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? + For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, + An’ it winna let a body be. + + In vain to me the cowslips blaw, + In vain to me the vi’lets spring; + In vain to me in glen or shaw, + The mavis and the lintwhite sing. + And maun I still, &c. + + The merry ploughboy cheers his team, + Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks; + But life to me’s a weary dream, + A dream of ane that never wauks. + And maun I still, &c. + + The wanton coot the water skims, + Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, + The stately swan majestic swims, + And ev’ry thing is blest but I. + And maun I still, &c. + + The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, + And o’er the moorlands whistles shill: + Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step, + I meet him on the dewy hill. + And maun I still, &c. + + And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, + Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, + And mounts and sings on flittering wings, + A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. + And maun I still, &c. + + Come winter, with thine angry howl, + And raging, bend the naked tree; + Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, + When nature all is sad like me! + And maun I still, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0110"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To A Mountain Daisy, + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786. + + Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow’r, + Thou’s met me in an evil hour; + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem: + To spare thee now is past my pow’r, + Thou bonie gem. + + Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, + The bonie lark, companion meet, + Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, + Wi’ spreckl’d breast! + When upward-springing, blythe, to greet + The purpling east. + + Cauld blew the bitter-biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, + High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield; + But thou, beneath the random bield + O’ clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! + By love’s simplicity betray’d, + And guileless trust; + Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid + Low i’ the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o’er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, + Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, + By human pride or cunning driv’n + To mis’ry’s brink; + Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, + He, ruin’d, sink! + + Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, + That fate is thine—no distant date; + Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives elate, + Full on thy bloom, + Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, + Shall be thy doom! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0111"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Ruin + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + All hail! inexorable lord! + At whose destruction-breathing word, + The mightiest empires fall! + Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, + The ministers of grief and pain, + A sullen welcome, all! + + With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye, + I see each aimed dart; + For one has cut my dearest tie, + And quivers in my heart. + Then low’ring, and pouring, + The storm no more I dread; + Tho’ thick’ning, and black’ning, + Round my devoted head. + + And thou grim Pow’r by life abhorr’d, + While life a pleasure can afford, + Oh! hear a wretch’s pray’r! + Nor more I shrink appall’d, afraid; + I court, I beg thy friendly aid, + To close this scene of care! + When shall my soul, in silent peace, + Resign life’s joyless day— + My weary heart its throbbing cease, + Cold mould’ring in the clay? + No fear more, no tear more, + To stain my lifeless face, + Enclasped, and grasped, + Within thy cold embrace! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0112"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lament + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend’s Amour. + + Alas! how oft does goodness would itself, + And sweet affection prove the spring of woe! + + Home. + + O thou pale orb that silent shines + While care-untroubled mortals sleep! + Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. + And wanders here to wail and weep! + With woe I nightly vigils keep, + Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; + And mourn, in lamentation deep, + How life and love are all a dream! + + I joyless view thy rays adorn + The faintly-marked, distant hill; + I joyless view thy trembling horn, + Reflected in the gurgling rill: + My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! + Thou busy pow’r, remembrance, cease! + Ah! must the agonizing thrill + For ever bar returning peace! + + No idly-feign’d, poetic pains, + My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim: + No shepherd’s pipe-Arcadian strains; + No fabled tortures, quaint and tame. + The plighted faith, the mutual flame, + The oft-attested pow’rs above, + The promis’d father’s tender name; + These were the pledges of my love! + + Encircled in her clasping arms, + How have the raptur’d moments flown! + How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms, + For her dear sake, and her’s alone! + And, must I think it! is she gone, + My secret heart’s exulting boast? + And does she heedless hear my groan? + And is she ever, ever lost? + + Oh! can she bear so base a heart, + So lost to honour, lost to truth, + As from the fondest lover part, + The plighted husband of her youth? + Alas! life’s path may be unsmooth! + Her way may lie thro’ rough distress! + Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe + Her sorrows share, and make them less? + + Ye winged hours that o’er us pass’d, + Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d, + Your dear remembrance in my breast + My fondly-treasur’d thoughts employ’d: + That breast, how dreary now, and void, + For her too scanty once of room! + Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d, + And not a wish to gild the gloom! + + The morn, that warns th’ approaching day, + Awakes me up to toil and woe; + I see the hours in long array, + That I must suffer, lingering, slow: + Full many a pang, and many a throe, + Keen recollection’s direful train, + Must wring my soul, were Phoebus, low, + Shall kiss the distant western main. + + And when my nightly couch I try, + Sore harass’d out with care and grief, + My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, + Keep watchings with the nightly thief: + Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, + Reigns, haggard—wild, in sore affright: + Ev’n day, all-bitter, brings relief + From such a horror-breathing night. + + O thou bright queen, who o’er th’ expanse + Now highest reign’st, with boundless sway + Oft has thy silent-marking glance + Observ’d us, fondly-wand’ring, stray! + The time, unheeded, sped away, + While love’s luxurious pulse beat high, + Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, + To mark the mutual-kindling eye. + + Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! + Scenes, never, never to return! + Scenes, if in stupor I forget, + Again I feel, again I burn! + From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn, + Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro’; + And hopeless, comfortless, I’ll mourn + A faithless woman’s broken vow! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0113"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Despondency: An Ode + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care, + A burden more than I can bear, + I set me down and sigh; + O life! thou art a galling load, + Along a rough, a weary road, + To wretches such as I! + Dim backward as I cast my view, + What sick’ning scenes appear! + What sorrows yet may pierce me through, + Too justly I may fear! + Still caring, despairing, + Must be my bitter doom; + My woes here shall close ne’er + But with the closing tomb! + + Happy! ye sons of busy life, + Who, equal to the bustling strife, + No other view regard! + Ev’n when the wished end’s denied, + Yet while the busy means are plied, + They bring their own reward: + Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight, + Unfitted with an aim, + Meet ev’ry sad returning night, + And joyless morn the same! + You, bustling, and justling, + Forget each grief and pain; + I, listless, yet restless, + Find ev’ry prospect vain. + + How blest the solitary’s lot, + Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, + Within his humble cell, + The cavern, wild with tangling roots, + Sits o’er his newly gather’d fruits, + Beside his crystal well! + Or haply, to his ev’ning thought, + By unfrequented stream, + The ways of men are distant brought, + A faint, collected dream; + While praising, and raising + His thoughts to heav’n on high, + As wand’ring, meand’ring, + He views the solemn sky. + + Than I, no lonely hermit plac’d + Where never human footstep trac’d, + Less fit to play the part, + The lucky moment to improve, + And just to stop, and just to move, + With self-respecting art: + But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, + Which I too keenly taste, + The solitary can despise, + Can want, and yet be blest! + He needs not, he heeds not, + Or human love or hate; + Whilst I here must cry here + At perfidy ingrate! + + O, enviable, early days, + When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze, + To care, to guilt unknown! + How ill exchang’d for riper times, + To feel the follies, or the crimes, + Of others, or my own! + Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, + Like linnets in the bush, + Ye little know the ills ye court, + When manhood is your wish! + The losses, the crosses, + That active man engage; + The fears all, the tears all, + Of dim declining age! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0114"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Recommending a Boy. + + Mossgaville, May 3, 1786. + + I hold it, sir, my bounden duty + To warn you how that Master Tootie, + Alias, Laird M’Gaun, + Was here to hire yon lad away + ’Bout whom ye spak the tither day, + An’ wad hae don’t aff han’; + + But lest he learn the callan tricks— + An’ faith I muckle doubt him— + Like scrapin out auld Crummie’s nicks, + An’ tellin lies about them; + As lieve then, I’d have then + Your clerkship he should sair, + If sae be ye may be + Not fitted otherwhere. + + Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, + An’ ’bout a house that’s rude an’ rough, + The boy might learn to swear; + But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught, + An’ get sic fair example straught, + I hae na ony fear. + Ye’ll catechise him, every quirk, + An’ shore him weel wi’ hell; + An’ gar him follow to the kirk— + Aye when ye gang yoursel. + If ye then maun be then + Frae hame this comin’ Friday, + Then please, sir, to lea’e, sir, + The orders wi’ your lady. + + My word of honour I hae gi’en, + In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en, + To meet the warld’s worm; + To try to get the twa to gree, + An’ name the airles an’ the fee, + In legal mode an’ form: + I ken he weel a snick can draw, + When simple bodies let him: + An’ if a Devil be at a’, + In faith he’s sure to get him. + To phrase you and praise you, + Ye ken your Laureat scorns: + The pray’r still you share still + Of grateful Minstrel Burns. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0115"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Versified Reply To An Invitation + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sir, + + Yours this moment I unseal, + And faith I’m gay and hearty! + To tell the truth and shame the deil, + I am as fou as Bartie: + But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, + Expect me o’ your partie, + If on a beastie I can speel, + Or hurl in a cartie. + + Yours, + + Robert Burns. + Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o’clock. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0116"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary? + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, + And leave auld Scotia’s shore? + Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, + Across th’ Atlantic roar? + + O sweet grows the lime and the orange, + And the apple on the pine; + But a’ the charms o’ the Indies + Can never equal thine. + + I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, + I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; + And sae may the Heavens forget me, + When I forget my vow! + + O plight me your faith, my Mary, + And plight me your lily-white hand; + O plight me your faith, my Mary, + Before I leave Scotia’s strand. + + We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, + In mutual affection to join; + And curst be the cause that shall part us! + The hour and the moment o’ time! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0117"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—My Highland Lassie, O + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair, + Shall ever be my muse’s care: + Their titles a’ arc empty show; + Gie me my Highland lassie, O. + + Chorus.—Within the glen sae bushy, O, + Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, + I set me down wi’ right guid will, + To sing my Highland lassie, O. + + O were yon hills and vallies mine, + Yon palace and yon gardens fine! + The world then the love should know + I bear my Highland Lassie, O. + + But fickle fortune frowns on me, + And I maun cross the raging sea! + But while my crimson currents flow, + I’ll love my Highland lassie, O. + + Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range, + I know her heart will never change, + For her bosom burns with honour’s glow, + My faithful Highland lassie, O. + + For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar, + For her I’ll trace a distant shore, + That Indian wealth may lustre throw + Around my Highland lassie, O. + + She has my heart, she has my hand, + By secret troth and honour’s band! + Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, + I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O. + + Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! + Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! + To other lands I now must go, + To sing my Highland lassie, O. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0118"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To A Young Friend + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + May __, 1786. + + I Lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend, + A something to have sent you, + Tho’ it should serve nae ither end + Than just a kind memento: + But how the subject-theme may gang, + Let time and chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang: + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + + Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad; + And, Andrew dear, believe me, + Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad, + And muckle they may grieve ye: + For care and trouble set your thought, + Ev’n when your end’s attained; + And a’ your views may come to nought, + Where ev’ry nerve is strained. + + I’ll no say, men are villains a’; + The real, harden’d wicked, + Wha hae nae check but human law, + Are to a few restricked; + But, Och! mankind are unco weak, + An’ little to be trusted; + If self the wavering balance shake, + It’s rarely right adjusted! + + Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife, + Their fate we shouldna censure; + For still, th’ important end of life + They equally may answer; + A man may hae an honest heart, + Tho’ poortith hourly stare him; + A man may tak a neibor’s part, + Yet hae nae cash to spare him. + + Aye free, aff-han’, your story tell, + When wi’ a bosom crony; + But still keep something to yoursel’, + Ye scarcely tell to ony: + Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can + Frae critical dissection; + But keek thro’ ev’ry other man, + Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection. + + The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love, + Luxuriantly indulge it; + But never tempt th’ illicit rove, + Tho’ naething should divulge it: + I waive the quantum o’ the sin, + The hazard of concealing; + But, Och! it hardens a’ within, + And petrifies the feeling! + + To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile, + Assiduous wait upon her; + And gather gear by ev’ry wile + That’s justified by honour; + Not for to hide it in a hedge, + Nor for a train attendant; + But for the glorious privilege + Of being independent. + + The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip, + To haud the wretch in order; + But where ye feel your honour grip, + Let that aye be your border; + Its slightest touches, instant pause— + Debar a’ side-pretences; + And resolutely keep its laws, + Uncaring consequences. + + The great Creator to revere, + Must sure become the creature; + But still the preaching cant forbear, + And ev’n the rigid feature: + Yet ne’er with wits profane to range, + Be complaisance extended; + An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange + For Deity offended! + + When ranting round in pleasure’s ring, + Religion may be blinded; + Or if she gie a random sting, + It may be little minded; + But when on life we’re tempest driv’n— + A conscience but a canker— + A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n, + Is sure a noble anchor! + + Adieu, dear, amiable youth! + Your heart can ne’er be wanting! + May prudence, fortitude, and truth, + Erect your brow undaunting! + In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,” + Still daily to grow wiser; + And may ye better reck the rede, + Then ever did th’ adviser! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0119"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address Of Beelzebub + </h2></div> + <p> + To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right + Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of + May last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to + frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society + were informed by Mr. M’Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to + attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they + were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the + wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours, + Unskaithed by hunger’d Highland boors; + Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar, + Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger, + May twin auld Scotland o’ a life + She likes—as butchers like a knife. + + Faith you and Applecross were right + To keep the Highland hounds in sight: + I doubt na! they wad bid nae better, + Than let them ance out owre the water, + Then up among thae lakes and seas, + They’ll mak what rules and laws they please: + Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin, + May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin; + Some Washington again may head them, + Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, + Till God knows what may be effected + When by such heads and hearts directed, + Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire + May to Patrician rights aspire! + Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville, + To watch and premier o’er the pack vile,— + An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons + To bring them to a right repentance— + To cowe the rebel generation, + An’ save the honour o’ the nation? + They, an’ be d-d! what right hae they + To meat, or sleep, or light o’ day? + Far less—to riches, pow’r, or freedom, + But what your lordship likes to gie them? + + But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear! + Your hand’s owre light to them, I fear; + Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, + I canna say but they do gaylies; + They lay aside a’ tender mercies, + An’ tirl the hallions to the birses; + Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet, + They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit: + But smash them! crash them a’ to spails, + An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails! + The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; + Let wark an’ hunger mak them sober! + The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont, + Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d! + An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats + Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts, + Flaffin wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’, + Frightin away your ducks an’ geese; + Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, + The langest thong, the fiercest growler, + An’ gar the tatter’d gypsies pack + Wi’ a’ their bastards on their back! + Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you, + An’ in my house at hame to greet you; + Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle, + The benmost neuk beside the ingle, + At my right han’ assigned your seat, + ’Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate: + Or if you on your station tarrow, + Between Almagro and Pizarro, + A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t; + An’ till ye come—your humble servant, + + Beelzebub. + June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0120"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Dream + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; + But surely Dreams were ne’er indicted Treason. +</div> + <p> + On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate’s Ode, with the other + parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he + imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in his dreaming + fancy, made the following Address: + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Guid-Mornin’ to our Majesty! + May Heaven augment your blisses + On ev’ry new birth-day ye see, + A humble poet wishes. + My bardship here, at your Levee + On sic a day as this is, + Is sure an uncouth sight to see, + Amang thae birth-day dresses + Sae fine this day. + + I see ye’re complimented thrang, + By mony a lord an’ lady; + “God save the King” ’s a cuckoo sang + That’s unco easy said aye: + The poets, too, a venal gang, + Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d an’ ready, + Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang, + But aye unerring steady, + On sic a day. + + For me! before a monarch’s face + Ev’n there I winna flatter; + For neither pension, post, nor place, + Am I your humble debtor: + So, nae reflection on your Grace, + Your Kingship to bespatter; + There’s mony waur been o’ the race, + And aiblins ane been better + Than you this day. + + ’Tis very true, my sovereign King, + My skill may weel be doubted; + But facts are chiels that winna ding, + An’ downa be disputed: + Your royal nest, beneath your wing, + Is e’en right reft and clouted, + And now the third part o’ the string, + An’ less, will gang aboot it + Than did ae day.<sup>1</sup> + + Far be’t frae me that I aspire + To blame your legislation, + Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, + To rule this mighty nation: + But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, + Ye’ve trusted ministration + To chaps wha in barn or byre + Wad better fill’d their station + Than courts yon day. + + And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace, + Her broken shins to plaister, + Your sair taxation does her fleece, + Till she has scarce a tester: + For me, thank God, my life’s a lease, + Nae bargain wearin’ faster, + Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese, + I shortly boost to pasture + I’ the craft some day. + + [Footnote 1: The American colonies had recently been lost.] + + I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt, + When taxes he enlarges, + (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get, + A name not envy spairges), + That he intends to pay your debt, + An’ lessen a’ your charges; + But, God-sake! let nae saving fit + Abridge your bonie barges + An’boats this day. + + Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck + Beneath your high protection; + An’ may ye rax Corruption’s neck, + And gie her for dissection! + But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect, + In loyal, true affection, + To pay your Queen, wi’ due respect, + May fealty an’ subjection + This great birth-day. + + Hail, Majesty most Excellent! + While nobles strive to please ye, + Will ye accept a compliment, + A simple poet gies ye? + Thae bonie bairntime, Heav’n has lent, + Still higher may they heeze ye + In bliss, till fate some day is sent + For ever to release ye + Frae care that day. + + For you, young Potentate o’Wales, + I tell your highness fairly, + Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails, + I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely; + But some day ye may gnaw your nails, + An’ curse your folly sairly, + That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales, + Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie + By night or day. + + Yet aft a ragged cowt’s been known, + To mak a noble aiver; + So, ye may doucely fill the throne, + For a’their clish-ma-claver: + There, him<sup>2</sup> at Agincourt wha shone, + Few better were or braver: + And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,<sup>3</sup> + He was an unco shaver + For mony a day. + + For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg, + Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, + Altho’ a ribbon at your lug + Wad been a dress completer: + As ye disown yon paughty dog, + That bears the keys of Peter, + Then swith! an’ get a wife to hug, + Or trowth, ye’ll stain the mitre + Some luckless day! + + Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn, + Ye’ve lately come athwart her— + A glorious galley,<sup>4</sup> stem and stern, + Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter; + But first hang out, that she’ll discern, + Your hymeneal charter; + Then heave aboard your grapple airn, + An’ large upon her quarter, + Come full that day. + + Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a’, + Ye royal lasses dainty, + Heav’n mak you guid as well as braw, + An’ gie you lads a-plenty! + But sneer na British boys awa! + For kings are unco scant aye, + An’ German gentles are but sma’, + They’re better just than want aye + On ony day. + + [Footnote 2: King Henry V.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 3: Sir John Falstaff, vid. Shakespeare.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 4: Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain + Royal sailor’s amour.—R. B. This was Prince William Henry, + third son of George III, afterward King William IV.] + + Gad bless you a’! consider now, + Ye’re unco muckle dautit; + But ere the course o’ life be through, + It may be bitter sautit: + An’ I hae seen their coggie fou, + That yet hae tarrow’t at it. + But or the day was done, I trow, + The laggen they hae clautit + Fu’ clean that day. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0121"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Dedication + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. + + Expect na, sir, in this narration, + A fleechin, fleth’rin Dedication, + To roose you up, an’ ca’ you guid, + An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid, + Because ye’re surnam’d like His Grace— + Perhaps related to the race: + Then, when I’m tir’d—and sae are ye, + Wi’ mony a fulsome, sinfu’ lie, + Set up a face how I stop short, + For fear your modesty be hurt. + + This may do—maun do, sir, wi’ them wha + Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; + For me! sae laigh I need na bow, + For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; + And when I downa yoke a naig, + Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; + Sae I shall say—an’ that’s nae flatt’rin— + It’s just sic Poet an’ sic Patron. + + The Poet, some guid angel help him, + Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him! + He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet, + But only—he’s no just begun yet. + + The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me; + I winna lie, come what will o’ me), + On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be, + He’s just—nae better than he should be. + + I readily and freely grant, + He downa see a poor man want; + What’s no his ain, he winna tak it; + What ance he says, he winna break it; + Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t, + Till aft his guidness is abus’d; + And rascals whiles that do him wrang, + Ev’n that, he does na mind it lang; + As master, landlord, husband, father, + He does na fail his part in either. + + But then, nae thanks to him for a’that; + Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that; + It’s naething but a milder feature + Of our poor, sinfu’ corrupt nature: + Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works, + ’Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks, + Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, + Wha never heard of orthodoxy. + That he’s the poor man’s friend in need, + The gentleman in word and deed, + It’s no thro’ terror of damnation; + It’s just a carnal inclination. + + Morality, thou deadly bane, + Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain! + Vain is his hope, whase stay an’ trust is + In moral mercy, truth, and justice! + + No—stretch a point to catch a plack: + Abuse a brother to his back; + Steal through the winnock frae a whore, + But point the rake that taks the door; + Be to the poor like ony whunstane, + And haud their noses to the grunstane; + Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving; + No matter—stick to sound believing. + + Learn three-mile pray’rs, an’ half-mile graces, + Wi’ weel-spread looves, an’ lang, wry faces; + Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan, + And damn a’ parties but your own; + I’ll warrant they ye’re nae deceiver, + A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. + + O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin, + For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin! + Ye sons of Heresy and Error, + Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror, + When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath. + And in the fire throws the sheath; + When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, + Just frets till Heav’n commission gies him; + While o’er the harp pale Misery moans, + And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones, + Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans! + + Your pardon, sir, for this digression: + I maist forgat my Dedication; + But when divinity comes ’cross me, + My readers still are sure to lose me. + + So, sir, you see ’twas nae daft vapour; + But I maturely thought it proper, + When a’ my works I did review, + To dedicate them, sir, to you: + Because (ye need na tak it ill), + I thought them something like yoursel’. + + Then patronize them wi’ your favor, + And your petitioner shall ever— + I had amaist said, ever pray, + But that’s a word I need na say; + For prayin, I hae little skill o’t, + I’m baith dead-sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t; + But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r, + That kens or hears about you, sir— + + “May ne’er Misfortune’s gowling bark, + Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk! + May ne’er his genrous, honest heart, + For that same gen’rous spirit smart! + May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name + Lang beet his hymeneal flame, + Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen, + Are frae their nuptial labours risen: + Five bonie lasses round their table, + And sev’n braw fellows, stout an’ able, + To serve their king an’ country weel, + By word, or pen, or pointed steel! + May health and peace, with mutual rays, + Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days; + Till his wee, curlie John’s ier-oe, + When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, + The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!” + + I will not wind a lang conclusion, + With complimentary effusion; + But, whilst your wishes and endeavours + Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours, + I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, + Your much indebted, humble servant. + + But if (which Pow’rs above prevent) + That iron-hearted carl, Want, + Attended, in his grim advances, + By sad mistakes, and black mischances, + While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, + Make you as poor a dog as I am, + Your humble servant then no more; + For who would humbly serve the poor? + But, by a poor man’s hopes in Heav’n! + While recollection’s pow’r is giv’n— + If, in the vale of humble life, + The victim sad of fortune’s strife, + I, thro’ the tender-gushing tear, + Should recognise my master dear; + If friendless, low, we meet together, + Then, sir, your hand—my Friend and Brother! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0122"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Friday first’s the day appointed + By the Right Worshipful anointed, + + To hold our grand procession; + To get a blad o’ Johnie’s morals, + And taste a swatch o’ Manson’s barrels + + I’ the way of our profession. + The Master and the Brotherhood + Would a’ be glad to see you; + For me I would be mair than proud + + To share the mercies wi’ you. + If Death, then, wi’ skaith, then, + Some mortal heart is hechtin, + Inform him, and storm him, + That Saturday you’ll fecht him. + + Robert Burns. + Mossgiel, An. M. 5790. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0123"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Guidnight, and joy be wi’ you a’.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu; + Dear brothers of the mystic tie! + Ye favoured, enlighten’d few, + Companions of my social joy; + Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie, + Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’; + With melting heart, and brimful eye, + I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa. + + Oft have I met your social band, + And spent the cheerful, festive night; + Oft, honour’d with supreme command, + Presided o’er the sons of light: + And by that hieroglyphic bright, + Which none but Craftsmen ever saw + Strong Mem’ry on my heart shall write + Those happy scenes, when far awa. + + May Freedom, Harmony, and Love, + Unite you in the grand Design, + Beneath th’ Omniscient Eye above, + The glorious Architect Divine, + That you may keep th’ unerring line, + Still rising by the plummet’s law, + Till Order bright completely shine, + Shall be my pray’r when far awa. + + And you, farewell! whose merits claim + Justly that highest badge to wear: + Heav’n bless your honour’d noble name, + To Masonry and Scotia dear! + A last request permit me here,— + When yearly ye assemble a’, + One round, I ask it with a tear, + To him, the Bard that’s far awa. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0124"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink, + A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, + A’ ye wha live and never think, + Come, mourn wi’ me! + Our billie ’s gien us a’ a jink, + An’ owre the sea! + + Lament him a’ ye rantin core, + Wha dearly like a random splore; + Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar; + In social key; + For now he’s taen anither shore. + An’ owre the sea! + + The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, + And in their dear petitions place him: + The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him + Wi’ tearfu’ e’e; + For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him + That’s owre the sea! + + O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! + Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, + Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble, + ’Twad been nae plea; + But he was gleg as ony wumble, + That’s owre the sea! + + Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, + An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear; + ’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, + In flinders flee: + He was her Laureat mony a year, + That’s owre the sea! + + He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west + Lang mustering up a bitter blast; + A jillet brak his heart at last, + Ill may she be! + So, took a berth afore the mast, + An’ owre the sea. + + To tremble under Fortune’s cummock, + On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock, + Wi’ his proud, independent stomach, + Could ill agree; + So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock, + An’ owre the sea. + + He ne’er was gien to great misguidin, + Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; + Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding; + He dealt it free: + The Muse was a’ that he took pride in, + That’s owre the sea. + + Jamaica bodies, use him weel, + An’ hap him in cozie biel: + Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel, + An’ fou o’ glee: + He wad na wrang’d the vera deil, + That’s owre the sea. + + Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie! + Your native soil was right ill-willie; + But may ye flourish like a lily, + Now bonilie! + I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie, + Tho’ owre the sea! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0125"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Farewell To Eliza + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Gilderoy.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + From thee, Eliza, I must go, + And from my native shore; + The cruel fates between us throw + A boundless ocean’s roar: + But boundless oceans, roaring wide, + Between my love and me, + They never, never can divide + My heart and soul from thee. + + Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, + The maid that I adore! + A boding voice is in mine ear, + We part to meet no more! + But the latest throb that leaves my heart, + While Death stands victor by,— + That throb, Eliza, is thy part, + And thine that latest sigh! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0126"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Bard’s Epitaph + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Is there a whim-inspired fool, + Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, + Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, + Let him draw near; + And owre this grassy heap sing dool, + And drap a tear. + + Is there a bard of rustic song, + Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, + That weekly this area throng, + O, pass not by! + But, with a frater-feeling strong, + Here, heave a sigh. + + Is there a man, whose judgment clear + Can others teach the course to steer, + Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, + Wild as the wave, + Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear, + Survey this grave. + + The poor inhabitant below + Was quick to learn the wise to know, + And keenly felt the friendly glow, + And softer flame; + But thoughtless follies laid him low, + And stain’d his name! + + Reader, attend! whether thy soul + Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, + Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, + In low pursuit: + Know, prudent, cautious, self-control + Is wisdom’s root. + + Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq. + + Know thou, O stranger to the fame + Of this much lov’d, much honoured name! + (For none that knew him need be told) + A warmer heart death ne’er made cold. + + Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton, Esq. + + The poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps, + Whom canting wretches blam’d; + But with such as he, where’er he be, + May I be sav’d or damn’d! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0127"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On “Wee Johnie” + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Hic Jacet wee Johnie. + + Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know + That Death has murder’d Johnie; + An’ here his body lies fu’ low; + For saul he ne’er had ony. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0128"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lass O’ Ballochmyle + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Ettrick Banks.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + ’Twas even—the dewy fields were green, + On every blade the pearls hang; + The zephyr wanton’d round the bean, + And bore its fragrant sweets alang: + In ev’ry glen the mavis sang, + All nature list’ning seem’d the while, + Except where greenwood echoes rang, + Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle. + + With careless step I onward stray’d, + My heart rejoic’d in nature’s joy, + When, musing in a lonely glade, + A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy: + Her look was like the morning’s eye, + Her air like nature’s vernal smile: + Perfection whisper’d, passing by, + “Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!” + + Fair is the morn in flowery May, + And sweet is night in autumn mild; + When roving thro’ the garden gay, + Or wand’ring in the lonely wild: + But woman, nature’s darling child! + There all her charms she does compile; + Even there her other works are foil’d + By the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. + + O, had she been a country maid, + And I the happy country swain, + Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed + That ever rose on Scotland’s plain! + Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain, + With joy, with rapture, I would toil; + And nightly to my bosom strain + The bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. + + Then pride might climb the slipp’ry steep, + Where frame and honours lofty shine; + And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, + Or downward seek the Indian mine: + Give me the cot below the pine, + To tend the flocks or till the soil; + And ev’ry day have joys divine + With the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0129"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines To An Old Sweetheart + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Once fondly lov’d, and still remember’d dear, + Sweet early object of my youthful vows, + Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, + Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows. + And when you read the simple artless rhymes, + One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more, + Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes, + Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0130"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Motto Prefixed To The Author’s First Publication + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, + He pours the wild effusions of the heart; + And if inspir’d ’tis Nature’s pow’rs inspire; + Her’s all the melting thrill, and her’s the kindling fire. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0131"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines To Mr. John Kennedy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you, + And ’mang her favourites admit you: + If e’er Detraction shore to smit you, + May nane believe him, + And ony deil that thinks to get you, + Good Lord, deceive him! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0132"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines Written On A Banknote + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! + Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief! + For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass! + For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass! + I see the children of affliction + Unaided, through thy curst restriction: + I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile + Amid his hapless victim’s spoil; + And for thy potence vainly wished, + To crush the villain in the dust: + For lack o’ thee, I leave this much-lov’d shore, + Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. + + R.B. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0133"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Stanzas On Naething + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. + + To you, sir, this summons I’ve sent, + Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing; + But if you demand what I want, + I honestly answer you—naething. + + Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me, + For idly just living and breathing, + While people of every degree + Are busy employed about—naething. + + Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, + And grumble his hurdies their claithing, + He’ll find, when the balance is cast, + He’s gane to the devil for-naething. + + The courtier cringes and bows, + Ambition has likewise its plaything; + A coronet beams on his brows; + And what is a coronet-naething. + + Some quarrel the Presbyter gown, + Some quarrel Episcopal graithing; + But every good fellow will own + Their quarrel is a’ about—naething. + + The lover may sparkle and glow, + Approaching his bonie bit gay thing: + But marriage will soon let him know + He’s gotten—a buskit up naething. + + The Poet may jingle and rhyme, + In hopes of a laureate wreathing, + And when he has wasted his time, + He’s kindly rewarded wi’—naething. + + The thundering bully may rage, + And swagger and swear like a heathen; + But collar him fast, I’ll engage, + You’ll find that his courage is—naething. + + Last night wi’ a feminine whig— + A Poet she couldna put faith in; + But soon we grew lovingly big, + I taught her, her terrors were naething. + + Her whigship was wonderful pleased, + But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing, + Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, + And kissed her, and promised her—naething. + + The priest anathemas may threat— + Predicament, sir, that we’re baith in; + But when honour’s reveille is beat, + The holy artillery’s naething. + + And now I must mount on the wave— + My voyage perhaps there is death in; + But what is a watery grave? + The drowning a Poet is naething. + + And now, as grim death’s in my thought, + To you, sir, I make this bequeathing; + My service as long as ye’ve ought, + And my friendship, by God, when ye’ve naething. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0134"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Farewell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? + Or what does he regard his single woes? + But when, alas! he multiplies himself, + To dearer serves, to the lov’d tender fair, + To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, + To helpless children,—then, Oh then, he feels + The point of misery festering in his heart, + And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward: + Such, such am I!—undone! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0135"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains, + Far dearer than the torrid plains, + Where rich ananas blow! + Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear! + A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear! + My Jean’s heart-rending throe! + Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft + Of my paternal care. + A faithful brother I have left, + My part in him thou’lt share! + Adieu, too, to you too, + My Smith, my bosom frien’; + When kindly you mind me, + O then befriend my Jean! + + What bursting anguish tears my heart; + From thee, my Jeany, must I part! + Thou, weeping, answ’rest—“No!” + Alas! misfortune stares my face, + And points to ruin and disgrace, + I for thy sake must go! + Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, + A grateful, warm adieu: + I, with a much-indebted tear, + Shall still remember you! + All hail then, the gale then, + Wafts me from thee, dear shore! + It rustles, and whistles + I’ll never see thee more! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0136"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Calf + </h2></div> + <p> + To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2. “And ye + shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall.” + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Right, sir! your text I’ll prove it true, + Tho’ heretics may laugh; + For instance, there’s yourself just now, + God knows, an unco calf. + + And should some patron be so kind, + As bless you wi’ a kirk, + I doubt na, sir but then we’ll find, + Ye’re still as great a stirk. + + But, if the lover’s raptur’d hour, + Shall ever be your lot, + Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly Power, + You e’er should be a stot! + + Tho’ when some kind connubial dear + Your but—and—ben adorns, + The like has been that you may wear + A noble head of horns. + + And, in your lug, most reverend James, + To hear you roar and rowt, + Few men o’ sense will doubt your claims + To rank amang the nowt. + + And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead, + Below a grassy hillock, + With justice they may mark your head— + “Here lies a famous bullock!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0137"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Nature’s Law—A Poem + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. + + Great Nature spoke: observant man obey’d—Pope. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Let other heroes boast their scars, + The marks of sturt and strife: + And other poets sing of wars, + The plagues of human life: + + Shame fa’ the fun, wi’ sword and gun + To slap mankind like lumber! + I sing his name, and nobler fame, + Wha multiplies our number. + + Great Nature spoke, with air benign, + “Go on, ye human race; + This lower world I you resign; + Be fruitful and increase. + The liquid fire of strong desire + I’ve pour’d it in each bosom; + Here, on this hand, does Mankind stand, + And there is Beauty’s blossom.” + + The Hero of these artless strains, + A lowly bard was he, + Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plains, + With meikle mirth an’glee; + Kind Nature’s care had given his share + Large, of the flaming current; + And, all devout, he never sought + To stem the sacred torrent. + + He felt the powerful, high behest + Thrill, vital, thro’ and thro’; + And sought a correspondent breast, + To give obedience due: + Propitious Powers screen’d the young flow’rs, + From mildews of abortion; + And low! the bard—a great reward— + Has got a double portion! + + Auld cantie Coil may count the day, + As annual it returns, + The third of Libra’s equal sway, + That gave another Burns, + With future rhymes, an’ other times, + To emulate his sire: + To sing auld Coil in nobler style + With more poetic fire. + + Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, + Look down with gracious eyes; + And bless auld Coila, large and long, + With multiplying joys; + Lang may she stand to prop the land, + The flow’r of ancient nations; + And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, + To endless generations! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0138"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Willie Chalmers + </h2></div> + <p> + Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked + me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen + her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:— + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, + And eke a braw new brechan, + My Pegasus I’m got astride, + And up Parnassus pechin; + Whiles owre a bush wi’ donwward crush, + The doited beastie stammers; + Then up he gets, and off he sets, + For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. + + I doubt na, lass, that weel ken’d name + May cost a pair o’ blushes; + I am nae stranger to your fame, + Nor his warm urged wishes. + Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, + His honest heart enamours, + And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, + Tho’ wair’d on Willie Chalmers. + + Auld Truth hersel’ might swear yer’e fair, + And Honour safely back her; + And Modesty assume your air, + And ne’er a ane mistak her: + And sic twa love-inspiring een + Might fire even holy palmers; + Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been + To honest Willie Chalmers. + + I doubt na fortune may you shore + Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, + Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, + And band upon his breastie: + But oh! what signifies to you + His lexicons and grammars; + The feeling heart’s the royal blue, + And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. + + Some gapin’, glowrin’ countra laird + May warsle for your favour; + May claw his lug, and straik his beard, + And hoast up some palaver: + My bonie maid, before ye wed + Sic clumsy-witted hammers, + Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp + Awa wi’ Willie Chalmers. + + Forgive the Bard! my fond regard + For ane that shares my bosom, + Inspires my Muse to gie ’m his dues + For deil a hair I roose him. + May powers aboon unite you soon, + And fructify your amours,— + And every year come in mair dear + To you and Willie Chalmers. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0139"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch + To thresh my back at sic a pitch? + Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch, + Your bodkin’s bauld; + I didna suffer half sae much + Frae Daddie Auld. + + What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse, + I gie their wames a random pouse, + Is that enough for you to souse + Your servant sae? + Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, + An’ jag-the-flea! + + King David, o’ poetic brief, + Wrocht ’mang the lasses sic mischief + As filled his after-life wi’ grief, + An’ bluidy rants, + An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief + O’ lang-syne saunts. + + And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants, + My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants, + I’ll gie auld cloven’s Clootie’s haunts + An unco slip yet, + An’ snugly sit amang the saunts, + At Davie’s hip yet! + + But, fegs! the session says I maun + Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan + Than garrin lasses coup the cran, + Clean heels ower body, + An’ sairly thole their mother’s ban + Afore the howdy. + + This leads me on to tell for sport, + How I did wi’ the Session sort; + Auld Clinkum, at the inner port, + Cried three times, “Robin! + Come hither lad, and answer for’t, + Ye’re blam’d for jobbin!” + + Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on, + An’ snoov’d awa before the Session: + I made an open, fair confession— + I scorn’t to lee, + An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression, + Fell foul o’ me. + + A fornicator-loun he call’d me, + An’ said my faut frae bliss expell’d me; + I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me, + “But, what the matter? + (Quo’ I) I fear unless ye geld me, + I’ll ne’er be better!” + + “Geld you! (quo’ he) an’ what for no? + If that your right hand, leg or toe + Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe, + You should remember + To cut it aff—an’ what for no + Your dearest member?” + + “Na, na, (quo’ I,) I’m no for that, + Gelding’s nae better than ’tis ca’t; + I’d rather suffer for my faut + A hearty flewit, + As sair owre hip as ye can draw’t, + Tho’ I should rue it. + + “Or, gin ye like to end the bother, + To please us a’—I’ve just ae ither— + When next wi’ yon lass I forgather, + Whate’er betide it, + I’ll frankly gie her ’t a’ thegither, + An’ let her guide it.” + + But, sir, this pleas’d them warst of a’, + An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw, + I said “Gude night,” an’ cam’ awa’, + An’ left the Session; + I saw they were resolved a’ + On my oppression. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0140"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Brigs Of Ayr + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Poem + + Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr. + + The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, + Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough; + The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, + Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; + The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, + Or deep-ton’d plovers grey, wild-whistling o’er the hill; + Shall he—nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed, + To hardy independence bravely bred, + By early poverty to hardship steel’d. + And train’d to arms in stern Misfortune’s field— + Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, + The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? + Or labour hard the panegyric close, + With all the venal soul of dedicating prose? + No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, + And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings, + He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, + Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. + Still, if some patron’s gen’rous care he trace, + Skill’d in the secret, to bestow with grace; + When Ballantine befriends his humble name, + And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, + With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, + The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. + + ’Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, + And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; + Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith + O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; + The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, + Unnumber’d buds an’ flow’rs’ delicious spoils, + Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, + Are doom’d by Man, that tyrant o’er the weak, + The death o’ devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek: + The thundering guns are heard on ev’ry side, + The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; + The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie, + Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: + (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, + And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!) + Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs, + Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, + Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee, + Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: + The hoary morns precede the sunny days, + Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, + While thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays. + + ’Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, + Unknown and poor—simplicity’s reward!— + Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, + By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care, + He left his bed, and took his wayward route, + And down by Simpson’s<sup>1</sup> wheel’d the left about: + (Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, + To witness what I after shall narrate; + Or whether, rapt in meditation high, + He wander’d out, he knew not where or why:) + The drowsy Dungeon-clock<sup>2</sup> had number’d two, + and Wallace Tower<sup>2</sup> had sworn the fact was true: + The tide-swoln firth, with sullen-sounding roar, + Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore. + All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e; + The silent moon shone high o’er tower and tree; + The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, + Crept, gently-crusting, o’er the glittering stream— + When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard, + The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; + Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air; + Swift as the gos<sup>3</sup> drives on the wheeling hare; + Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, + The other flutters o’er the rising piers: + Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcried + The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. + (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, + And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk; + Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, + And even the very deils they brawly ken them). + Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race, + The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; + He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, + Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. + + [Footnote 1: A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 2: The two steeples.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 3: The Gos-hawk, or Falcon.—R. B.] + + New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, + That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got; + In ’s hand five taper staves as smooth ’s a bead, + Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head. + The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, + Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch; + It chanc’d his new-come neibor took his e’e, + And e’en a vexed and angry heart had he! + Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, + He, down the water, gies him this guid-e’en:— +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Auld Brig + + “I doubt na, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheepshank, + Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! + But gin ye be a brig as auld as me— + Tho’ faith, that date, I doubt, ye’ll never see— + There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, + Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + New Brig + + “Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense, + Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense: + Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, + Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, + Your ruin’d, formless bulk o’ stane and lime, + Compare wi’ bonie brigs o’ modern time? + There’s men of taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream,<sup>4</sup> + Tho’ they should cast the very sark and swim, + E’er they would grate their feelings wi’ the view + O’ sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Auld Brig + + “Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! + This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; + And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn, + I’ll be a brig when ye’re a shapeless cairn! + As yet ye little ken about the matter, + But twa—three winters will inform ye better. + When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains, + + [Footnote 4: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.—R. B.] + + Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains; + When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, + Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil; + Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. + Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, + Aroused by blustering winds an’ spotting thowes, + In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; + While crashing ice, borne on the rolling spate, + Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; + And from Glenbuck,<sup>5</sup> down to the Ratton-key,<sup>6</sup> + Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea— + Then down ye’ll hurl, (deil nor ye never rise!) + And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies! + A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, + That Architecture’s noble art is lost!” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + New Brig + + “Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t, + The Lord be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t! + Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, + Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices; + O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, + Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves; + Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest + With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; + Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, + The craz’d creations of misguided whim; + Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee, + And still the second dread command be free; + Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea! + Mansions that would disgrace the building taste + Of any mason reptile, bird or beast: + Fit only for a doited monkish race, + Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, + Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, + That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion: + Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, + And soon may they expire, unblest wi’ resurrection!” + + [Footnote 5: The source of the River Ayr.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 6: A small landing place above the large quay.—R. B.] +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Auld Brig + + “O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, + Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! + Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, + Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye; + Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, + To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners + Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; + ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown, + Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; + And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers; + A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, + Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? + How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, + To see each melancholy alteration; + And, agonising, curse the time and place + When ye begat the base degen’rate race! + Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory, + In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story; + Nae langer thrifty citizens, an’ douce, + Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; + But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, + The herryment and ruin of the country; + Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, + Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on damn’d new brigs and harbours!” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + New Brig + + “Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, + And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. + As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, + Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle: + But, under favour o’ your langer beard, + Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d; + To liken them to your auld-warld squad, + I must needs say, comparisons are odd. + In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle + To mouth ’a Citizen,’ a term o’ scandal; + Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, + In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; + Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins, + Or gather’d lib’ral views in Bonds and Seisins: + If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, + Had shor’d them with a glimmer of his lamp, + And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them, + Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.” + + What farther clish-ma-claver aight been said, + What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, + No man can tell; but, all before their sight, + A fairy train appear’d in order bright; + Adown the glittering stream they featly danc’d; + Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc’d: + They footed o’er the wat’ry glass so neat, + The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: + While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, + And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. + + O had M’Lauchlan,<sup>7</sup> thairm-inspiring sage, + Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, + When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage; + Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, + The lover’s raptured joys or bleeding cares; + How would his Highland lug been nobler fir’d, + And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d! + No guess could tell what instrument appear’d, + But all the soul of Music’s self was heard; + Harmonious concert rung in every part, + While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. + The Genius of the Stream in front appears, + A venerable Chief advanc’d in years; + His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d, + His manly leg with garter-tangle bound. + Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, + Sweet female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; + Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy, + And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye; + + [Footnote 7: A well-known performer of Scottish music on the + violin.—R. B.] + + All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, + Led yellow Autumn wreath’d with nodding corn; + Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show, + By Hospitality with cloudless brow: + Next followed Courage with his martial stride, + From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide;<sup>8</sup> + Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, + A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair;<sup>9</sup> + Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, + From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:<sup>10</sup> + Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath, + To rustic Agriculture did bequeath + The broken, iron instruments of death: + At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0141"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment Of Song + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The night was still, and o’er the hill + The moon shone on the castle wa’; + The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang + Around her on the castle wa’; + Sae merrily they danced the ring + Frae eenin’ till the cock did craw; + And aye the o’erword o’ the spring + Was “Irvine’s bairns are bonie a’.” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0142"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On Rough Roads + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I’m now arrived—thanks to the gods!— + Thro’ pathways rough and muddy, + A certain sign that makin roads + Is no this people’s study: + Altho’ Im not wi’ Scripture cram’d, + I’m sure the Bible says + That heedless sinners shall be damn’d, + Unless they mend their ways. + + [Footnote 8: A compliment to the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, + on the Feal or Faile, a tributary of the Ayr.] + + [Footnote 9: Mrs. Stewart of Stair, an early patroness of the poet.] + + [Footnote 10: The house of Professor Dugald Stewart.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0143"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Prayer—O Thou Dread Power + </h2></div> + <p> + Lying at a reverend friend’s house one night, the author left the + following verses in the room where he slept:— + </p> +<div class='pre'> + O Thou dread Power, who reign’st above, + I know thou wilt me hear, + When for this scene of peace and love, + I make this prayer sincere. + + The hoary Sire—the mortal stroke, + Long, long be pleas’d to spare; + To bless this little filial flock, + And show what good men are. + + She, who her lovely offspring eyes + With tender hopes and fears, + O bless her with a mother’s joys, + But spare a mother’s tears! + + Their hope, their stay, their darling youth. + In manhood’s dawning blush, + Bless him, Thou God of love and truth, + Up to a parent’s wish. + + The beauteous, seraph sister-band— + With earnest tears I pray— + Thou know’st the snares on ev’ry hand, + Guide Thou their steps alway. + + When, soon or late, they reach that coast, + O’er Life’s rough ocean driven, + May they rejoice, no wand’rer lost, + A family in Heaven! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0144"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Roslin Castle.” + </div> + <p> + “I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to + Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as + my farewell dirge to my native land.”—R. B. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + The gloomy night is gath’ring fast, + Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, + Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, + I see it driving o’er the plain; + The hunter now has left the moor. + The scatt’red coveys meet secure; + While here I wander, prest with care, + Along the lonely banks of Ayr. + + The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn + By early Winter’s ravage torn; + Across her placid, azure sky, + She sees the scowling tempest fly: + Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; + I think upon the stormy wave, + Where many a danger I must dare, + Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. + + ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, + ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; + Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, + The wretched have no more to fear: + But round my heart the ties are bound, + That heart transpierc’d with many a wound; + These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, + To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. + + Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, + Her healthy moors and winding vales; + The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, + Pursuing past, unhappy loves! + Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! + My peace with these, my love with those: + The bursting tears my heart declare— + Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0145"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To The Toothache + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My curse upon your venom’d stang, + That shoots my tortur’d gums alang, + An’ thro’ my lug gies mony a twang, + Wi’ gnawing vengeance, + Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, + Like racking engines! + + When fevers burn, or argues freezes, + Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, + Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us, + Wi’ pitying moan; + But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases— + Aye mocks our groan. + + Adown my beard the slavers trickle + I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, + While round the fire the giglets keckle, + To see me loup, + While, raving mad, I wish a heckle + Were in their doup! + + In a’ the numerous human dools, + Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, + Or worthy frien’s rak’d i’ the mools,— + Sad sight to see! + The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’fools, + Thou bear’st the gree! + + Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, + Where a’ the tones o’ misery yell, + An’ ranked plagues their numbers tell, + In dreadfu’ raw, + Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell, + Amang them a’! + + O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, + That gars the notes o’ discord squeel, + Till daft mankind aft dance a reel + In gore, a shoe-thick, + Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal + A townmond’s toothache! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0146"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + This wot ye all whom it concerns, + I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, + October twenty-third, + + [Footnote 1: At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.] + + A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day, + Sae far I sprackl’d up the brae, + I dinner’d wi’ a Lord. + + I’ve been at drucken writers’ feasts, + Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly priests— + Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken!— + I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum, + When mighty Squireships of the quorum, + Their hydra drouth did sloken. + + But wi’ a Lord!—stand out my shin, + A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son! + Up higher yet, my bonnet + An’ sic a Lord!—lang Scoth ells twa, + Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’, + As I look o’er my sonnet. + + But O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r! + To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r, + An’ how he star’d and stammer’d, + When, goavin, as if led wi’ branks, + An’ stumpin on his ploughman shanks, + He in the parlour hammer’d. + + I sidying shelter’d in a nook, + An’ at his Lordship steal’t a look, + Like some portentous omen; + Except good sense and social glee, + An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty, + I marked nought uncommon. + + I watch’d the symptoms o’ the Great, + The gentle pride, the lordly state, + The arrogant assuming; + The fient a pride, nae pride had he, + Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, + Mair than an honest ploughman. + + Then from his Lordship I shall learn, + Henceforth to meet with unconcern + One rank as weel’s another; + Nae honest, worthy man need care + To meet with noble youthful Daer, + For he but meets a brother. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0147"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Masonic Song + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, + To follow the noble vocation; + Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another + To sit in that honoured station. + I’ve little to say, but only to pray, + As praying’s the ton of your fashion; + A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse + ’Tis seldom her favourite passion. + + Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide, + Who marked each element’s border; + Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, + Whose sovereign statute is order:— + Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention + Or withered Envy ne’er enter; + May secrecy round be the mystical bound, + And brotherly Love be the centre! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0148"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Tam Samson’s Elegy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + An honest man’s the noblest work of God—Pope. +</div> + <p> + When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed + it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed + an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author + composed his elegy and epitaph.—R.B., 1787. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? + Or great Mackinlay<sup>1</sup> thrawn his heel? + Or Robertson<sup>2</sup> again grown weel, + To preach an’ read? + “Na’ waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel, + “Tam Samson’s dead!” + + [Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the + million. Vide “The Ordination.” stanza ii.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, + who was at that time ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,” + stanza ix.—R.B.] + + Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, + An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, + An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean, + In mourning weed; + To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane— + Tam Samson’s dead! + + The Brethren, o’ the mystic level + May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, + While by their nose the tears will revel, + Like ony bead; + Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel; + Tam Samson’s dead! + + When Winter muffles up his cloak, + And binds the mire like a rock; + When to the loughs the curlers flock, + Wi’ gleesome speed, + Wha will they station at the cock? + Tam Samson’s dead! + When Winter muffles up his cloak, + He was the king o’ a’ the core, + To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, + Or up the rink like Jehu roar, + In time o’ need; + But now he lags on Death’s hog-score— + Tam Samson’s dead! + + Now safe the stately sawmont sail, + And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, + And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail, + And geds for greed, + Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail + Tam Samson’s dead! + + Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’; + Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; + Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw + Withouten dread; + Your mortal fae is now awa; + Tam Samson’s dead! + + That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d, + Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d, + While pointers round impatient burn’d, + Frae couples free’d; + But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d! + Tam Samson’s dead! + + In vain auld age his body batters, + In vain the gout his ancles fetters, + In vain the burns cam down like waters, + An acre braid! + Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters + “Tam Samson’s dead!” + + Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, + An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit, + Till coward Death behind him jumpit, + Wi’ deadly feid; + Now he proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet, + “Tam Samson’s dead!” + + When at his heart he felt the dagger, + He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger, + But yet he drew the mortal trigger, + Wi’ weel-aimed heed; + “Lord, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger— + Tam Samson’s dead! + + Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither; + Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father; + Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, + Marks out his head; + Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, + “Tam Samson’s dead!” + + There, low he lies, in lasting rest; + Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast + Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest + To hatch an’ breed: + Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest! + Tam Samson’s dead! + + When August winds the heather wave, + And sportsmen wander by yon grave, + Three volleys let his memory crave, + O’ pouther an’ lead, + Till Echo answer frae her cave, + “Tam Samson’s dead!” + + Heav’n rest his saul whare’er he be! + Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me: + He had twa fauts, or maybe three, + Yet what remead? + Ae social, honest man want we: + Tam Samson’s dead! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0149"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Epitaph + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies + Ye canting zealots, spare him! + If honest worth in Heaven rise, + Ye’ll mend or ye win near him. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0150"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Per Contra + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly + Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie;<sup>3</sup> + Tell ev’ry social honest billie + To cease his grievin’; + For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. + Tam Samson’s leevin’! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0151"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Major Logan + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie! + Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly + To every fiddling, rhyming billie, + We never heed, + But take it like the unback’d filly, + Proud o’ her speed. + + [Footnote 3: Kilmarnock.—R. B.] + + When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter, + Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter, + Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter, + Some black bog-hole, + Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter + We’re forced to thole. + + Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle! + Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, + To cheer you through the weary widdle + O’ this wild warl’. + Until you on a crummock driddle, + A grey hair’d carl. + + Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, + Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, + And screw your temper-pins aboon + A fifth or mair + The melancholious, lazy croon + O’ cankrie care. + + May still your life from day to day, + Nae “lente largo” in the play, + But “allegretto forte” gay, + Harmonious flow, + A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey— + Encore! Bravo! + + A blessing on the cheery gang + Wha dearly like a jig or sang, + An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang + By square an’ rule, + But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang, + Are wise or fool. + + My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase + The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, + Wha count on poortith as disgrace; + Their tuneless hearts, + May fireside discords jar a base + To a’ their parts. + + But come, your hand, my careless brither, + I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither, + An’ that there is, I’ve little swither + About the matter; + We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither, + I’se ne’er bid better. + + We’ve faults and failings—granted clearly, + We’re frail backsliding mortals merely, + Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly + For our grand fa’; + But still, but still, I like them dearly— + God bless them a’! + + Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers, + When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers! + The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers + Hae put me hyte, + And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, + Wi’ girnin’spite. + + By by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin— + An’ every star within my hearin! + An’ by her een wha was a dear ane! + I’ll ne’er forget; + I hope to gie the jads a clearin + In fair play yet. + + My loss I mourn, but not repent it; + I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it; + Ance to the Indies I were wonted, + Some cantraip hour + By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted; + Then vive l’amour! + + Faites mes baissemains respectueuses, + To sentimental sister Susie, + And honest Lucky; no to roose you, + Ye may be proud, + That sic a couple Fate allows ye, + To grace your blood. + + Nae mair at present can I measure, + An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure; + But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure, + Be’t light, be’t dark, + Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure + To call at Park. + + Robert Burns. + Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0152"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment On Sensibility + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Rusticity’s ungainly form + May cloud the highest mind; + But when the heart is nobly warm, + The good excuse will find. + + Propriety’s cold, cautious rules + Warm fervour may o’erlook: + But spare poor sensibility + Th’ ungentle, harsh rebuke. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0153"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Winter Night + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, + That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! + How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, + Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you + From seasons such as these?—Shakespeare. + + When biting Boreas, fell and dour, + Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; + When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, + Far south the lift, + Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r, + Or whirling drift: + + Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, + Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, + While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked, + Wild-eddying swirl; + Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked, + Down headlong hurl: + + List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle, + I thought me on the ourie cattle, + Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle + O’ winter war, + And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle + Beneath a scar. + + Ilk happing bird,—wee, helpless thing! + That, in the merry months o’ spring, + Delighted me to hear thee sing, + What comes o’ thee? + Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, + An’ close thy e’e? + + Ev’n you, on murdering errands toil’d, + Lone from your savage homes exil’d, + The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d + My heart forgets, + While pityless the tempest wild + Sore on you beats! + + Now Phoebe in her midnight reign, + Dark-muff’d, view’d the dreary plain; + Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, + Rose in my soul, + When on my ear this plantive strain, + Slow, solemn, stole:— + + “Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! + And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! + Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! + Not all your rage, as now united, shows + More hard unkindness unrelenting, + Vengeful malice unrepenting. + Than heaven-illumin’d Man on brother Man bestows! + + “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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0154"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Yon Wild Mossy Mountains + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0155"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To Edinburgh + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0156"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To A Haggis + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0157"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1787 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0158"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0159"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Mr. William Smellie—A Sketch + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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’ Willie<sup>1</sup> + + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0160"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Bonie Dundee + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0161"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Extempore In The Court Of Session + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Killiercrankie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Mr. Erskine + + Collected, Harry stood awee, + Then open’d out his arm, man; + + [Footnote 1: William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles, + a convivial club.] + + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0162"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + 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? + + [Footnote 1: The stone was erected at Burns’ expenses in + February—March, 1789.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0163"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Mrs. Scott + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Gudewife of Wauchope—House, Roxburghshire. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + 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 +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0164"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_PROL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Prologue + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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? + + [Footnote 1: The Nobleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.] + + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0166"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Bonie Moor-Hen + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0167"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—My Lord A-Hunting + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0168"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram At Roslin Inn + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0169"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram Addressed To An Artist + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0170"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Book-Worms + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves, + Ye maggots, make your windings; + But O respect his lordship’s taste, + And spare his golden bindings. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0171"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0172"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—A Bottle And Friend + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0173"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0174"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph For Mr. William Michie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0175"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. + + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0176"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0177"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Auld chuckie Reekie’s<sup>1</sup> 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! + + [Footnote 1: Edinburgh.] + + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkrenton"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Note To Mr. Renton Of Lamerton + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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 +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0178"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On “Stella” + </h2></div> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + 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? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0179"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Bard At Inverary + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0180"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram To Miss Jean Scott + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O had each Scot of ancient times + Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; + The bravest heart on English ground + Had yielded like a coward. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0181"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq, + </h2></div> + <h3> + Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author’s. + </h3> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0182"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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;<sup>1</sup> + Or mus’d where limpid streams, once hallow’d well,<sup>2</sup> + Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane.<sup>3</sup> + + 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. + + [Footnote 1: The King’s Park at Holyrood House.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 2: St. Anthony’s well.—R. B.] + + [Footnote 3: St. Anthony’s Chapel.—R. B.] + + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0183"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Impromptu On Carron Iron Works + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0184"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Miss Ferrier + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0185"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Written By Somebody On The Window + </h2></div> + <h3> + Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin. + </h3> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0186"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Poet’s Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic + </h2></div> + <p> + 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:— + </p> +<div class='pre'> + With Esop’s lion, Burns says: Sore I feel + Each other’s scorn, but damn that ass’ heel! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0187"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Libeller’s Self-Reproof<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0188"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Verses Written With A Pencil + </h2></div> + <h3> + Over the Chimney—piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, + Taymouth. + </h3> +<div class='pre'> + 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, + + [Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.—Lang.] + + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0189"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—The Birks Of Aberfeldy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Birks of Abergeldie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0190"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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.<sup>1</sup> + + The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts, + That thro’ my waters play, + If, in their random, wanton spouts, + They near the margin stray; + + [Footnote 1: Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque + and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of + trees and shrubs.—R.B.] + + 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! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0191"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Written with a Pencil on the Spot. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + 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— +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0192"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0193"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Strathallan’s Lament<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Thickest night, o’erhang my dwelling! + Howling tempests, o’er me rave! + Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, + Roaring by my lonely cave! + + [Footnote 1: Burns confesses that his Jacobtism was merely + sentimental “except when my passions were heated by some + accidental cause,” and a tour through the country where Montrose, + Claverhouse, and Prince Charles had fought, was cause enough. + Strathallan fell gloriously at Culloden.—Lang.] + + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0194"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Castle Gordon + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0195"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Ruffian’s Rant.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0196"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Theniel Menzies’ Bonie Mary + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“The Ruffian’s Rant,” or “Roy’s Wife.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0197"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Bonie Lass Of Albany<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Mary’s Dream.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + 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. + + Alas the day, and woe the day, + A false usurper wan the gree, + Who now commands the towers and lands— + The royal right of Albany. + + We’ll daily pray, we’ll nightly pray, + On bended knees most fervently, + The time may come, with pipe an’ drum + We’ll welcome hame fair Albany. + + [Footnote 1: Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0198"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre. +</div> + <p> + “This was the production of a solitary forenoon’s walk from Oughtertyre + House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three + weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that + the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world. ’Tis lucky + that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come.” + —R.B., Glenriddell MSS. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Why, ye tenants of the lake, + For me your wat’ry haunt forsake? + Tell me, fellow-creatures, why + At my presence thus you fly? + Why disturb your social joys, + Parent, filial, kindred ties?— + Common friend to you and me, + yature’s gifts to all are free: + Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, + Busy feed, or wanton lave; + Or, beneath the sheltering rock, + Bide the surging billow’s shock. + + Conscious, blushing for our race, + Soon, too soon, your fears I trace, + Man, your proud, usurping foe, + Would be lord of all below: + Plumes himself in freedom’s pride, + Tyrant stern to all beside. + + The eagle, from the cliffy brow, + Marking you his prey below, + In his breast no pity dwells, + Strong necessity compels: + But Man, to whom alone is giv’n + A ray direct from pitying Heav’n, + Glories in his heart humane— + And creatures for his pleasure slain! + + In these savage, liquid plains, + Only known to wand’ring swains, + Where the mossy riv’let strays, + Far from human haunts and ways; + All on Nature you depend, + And life’s poor season peaceful spend. + + Or, if man’s superior might + Dare invade your native right, + On the lofty ether borne, + Man with all his pow’rs you scorn; + Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, + Other lakes and other springs; + And the foe you cannot brave, + Scorn at least to be his slave. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0199"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Blythe Was She<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Andro and his Cutty Gun.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Blythe, blythe and merry was she, + Blythe was she but and ben; + Blythe by the banks of Earn, + And blythe in Glenturit glen. + + By Oughtertyre grows the aik, + On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; + But Phemie was a bonier lass + Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw. + Blythe, blythe, &c. + + Her looks were like a flow’r in May, + Her smile was like a simmer morn: + She tripped by the banks o’ Earn, + As light’s a bird upon a thorn. + Blythe, blythe, &c. + + Her bonie face it was as meek + As ony lamb upon a lea; + The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet, + As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e. + Blythe, blythe, &c. + + [Footnote 1: Written at Oughtertyre. Phemie is Miss Euphemia + Murray, a cousin of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.—Lang.] + + The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide, + And o’er the Lawlands I hae been; + But Phemie was the blythest lass + That ever trod the dewy green. + Blythe, blythe, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0200"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Rose-bud by my early walk, + Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, + Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, + All on a dewy morning. + Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled, + In a’ its crimson glory spread, + And drooping rich the dewy head, + It scents the early morning. + + Within the bush her covert nest + A little linnet fondly prest; + The dew sat chilly on her breast, + Sae early in the morning. + She soon shall see her tender brood, + The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood, + Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d, + Awake the early morning. + + So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, + On trembling string or vocal air, + Shall sweetly pay the tender care + That tents thy early morning. + So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay, + Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, + And bless the parent’s evening ray + That watch’d thy early morning. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0201"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph For Mr. W. Cruikshank<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Honest Will to Heaven’s away + And mony shall lament him; + His fau’ts they a’ in Latin lay, + In English nane e’er kent them. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkdevon"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—The Banks Of The Devon + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Bhanarach dhonn a’ chruidh.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, + With green spreading bushes and flow’rs blooming fair! + But the boniest flow’r on the banks of the Devon + Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. + Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, + In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; + And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, + That steals on the evening each leaf to renew! + + O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, + With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn; + And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes + The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn! + Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, + And England triumphant display her proud rose: + A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, + Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0202"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Braving Angry Winter’s Storms + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Neil Gow’s Lament for Abercairny.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Where, braving angry winter’s storms, + The lofty Ochils rise, + Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms + First blest my wondering eyes; + As one who by some savage stream + A lonely gem surveys, + Astonish’d, doubly marks it beam + With art’s most polish’d blaze. + + [Footnote 1: Of the Edinburgh High School.] + + Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade, + And blest the day and hour, + Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d, + When first I felt their pow’r! + The tyrant Death, with grim control, + May seize my fleeting breath; + But tearing Peggy from my soul + Must be a stronger death. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0203"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—My Peggy’s Charms + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Tha a’ chailleach ir mo dheigh.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form, + The frost of hermit Age might warm; + My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind, + Might charm the first of human kind. + + I love my Peggy’s angel air, + Her face so truly heavenly fair, + Her native grace, so void of art, + But I adore my Peggy’s heart. + + The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye, + The kindling lustre of an eye; + Who but owns their magic sway! + Who but knows they all decay! + + The tender thrill, the pitying tear, + The generous purpose nobly dear, + The gentle look that rage disarms— + These are all Immortal charms. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0204"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Young Highland Rover + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Morag.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Loud blaw the frosty breezes, + The snaws the mountains cover; + Like winter on me seizes, + Since my young Highland rover + Far wanders nations over. + + Where’er he go, where’er he stray, + May heaven be his warden; + Return him safe to fair Strathspey, + And bonie Castle-Gordon! + + The trees, now naked groaning, + Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging, + The birdies dowie moaning, + Shall a’ be blythely singing, + And every flower be springing; + Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day, + When by his mighty Warden + My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey, + And bonie Castle-Gordon. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0205"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Afar the illustrious Exile roams, + Whom kingdoms on this day should hail; + An inmate in the casual shed, + On transient pity’s bounty fed, + Haunted by busy memory’s bitter tale! + Beasts of the forest have their savage homes, + But He, who should imperial purple wear, + Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head! + His wretched refuge, dark despair, + While ravening wrongs and woes pursue, + And distant far the faithful few + Who would his sorrows share. + + False flatterer, Hope, away! + Nor think to lure us as in days of yore: + We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, + To prove our loyal truth—we can no more, + And owning Heaven’s mysterious sway, + Submissive, low adore. + + Ye honored, mighty Dead, + Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, + Your King, your Country, and her laws, + + [Footnote 1: The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward.] + + From great Dundee, who smiling Victory led, + And fell a Martyr in her arms, + (What breast of northern ice but warms!) + To bold Balmerino’s undying name, + Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven’s high flame, + Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim: + Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie, + It only lags, the fatal hour, + Your blood shall, with incessant cry, + Awake at last, th’ unsparing Power; + As from the cliff, with thundering course, + The snowy ruin smokes along + With doubling speed and gathering force, + Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale; + So Vengeance’ arm, ensanguin’d, strong, + Shall with resistless might assail, + Usurping Brunswick’s pride shall lay, + And Stewart’s wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay. + + Perdition, baleful child of night! + Rise and revenge the injured right + Of Stewart’s royal race: + Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell, + Till all the frighted echoes tell + The blood-notes of the chase! + Full on the quarry point their view, + Full on the base usurping crew, + The tools of faction, and the nation’s curse! + Hark how the cry grows on the wind; + They leave the lagging gale behind, + Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour; + With murdering eyes already they devour; + See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey, + His life one poor despairing day, + Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse! + Such havock, howling all abroad, + Their utter ruin bring, + The base apostates to their God, + Or rebels to their King. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0206"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston, + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Late Lord President of the Court of Session. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks + Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; + Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, + The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains; + Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan; + The hollow caves return a hollow moan. + Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, + Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! + Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, + Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly; + Where, to the whistling blast and water’s roar, + Pale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore. + + O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! + A loss these evil days can ne’er repair! + Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, + Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway’d her rod: + Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, + She sank, abandon’d to the wildest woe. + + Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, + Now, gay in hope, explore the paths of men: + See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, + And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; + Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, + And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry: + Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, + Rousing elate in these degenerate times, + View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, + As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: + While subtle Litigation’s pliant tongue + The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: + Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale, + And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours the unpitied wail! + + Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains, + Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains: + Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! + Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. + Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign; + Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, + To mourn the woes my country must endure— + That would degenerate ages cannot cure. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0207"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sylvander To Clarinda<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> + <p> + Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the + signature of “Clarinda” and entitled, On Burns saying he ’had nothing else + to do.’ + </p> +<div class='pre'> + When dear Clarinda, matchless fair, + First struck Sylvander’s raptur’d view, + He gaz’d, he listened to despair, + Alas! ’twas all he dared to do. + + Love, from Clarinda’s heavenly eyes, + Transfixed his bosom thro’ and thro’; + But still in Friendships’ guarded guise, + For more the demon fear’d to do. + + That heart, already more than lost, + The imp beleaguer’d all perdue; + For frowning Honour kept his post— + To meet that frown, he shrunk to do. + + His pangs the Bard refused to own, + Tho’ half he wish’d Clarinda knew; + But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan— + Who blames what frantic Pain must do? + + That heart, where motley follies blend, + Was sternly still to Honour true: + To prove Clarinda’s fondest friend, + Was what a lover sure might do. + + [Footnote 1: A grass-widow, Mrs. M’Lehose.] + + The Muse his ready quill employed, + No nearer bliss he could pursue; + That bliss Clarinda cold deny’d— + “Send word by Charles how you do!” + + The chill behest disarm’d his muse, + Till passion all impatient grew: + He wrote, and hinted for excuse, + ’Twas, ’cause “he’d nothing else to do.” + + But by those hopes I have above! + And by those faults I dearly rue! + The deed, the boldest mark of love, + For thee that deed I dare uo do! + + O could the Fates but name the price + Would bless me with your charms and you! + With frantic joy I’d pay it thrice, + If human art and power could do! + + Then take, Clarinda, friendship’s hand, + (Friendship, at least, I may avow;) + And lay no more your chill command,— + I’ll write whatever I’ve to do. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0208"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1788 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0209"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Love In The Guise Of Friendship + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Your friendship much can make me blest, + O why that bliss destroy! + Why urge the only, one request + You know I will deny! + + Your thought, if Love must harbour there, + Conceal it in that thought; + Nor cause me from my bosom tear + The very friend I sought. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0210"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + For thee is laughing Nature gay, + For thee she pours the vernal day; + For me in vain is Nature drest, + While Joy’s a stranger to my breast. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0211"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Clarinda, mistres of my soul, + The measur’d time is run! + The wretch beneath the dreary pole + So marks his latest sun. + + To what dark cave of frozen night + Shall poor Sylvander hie; + Depriv’d of thee, his life and light, + The sun of all his joy? + + We part—but by these precious drops, + That fill thy lovely eyes, + No other light shall guide my steps, + Till thy bright beams arise! + + She, the fair sun of all her sex, + Has blest my glorious day; + And shall a glimmering planet fix + My worship to its ray? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0212"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young, + I’m o’er young to marry yet; + I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sin + To tak me frae my mammy yet. + + I am my mammny’s ae bairn, + Wi’ unco folk I weary, sir; + And lying in a man’s bed, + I’m fley’d it mak me eerie, sir. + I’m o’er young, &c. + + My mammie coft me a new gown, + The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; + Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, + I’m feared ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. + I’m o’er young, &c. + + Hallowmass is come and gane, + The nights are lang in winter, sir, + And you an’ I in ae bed, + In trowth, I dare na venture, sir. + I’m o’er young, &c. + + Fu’ loud an’ shill the frosty wind + Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, sir; + But if ye come this gate again; + I’ll aulder be gin simmer, sir. + I’m o’er young, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0213"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To The Weavers Gin Ye Go + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My heart was ance as blithe and free + As simmer days were lang; + But a bonie, westlin weaver lad + Has gart me change my sang. + + Chorus.—To the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids, + To the weaver’s gin ye go; + I rede you right, gang ne’er at night, + To the weaver’s gin ye go. + + My mither sent me to the town, + To warp a plaiden wab; + But the weary, weary warpin o’t + Has gart me sigh and sab. + To the weaver’s, &c. + + A bonie, westlin weaver lad + Sat working at his loom; + He took my heart as wi’ a net, + In every knot and thrum. + To the weaver’s, &c. + + I sat beside my warpin-wheel, + And aye I ca’d it roun’; + But every shot and evey knock, + My heart it gae a stoun. + To the weaver’s, &c. + + The moon was sinking in the west, + Wi’ visage pale and wan, + As my bonie, westlin weaver lad + Convoy’d me thro’ the glen. + To the weaver’s, &c. + + But what was said, or what was done, + Shame fa’ me gin I tell; + But Oh! I fear the kintra soon + Will ken as weel’s myself! + To the weaver’s, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0214"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + M’Pherson’s Farewell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“M’Pherson’s Rant.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, + The wretch’s destinie! + M’Pherson’s time will not be long + On yonder gallows-tree. + + Chorus.—Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, + Sae dauntingly gaed he; + He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round, + Below the gallows-tree. + + O, what is death but parting breath? + On many a bloody plain + I’ve dared his face, and in this place + I scorn him yet again! + Sae rantingly, &c. + + Untie these bands from off my hands, + And bring me to my sword; + And there’s no a man in all Scotland + But I’ll brave him at a word. + Sae rantingly, &c. + + I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife; + I die by treacherie: + It burns my heart I must depart, + And not avenged be. + Sae rantingly, &c. + + Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, + And all beneath the sky! + May coward shame distain his name, + The wretch that dares not die! + Sae rantingly, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0215"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Stay My Charmer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“An gille dubh ciar-dhubh.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Stay my charmer, can you leave me? + Cruel, cruel to deceive me; + Well you know how much you grieve me; + Cruel charmer, can you go! + Cruel charmer, can you go! + + By my love so ill-requited, + By the faith you fondly plighted, + By the pangs of lovers slighted, + Do not, do not liave me so! + Do not, do not leave me so! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0216"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—My Hoggie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + What will I do gin my Hoggie die? + My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! + My only beast, I had nae mae, + And vow but I was vogie! + The lee-lang night we watch’d the fauld, + Me and my faithfu’ doggie; + We heard nocht but the roaring linn, + Amang the braes sae scroggie. + + But the houlet cry’d frau the castle wa’, + The blitter frae the boggie; + The tod reply’d upon the hill, + I trembled for my Hoggie. + When day did daw, and cocks did craw, + The morning it was foggie; + An unco tyke, lap o’er the dyke, + And maist has kill’d my Hoggie! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0217"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Raving Winds Around Her Blowing + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“M’Grigor of Roro’s Lament.” + </div> + <p> + I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M’Leod of Raza, alluding to her + feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death + of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudoun, who shot himself out of + sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the + deranged state of his finances.—R.B., 1971. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Raving winds around her blowing, + Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, + By a river hoarsely roaring, + Isabella stray’d deploring— + + “Farewell, hours that late did measure + Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; + Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, + Cheerless night that knows no morrow! + + “O’er the past too fondly wandering, + On the hopeless future pondering; + Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, + Fell despair my fancy seizes. + + “Life, thou soul of every blessing, + Load to misery most distressing, + Gladly how would I resign thee, + And to dark oblivion join thee!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0218"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Up In The Morning Early + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, + The drift is driving sairly; + Sae loud and shill’s I hear the blast— + I’m sure it’s winter fairly. + + Chorus.—Up in the morning’s no for me, + Up in the morning early; + When a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw, + I’m sure it’s winter fairly. + + The birds sit chittering in the thorn, + A’ day they fare but sparely; + And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn— + I’m sure it’s winter fairly. + Up in the morning’s, &c. + + How Long And Dreary Is The Night + + How long and dreary is the night, + When I am frae my dearie! + I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn, + Tho’ I were ne’er so weary: + I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn, + Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary! + + When I think on the happy days + I spent wi’ you my dearie: + And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + + How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! + It wasna sae ye glinted by, + When I was wi’ my dearie! + It wasna sae ye glinted by, + When I was wi’ my dearie! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0219"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Hey, The Dusty Miller + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Hey, the dusty Miller, + And his dusty coat, + He will win a shilling, + Or he spend a groat: + Dusty was the coat, + Dusty was the colour, + Dusty was the kiss + That I gat frae the Miller. + + Hey, the dusty Miller, + And his dusty sack; + Leeze me on the calling + Fills the dusty peck: + Fills the dusty peck, + Brings the dusty siller; + I wad gie my coatie + For the dusty Miller. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0220"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Duncan Davison + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg, + And she held o’er the moors to spin; + There was a lad that follow’d her, + They ca’d him Duncan Davison. + The moor was dreigh, and Meg was skeigh, + Her favour Duncan could na win; + For wi’ the rock she wad him knock, + And aye she shook the temper-pin. + + As o’er the moor they lightly foor, + A burn was clear, a glen was green, + Upon the banks they eas’d their shanks, + And aye she set the wheel between: + But Duncan swoor a haly aith, + That Meg should be a bride the morn; + Then Meg took up her spinning-graith, + And flang them a’ out o’er the burn. + + We will big a wee, wee house, + And we will live like king and queen; + Sae blythe and merry’s we will be, + When ye set by the wheel at e’en. + A man may drink, and no be drunk; + A man may fight, and no be slain; + A man may kiss a bonie lass, + And aye be welcome back again! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0221"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lad They Ca’Jumpin John + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad + Forbidden she wadna be: + She wadna trow’t the browst she brew’d, + Wad taste sae bitterlie. + + Chorus.—The lang lad they ca’Jumpin John + Beguil’d the bonie lassie, + The lang lad they ca’Jumpin John + Beguil’d the bonie lassie. + + A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, + And thretty gude shillin’s and three; + A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man’s dochter, + The lass wi’ the bonie black e’e. + The lang lad, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0222"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Talk Of Him That’s Far Awa + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Musing on the roaring ocean, + Which divides my love and me; + Wearying heav’n in warm devotion, + For his weal where’er he be. + + Hope and Fear’s alternate billow + Yielding late to Nature’s law, + Whispering spirits round my pillow, + Talk of him that’s far awa. + + Ye whom sorrow never wounded, + Ye who never shed a tear, + Care—untroubled, joy—surrounded, + Gaudy day to you is dear. + + Gentle night, do thou befriend me, + Downy sleep, the curtain draw; + Spirits kind, again attend me, + Talk of him that’s far awa! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0223"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Daunton Me + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, + The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, + The frost may freeze the deepest sea; + But an auld man shall never daunton me. + Refrain.—To daunton me, to daunton me, + And auld man shall never daunton me. + + To daunton me, and me sae young, + Wi’ his fause heart and flatt’ring tongue, + That is the thing you shall never see, + For an auld man shall never daunton me. + To daunton me, &c. + + For a’ his meal and a’ his maut, + For a’ his fresh beef and his saut, + For a’ his gold and white monie, + And auld men shall never daunton me. + To daunton me, &c. + + His gear may buy him kye and yowes, + His gear may buy him glens and knowes; + But me he shall not buy nor fee, + For an auld man shall never daunton me. + To daunton me, &c. + + He hirples twa fauld as he dow, + Wi’ his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, + And the rain rains down frae his red blear’d e’e; + That auld man shall never daunton me. + To daunton me, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0224"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Winter It Is Past + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The winter it is past, and the summer comes at last + And the small birds, they sing on ev’ry tree; + Now ev’ry thing is glad, while I am very sad, + Since my true love is parted from me. + + The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear, + May have charms for the linnet or the bee; + Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, + But my true love is parted from me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkbonie_lad"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Bonie Lad That’s Far Awa + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O how can I be blythe and glad, + Or how can I gang brisk and braw, + When the bonie lad that I lo’e best + Is o’er the hills and far awa! + + It’s no the frosty winter wind, + It’s no the driving drift and snaw; + But aye the tear comes in my e’e, + To think on him that’s far awa. + + My father pat me frae his door, + My friends they hae disown’d me a’; + But I hae ane will tak my part, + The bonie lad that’s far awa. + + A pair o’ glooves he bought to me, + And silken snoods he gae me twa; + And I will wear them for his sake, + The bonie lad that’s far awa. + + O weary Winter soon will pass, + And Spring will cleed the birken shaw; + And my young babie will be born, + And he’ll be hame that’s far awa. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0225"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Verses To Clarinda + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sent with a Pair of Wine-Glasses. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul, + And Queen of Poetesses; + Clarinda, take this little boon, + This humble pair of glasses: + + And fill them up with generous juice, + As generous as your mind; + And pledge them to the generous toast, + “The whole of human kind!” + + “To those who love us!” second fill; + But not to those whom we love; + Lest we love those who love not us— + A third—“To thee and me, Love!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0226"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Chevalier’s Lament + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“Captain O’Kean.” + + The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, + The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale; + The primroses blow in the dews of the morning, + And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale: + But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, + When the lingering moments are numbered by care? + No birds sweetly singing, nor flow’rs gaily springing, + Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. + + The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice? + A king and a father to place on his throne! + His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, + Where the wild beasts find shelter, tho’ I can find none! + But ’tis not my suff’rings, thus wretched, forlorn, + My brave gallant friends, ’tis your ruin I mourn; + Your faith proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,— + Alas! I can make it no better return! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0227"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Hugh Parker + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + In this strange land, this uncouth clime, + A land unknown to prose or rhyme; + Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles, + Nor limpit in poetic shackles: + A land that Prose did never view it, + Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it; + Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek, + Hid in an atmosphere of reek, + I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk, + I hear it—for in vain I leuk. + The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, + Enhusked by a fog infernal: + Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, + I sit and count my sins by chapters; + For life and spunk like ither Christians, + I’m dwindled down to mere existence, + Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies, + Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes, + Jenny, my Pegasean pride! + Dowie she saunters down Nithside, + And aye a westlin leuk she throws, + While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose! + Was it for this, wi’ cannie care, + Thou bure the Bard through many a shire? + At howes, or hillocks never stumbled, + And late or early never grumbled?— + O had I power like inclination, + I’d heeze thee up a constellation, + To canter with the Sagitarre, + Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; + Or turn the pole like any arrow; + Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, + Down the zodiac urge the race, + And cast dirt on his godship’s face; + For I could lay my bread and kail + He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.— + Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief, + And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief, + And nought but peat reek i’ my head, + How can I write what ye can read?— + Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June, + Ye’ll find me in a better tune; + But till we meet and weet our whistle, + Tak this excuse for nae epistle. + + Robert Burns. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0228"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Of A’ The Airts The Wind Can Blaw<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Miss Admiral Gordon’s Strathspey.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, + I dearly like the west, + For there the bonie lassie lives, + The lassie I lo’e best: + + [Footnote 1: Written during a separation from Mrs. Burns in their + honeymoon. Burns was preparing a home at Ellisland; Mrs. Burns + was at Mossgiel.—Lang.] + + There’s wild-woods grow, and rivers row, + And mony a hill between: + But day and night my fancys’ flight + Is ever wi’ my Jean. + + I see her in the dewy flowers, + I see her sweet and fair: + I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, + I hear her charm the air: + There’s not a bonie flower that springs, + By fountain, shaw, or green; + There’s not a bonie bird that sings, + But minds me o’ my Jean. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0229"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—I Hae a Wife O’ My Ain + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I Hae a wife of my ain, + I’ll partake wi’ naebody; + I’ll take Cuckold frae nane, + I’ll gie Cuckold to naebody. + + I hae a penny to spend, + There—thanks to naebody! + I hae naething to lend, + I’ll borrow frae naebody. + + I am naebody’s lord, + I’ll be slave to naebody; + I hae a gude braid sword, + I’ll tak dunts frae naebody. + + I’ll be merry and free, + I’ll be sad for naebody; + Naebody cares for me, + I care for naebody. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0230"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines Written In Friars’-Carse Hermitage + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788. + + Thou whom chance may hither lead, + Be thou clad in russet weed, + Be thou deckt in silken stole, + Grave these maxims on thy soul. + + Life is but a day at most, + Sprung from night, in darkness lost: + Hope not sunshine every hour, + Fear not clouds will always lour. + + Happiness is but a name, + Make content and ease thy aim, + Ambition is a meteor-gleam; + Fame, an idle restless dream; + + Peace, the tend’rest flow’r of spring; + Pleasures, insects on the wing; + Those that sip the dew alone— + Make the butterflies thy own; + Those that would the bloom devour— + Crush the locusts, save the flower. + + For the future be prepar’d, + Guard wherever thou can’st guard; + But thy utmost duly done, + Welcome what thou can’st not shun. + Follies past, give thou to air, + Make their consequence thy care: + Keep the name of Man in mind, + And dishonour not thy kind. + Reverence with lowly heart + Him, whose wondrous work thou art; + Keep His Goodness still in view, + Thy trust, and thy example, too. + + Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! + Quod the Beadsman of Nidside. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0231"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Alex. Cunningham, ESQ., Writer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ellisland, Nithsdale, July 27th, 1788. + + My godlike friend—nay, do not stare, + You think the phrase is odd-like; + But God is love, the saints declare, + Then surely thou art god-like. + + And is thy ardour still the same? + And kindled still at Anna? + Others may boast a partial flame, + But thou art a volcano! + + Ev’n Wedlock asks not love beyond + Death’s tie-dissolving portal; + But thou, omnipotently fond, + May’st promise love immortal! + + Thy wounds such healing powers defy, + Such symptoms dire attend them, + That last great antihectic try— + Marriage perhaps may mend them. + + Sweet Anna has an air—a grace, + Divine, magnetic, touching: + She talks, she charms—but who can trace + The process of bewitching? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0232"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song.—Anna, Thy Charms + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, + And waste my soul with care; + But ah! how bootless to admire, + When fated to despair! + + Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, + To hope may be forgiven; + For sure ’twere impious to despair + So much in sight of heaven. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0233"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Fete Champetre + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Killiecrankie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O Wha will to Saint Stephen’s House, + To do our errands there, man? + O wha will to Saint Stephen’s House + O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man? + + Or will we send a man o’ law? + Or will we send a sodger? + Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’ + The meikle Ursa-Major?<sup>1</sup> + + Come, will ye court a noble lord, + Or buy a score o’lairds, man? + For worth and honour pawn their word, + Their vote shall be Glencaird’s,<sup>2</sup> man. + Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, + Anither gies them clatter: + Annbank,<sup>3</sup> wha guessed the ladies’ taste, + He gies a Fete Champetre. + + When Love and Beauty heard the news, + The gay green woods amang, man; + Where, gathering flowers, and busking bowers, + They heard the blackbird’s sang, man: + A vow, they sealed it with a kiss, + Sir Politics to fetter; + As their’s alone, the patent bliss, + To hold a Fete Champetre. + + Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing + O’er hill and dale she flew, man; + Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, + Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man: + She summon’d every social sprite, + That sports by wood or water, + On th’ bonie banks of Ayr to meet, + And keep this Fete Champetre. + + Cauld Boreas, wi’ his boisterous crew, + Were bound to stakes like kye, man, + And Cynthia’s car, o’ silver fu’, + Clamb up the starry sky, man: + Reflected beams dwell in the streams, + Or down the current shatter; + The western breeze steals thro’the trees, + To view this Fete Champetre. + + [Footnote 1: James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird + or “Glencaird.”] + + [Footnote 3: William Cunninghame, Esq., of Annbank and Enterkin.] + + How many a robe sae gaily floats! + What sparkling jewels glance, man! + To Harmony’s enchanting notes, + As moves the mazy dance, man. + The echoing wood, the winding flood, + Like Paradise did glitter, + When angels met, at Adam’s yett, + To hold their Fete Champetre. + + When Politics came there, to mix + And make his ether-stane, man! + He circled round the magic ground, + But entrance found he nane, man: + He blush’d for shame, he quat his name, + Forswore it, every letter, + Wi’ humble prayer to join and share + This festive Fete Champetre. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0234"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Requesting a Favour + + When Nature her great master-piece design’d, + And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind, + Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, + She form’d of various parts the various Man. + + Then first she calls the useful many forth; + Plain plodding Industry, and sober Worth: + Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, + And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth: + Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, + And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds. + Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, + The lead and buoy are needful to the net: + The caput mortuum of grnss desires + Makes a material for mere knights and squires; + The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, + She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, + Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grave designs, + Law, physic, politics, and deep divines; + Last, she sublimes th’ Aurora of the poles, + The flashing elements of female souls. + + The order’d system fair before her stood, + Nature, well pleas’d, pronounc’d it very good; + But ere she gave creating labour o’er, + Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. + Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, + Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; + With arch-alacrity and conscious glee, + (Nature may have her whim as well as we, + Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it), + She forms the thing and christens it—a Poet: + Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow, + When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow; + A being form’d t’ amuse his graver friends, + Admir’d and prais’d—and there the homage ends; + A mortal quite unfit for Fortune’s strife, + Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; + Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, + Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; + Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, + Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. + + But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, + She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work: + Pitying the propless climber of mankind, + She cast about a standard tree to find; + And, to support his helpless woodbine state, + Attach’d him to the generous, truly great: + A title, and the only one I claim, + To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. + + Pity the tuneful Muses’ hapless train, + Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main! + Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, + That never gives—tho’ humbly takes enough; + The little fate allows, they share as soon, + Unlike sage proverb’d Wisdom’s hard-wrung boon: + The world were blest did bliss on them depend, + Ah, that “the friendly e’er should want a friend!” + Let Prudence number o’er each sturdy son, + Who life and wisdom at one race begun, + Who feel by reason and who give by rule, + (Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool!) + Who make poor “will do” wait upon “I should”— + We own they’re prudent, but who feels they’re good? + Ye wise ones hence! ye hurt the social eye! + God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy! + But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, + Heaven’s attribute distinguished—to bestow! + Whose arms of love would grasp the human race: + Come thou who giv’st with all a courtier’s grace; + Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! + Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. + Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, + Backward, abash’d to ask thy friendly aid? + I know my need, I know thy giving hand, + I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; + But there are such who court the tuneful Nine— + Heavens! should the branded character be mine! + Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows, + Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. + Mark, how their lofty independent spirit + Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit! + Seek not the proofs in private life to find + Pity the best of words should be but wind! + So, to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends, + But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. + In all the clam’rous cry of starving want, + They dun Benevolence with shameless front; + Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays— + They persecute you all your future days! + Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, + My horny fist assume the plough again, + The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more, + On eighteenpence a week I’ve liv’d before. + Tho’, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, + I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: + That, plac’d by thee upon the wish’d-for height, + Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, + My Muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0235"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song.—The Day Returns + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Seventh of November.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + The day returns, my bosom burns, + The blissful day we twa did meet: + Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d, + Ne’er summer-sun was half sae sweet. + Than a’ the pride that loads the tide, + And crosses o’er the sultry line; + Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, + Heav’n gave me more—it made thee mine! + + While day and night can bring delight, + Or Nature aught of pleasure give; + While joys above my mind can move, + For thee, and thee alone, I live. + When that grim foe of life below + Comes in between to make us part, + The iron hand that breaks our band, + It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0236"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song.—O, Were I On Parnassus Hill + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“My love is lost to me.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O, were I on Parnassus hill, + Or had o’ Helicon my fill, + That I might catch poetic skill, + To sing how dear I love thee! + But Nith maun be my Muse’s well, + My Muse maun be thy bonie sel’, + On Corsincon I’ll glowr and spell, + And write how dear I love thee. + + Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay! + For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day + I couldna sing, I couldna say, + How much, how dear, I love thee, + I see thee dancing o’er the green, + Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, + Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een— + By Heaven and Earth I love thee! + + By night, by day, a-field, at hame, + The thoughts o’ thee my breast inflame: + And aye I muse and sing thy name— + I only live to love thee. + Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on, + Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, + Till my last weary sand was run; + Till then—and then I love thee! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0237"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Mother’s Lament + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + For the Death of Her Son. + + Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, + And pierc’d my darling’s heart; + And with him all the joys are fled + Life can to me impart. + + By cruel hands the sapling drops, + In dust dishonour’d laid; + So fell the pride of all my hopes, + My age’s future shade. + + The mother-linnet in the brake + Bewails her ravish’d young; + So I, for my lost darling’s sake, + Lament the live-day long. + + Death, oft I’ve feared thy fatal blow. + Now, fond, I bare my breast; + O, do thou kindly lay me low + With him I love, at rest! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0238"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Fall Of The Leaf + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, + Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; + How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear! + As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. + + The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, + And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: + Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, + How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues! + + How long I have liv’d—but how much liv’d in vain, + How little of life’s scanty span may remain, + What aspects old Time in his progress has worn, + What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn. + + How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain’d! + And downward, how weaken’d, how darken’d, how pain’d! + Life is not worth having with all it can give— + For something beyond it poor man sure must live. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0239"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I Reign In Jeanie’s Bosom + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Louis, what reck I by thee, + Or Geordie on his ocean? + Dyvor, beggar louns to me, + I reign in Jeanie’s bosom! + + Let her crown my love her law, + And in her breast enthrone me, + Kings and nations—swith awa’! + Reif randies, I disown ye! + + It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonie Face + + It is na, Jean, thy bonie face, + Nor shape that I admire; + Altho’ thy beauty and thy grace + Might weel awauk desire. + + Something, in ilka part o’ thee, + To praise, to love, I find, + But dear as is thy form to me, + Still dearer is thy mind. + + Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae, + Nor stronger in my breast, + Than, if I canna make thee sae, + At least to see thee blest. + + Content am I, if heaven shall give + But happiness, to thee; + And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live, + For thee I’d bear to die. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0240"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Auld Lang Syne + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to mind? + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And auld lang syne! + + Chorus.—For auld lang syne, my dear, + For auld lang syne. + We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp! + And surely I’ll be mine! + And we’ll tak a cup o’kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + For auld, &c. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pou’d the gowans fine; + But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, + Sin’ auld lang syne. + For auld, &c. + + We twa hae paidl’d in the burn, + Frae morning sun till dine; + But seas between us braid hae roar’d + Sin’ auld lang syne. + For auld, &c. + + And there’s a hand, my trusty fere! + And gie’s a hand o’ thine! + And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught, + For auld lang syne. + For auld, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0241"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Bonie Mary + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Go, fetch to me a pint o’ wine, + And fill it in a silver tassie; + That I may drink before I go, + A service to my bonie lassie. + The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith; + Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; + The ship rides by the Berwick-law, + And I maun leave my bonie Mary. + + The trumpets sound, the banners fly, + The glittering spears are ranked ready: + The shouts o’ war are heard afar, + The battle closes deep and bloody; + It’s not the roar o’ sea or shore, + Wad mak me langer wish to tarry! + Nor shouts o’ war that’s heard afar— + It’s leaving thee, my bonie Mary! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0242"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Parting Kiss + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Humid seal of soft affections, + Tenderest pledge of future bliss, + Dearest tie of young connections, + Love’s first snowdrop, virgin kiss! + + Speaking silence, dumb confession, + Passion’s birth, and infant’s play, + Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, + Glowing dawn of future day! + + Sorrowing joy, Adieu’s last action, + (Lingering lips must now disjoin), + What words can ever speak affection + So thrilling and sincere as thine! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0243"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Written In Friar’s-Carse Hermitage + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On Nithside + + Thou whom chance may hither lead, + Be thou clad in russet weed, + Be thou deckt in silken stole, + Grave these counsels on thy soul. + + Life is but a day at most, + Sprung from night,—in darkness lost; + Hope not sunshine ev’ry hour, + Fear not clouds will always lour. + + As Youth and Love with sprightly dance, + Beneath thy morning star advance, + Pleasure with her siren air + May delude the thoughtless pair; + Let Prudence bless Enjoyment’s cup, + Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up. + + As thy day grows warm and high, + Life’s meridian flaming nigh, + Dost thou spurn the humble vale? + Life’s proud summits wouldst thou scale? + Check thy climbing step, elate, + Evils lurk in felon wait: + Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, + Soar around each cliffy hold! + While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, + Chants the lowly dells among. + + As the shades of ev’ning close, + Beck’ning thee to long repose; + As life itself becomes disease, + Seek the chimney-nook of ease; + There ruminate with sober thought, + On all thou’st seen, and heard, and wrought, + And teach the sportive younkers round, + Saws of experience, sage and sound: + Say, man’s true, genuine estimate, + The grand criterion of his fate, + Is not,—Arth thou high or low? + Did thy fortune ebb or flow? + Did many talents gild thy span? + Or frugal Nature grudge thee one? + Tell them, and press it on their mind, + As thou thyself must shortly find, + The smile or frown of awful Heav’n, + To virtue or to Vice is giv’n, + Say, to be just, and kind, and wise— + There solid self-enjoyment lies; + That foolish, selfish, faithless ways + Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. + + Thus resign’d and quiet, creep + To the bed of lasting sleep,— + Sleep, whence thou shalt ne’er awake, + Night, where dawn shall never break, + Till future life, future no more, + To light and joy the good restore, + To light and joy unknown before. + Stranger, go! Heav’n be thy guide! + Quod the Beadsman of Nithside. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0244"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Poet’s Progress + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Poem In Embryo + + Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; + Of thy caprice maternal I complain. + + The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, + The horned bull, tremendous, spurns the ground; + The lordly lion has enough and more, + The forest trembles at his very roar; + Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, + The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell. + Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour, + In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power: + Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure; + The cit and polecat stink, and are secure: + Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, + The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug: + E’en silly women have defensive arts, + Their eyes, their tongues—and nameless other parts. + + But O thou cruel stepmother and hard, + To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard! + A thing unteachable in worldly skill, + And half an idiot too, more helpless still: + No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun, + No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun: + No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, + And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn: + No nerves olfact’ry, true to Mammon’s foot, + Or grunting, grub sagacious, evil’s root: + The silly sheep that wanders wild astray, + Is not more friendless, is not more a prey; + Vampyre—booksellers drain him to the heart, + And viper—critics cureless venom dart. + + Critics! appll’d I venture on the name, + Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, + Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, + He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: + By blockhead’s daring into madness stung, + His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung, + His well-won ways—than life itself more dear— + By miscreants torn who ne’er one sprig must wear; + Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife, + The hapless Poet flounces on through life, + Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired, + And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir’d, + Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age, + Dead even resentment for his injur’d page, + He heeds no more the ruthless critics’ rage. + + So by some hedge the generous steed deceas’d, + For half-starv’d, snarling curs a dainty feast; + By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, + Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch’s son. + + A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, + And still his precious self his dear delight; + Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, + Better than e’er the fairest she he meets; + Much specious lore, but little understood, + (Veneering oft outshines the solid wood), + His solid sense, by inches you must tell, + But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell! + A man of fashion too, he made his tour, + Learn’d “vive la bagatelle et vive l’amour;” + So travell’d monkeys their grimace improve, + Polish their grin—nay, sigh for ladies’ love! + His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, + Still making work his selfish craft must mend. + + * * * Crochallan came, + The old cock’d hat, the brown surtout—the same; + His grisly beard just bristling in its might— + ’Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night; + His uncomb’d, hoary 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. + + O Dulness, portion of the truly blest! + Calm, shelter’d haven of eternal rest! + Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes + Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams; + If mantling high she fills the golden cup, + With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; + Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, + They only wonder “some folks” do not starve! + The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, + And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. + When disappointment snaps the thread of Hope, + When, thro’ disastrous night, they darkling grope, + With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, + And just conclude that “fools are Fortune’s care:” + So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, + Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. + + Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train, + Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; + In equanimity they never dwell, + By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0245"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On The Year 1788 + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + For lords or kings I dinna mourn, + E’en let them die—for that they’re born: + But oh! prodigious to reflec’! + A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck! + O Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space, + What dire events hae taken place! + Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! + In what a pickle thou has left us! + + The Spanish empire’s tint a head, + And my auld teethless, Bawtie’s dead: + The tulyie’s teugh ’tween Pitt and Fox, + And ’tween our Maggie’s twa wee cocks; + The tane is game, a bluidy devil, + But to the hen-birds unco civil; + The tither’s something dour o’ treadin, + But better stuff ne’er claw’d a middin. + + Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, + An’ cry till ye be hearse an’ roupit, + For Eighty-eight, he wished you weel, + An’ gied ye a’ baith gear an’ meal; + E’en monc a plack, and mony a peck, + Ye ken yoursels, for little feck! + + Ye bonie lasses, dight your e’en, + For some o’ you hae tint a frien’; + In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen, + What ye’ll ne’er hae to gie again. + + Observe the very nowt an’ sheep, + How dowff an’ daviely they creep; + Nay, even the yirth itsel’ does cry, + For E’nburgh wells are grutten dry. + + O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn, + An’ no owre auld, I hope, to learn! + Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, + Thou now hast got thy Daddy’s chair; + Nae handcuff’d, mizl’d, hap-shackl’d Regent, + But, like himsel, a full free agent, + Be sure ye follow out the plan + Nae waur than he did, honest man! + As muckle better as you can. + + January, 1, 1789. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0246"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Henpecked Husband + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Curs’d be the man, the poorest wretch in life, + The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife! + Who has no will but by her high permission, + Who has not sixpence but in her possession; + Who must to he, his dear friend’s secrets tell, + Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. + Were such the wife had fallen to my part, + I’d break her spirit or I’d break her heart; + I’d charm her with the magic of a switch, + I’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0247"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Versicles On Sign-Posts + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + His face with smile eternal drest, + Just like the Landlord’s to his Guest’s, + High as they hang with creaking din, + To index out the Country Inn. + He looked just as your sign-post Lions do, + With aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too. + + A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul, + The very image of a barber’s Poll; + It shews a human face, and wears a wig, + And looks, when well preserv’d, amazing big. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0248"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1789 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0249"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Robin Shure In Hairst + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Robin shure in hairst, + I shure wi’ him. + Fient a heuk had I, + Yet I stack by him. + + I gaed up to Dunse, + To warp a wab o’ plaiden, + At his daddie’s yett, + Wha met me but Robin: + Robin shure, &c. + + Was na Robin bauld, + Tho’ I was a cotter, + Play’d me sic a trick, + An’ me the El’er’s dochter! + Robin shure, &c. + + Robin promis’d me + A’ my winter vittle; + Fient haet he had but three + Guse-feathers and a whittle! + Robin shure, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0250"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Dweller in yon dungeon dark, + Hangman of creation! mark, + Who in widow-weeds appears, + Laden with unhonour’d years, + Noosing with care a bursting purse, + Baited with many a deadly curse? +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Strophe + + View the wither’d Beldam’s face; + Can thy keen inspection trace + Aught of Humanity’s sweet, melting grace? + Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows; + Pity’s flood there never rose, + See these hands ne’er stretched to save, + Hands that took, but never gave: + Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest, + Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest, + She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Antistrophe + + Plunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes, + (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;) + Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends? + No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper skies; + ’Tis thy trusty quondam Mate, + Doom’d to share thy fiery fate; + She, tardy, hell-ward plies. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Epode + + And are they of no more avail, + Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year? + In other worlds can Mammon fail, + Omnipotent as he is here! + + O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier, + While down the wretched Vital Part is driven! + The cave-lodged Beggar,with a conscience clear, + Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0251"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Pegasus At Wanlockhead + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + With Pegasus upon a day, + Apollo, weary flying, + Through frosty hills the journey lay, + On foot the way was plying. + + Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus + Was but a sorry walker; + To Vulcan then Apollo goes, + To get a frosty caulker. + + Obliging Vulcan fell to work, + Threw by his coat and bonnet, + And did Sol’s business in a crack; + Sol paid him with a sonnet. + + Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead, + Pity my sad disaster; + My Pegasus is poorly shod, + I’ll pay you like my master. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0252"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sappho Redivivus—A Fragment + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + By all I lov’d, neglected and forgot, + No friendly face e’er lights my squalid cot; + Shunn’d, hated, wrong’d, unpitied, unredrest, + The mock’d quotation of the scorner’s jest! + Ev’n the poor support of my wretched life, + Snatched by the violence of legal strife. + Oft grateful for my very daily bread + To those my family’s once large bounty fed; + A welcome inmate at their homely fare, + My griefs, my woes, my sighs, my tears they share: + (Their vulgar souls unlike the souls refin’d, + The fashioned marble of the polished mind). + + In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, + Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear; + Above the world, on wings of Love, I rise— + I know its worst, and can that worst despise; + Let Prudence’ direst bodements on me fall, + M[ontgomer]y, rich reward, o’erpays them all! + + Mild zephyrs waft thee to life’s farthest shore, + Nor think of me and my distress more,— + Falsehood accurst! No! still I beg a place, + Still near thy heart some little, little trace: + For that dear trace the world I would resign: + O let me live, and die, and think it mine! + + “I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn + By driving winds the crackling flames are borne;” + Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night, + Then bless the hour that charm’d my guilty sight: + In vain the laws their feeble force oppose, + Chain’d at Love’s feet, they groan, his vanquish’d foes. + In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye, + I dare not combat, but I turn and fly: + Conscience in vain upbraids th’ unhallow’d fire, + Love grasps her scorpions—stifled they expire! + Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, + + Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone; + Each thought intoxicated homage yields, + And riots wanton in forbidden fields. + By all on high adoring mortals know! + By all the conscious villain fears below! + By your dear self!—the last great oath I swear, + Not life, nor soul, were ever half so dear! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0253"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—She’s Fair And Fause + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + She’s fair and fause that causes my smart, + I lo’ed her meikle and lang; + She’s broken her vow, she’s broken my heart, + And I may e’en gae hang. + A coof cam in wi’ routh o’ gear, + And I hae tint my dearest dear; + But Woman is but warld’s gear, + Sae let the bonie lass gang. + + Whae’er ye be that woman love, + To this be never blind; + Nae ferlie ’tis tho’ fickle she prove, + A woman has’t by kind. + O Woman lovely, Woman fair! + An angel form’s faun to thy share, + ’Twad been o’er meikle to gi’en thee mair— + I mean an angel mind. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0254"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On Returning a Newspaper. + + Your News and Review, sir. + I’ve read through and through, sir, + With little admiring or blaming; + The Papers are barren + Of home-news or foreign, + No murders or rapes worth the naming. + + Our friends, the Reviewers, + Those chippers and hewers, + Are judges of mortar and stone, sir; + But of meet or unmeet, + In a fabric complete, + I’ll boldly pronounce they are none, sir; + + My goose-quill too rude is + To tell all your goodness + Bestow’d on your servant, the Poet; + Would to God I had one + Like a beam of the sun, + And then all the world, sir, should know it! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0255"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sent with some of the Author’s Poems. + + O could I give thee India’s wealth, + As I this trifle send; + Because thy joy in both would be + To share them with a friend. + + But golden sands did never grace + The Heliconian stream; + Then take what gold could never buy— + An honest bard’s esteem. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0256"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Dear, Sir, at ony time or tide, + I’d rather sit wi’ you than ride, + Though ’twere wi’ royal Geordie: + And trowth, your kindness, soon and late, + Aft gars me to mysel’ look blate— + The Lord in Heav’n reward ye! + + R. Burns. + Ellisland. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0257"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Caledonia—A Ballad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Caledonian Hunts’ Delight” of Mr. Gow. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + There was once a day, but old Time wasythen young, + That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, + From some of your northern deities sprung, + (Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine?) + From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, + To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: + Her heav’nly relations there fixed her reign, + And pledg’d her their godheads to warrant it good. + + A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, + The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew: + Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— + “Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue!” + With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, + To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; + But chiefly the woods were her fav’rite resort, + Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. + + Long quiet she reigned; till thitherward steers + A flight of bold eagles from Adria’s strand: + Repeated, successive, for many long years, + They darken’d the air, and they plunder’d the land: + Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, + They’d conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside; + She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, + The daring invaders they fled or they died. + + The Cameleon-Savage disturb’d her repose, + With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; + Provok’d beyond bearing, at last she arose, + And robb’d him at once of his hopes and his life: + The Anglian lion, the terror of France, + Oft prowling, ensanguin’d the Tweed’s silver flood; + But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, + He learned to fear in his own native wood. + + The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, + The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; + The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth + To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: + O’er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail’d, + No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; + But brave Caledonia in vain they assail’d, + As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. + + Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free, + Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: + For brave Caledonia immortal must be; + I’ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: + Rectangle—triangle, the figure we’ll chuse: + The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; + But brave Caledonia’s the hypothenuse; + Then, ergo, she’ll match them, and match them always. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0258"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Miss Cruickshank + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A very Young Lady +</div> + <p> + Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by the Author. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Beauteous Rosebud, young and gay, + Blooming in thy early May, + Never may’st thou, lovely flower, + Chilly shrink in sleety shower! + Never Boreas’ hoary path, + Never Eurus’ pois’nous breath, + Never baleful stellar lights, + Taint thee with untimely blights! + Never, never reptile thief + Riot on thy virgin leaf! + Nor even Sol too fiercely view + Thy bosom blushing still with dew! + + May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem, + Richly deck thy native stem; + Till some ev’ning, sober, calm, + Dropping dews, and breathing balm, + While all around the woodland rings, + And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings; + Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, + Shed thy dying honours round, + And resign to parent Earth + The loveliest form she e’er gave birth. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0259"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Beware O’ Bonie Ann + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye gallants bright, I rede you right, + Beware o’ bonie Ann; + Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace, + Your heart she will trepan: + Her een sae bright, like stars by night, + Her skin sae like the swan; + Sae jimply lac’d her genty waist, + That sweetly ye might span. + + Youth, Grace, and Love attendant move, + And pleasure leads the van: + In a’ their charms, and conquering arms, + They wait on bonie Ann. + The captive bands may chain the hands, + But love enslaves the man: + Ye gallants braw, I rede you a’, + Beware o’ bonie Ann! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0260"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ode On The Departed Regency Bill + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + (March, 1789) + + Daughter of Chaos’ doting years, + Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears, + Whether thy airy, insubstantial shade + (The rights of sepulture now duly paid) + Spread abroad its hideous form + On the roaring civil storm, + Deafening din and warring rage + Factions wild with factions wage; + Or under-ground, deep-sunk, profound, + Among the demons of the earth, + With groans that make the mountains shake, + Thou mourn thy ill-starr’d, blighted birth; + Or in the uncreated Void, + Where seeds of future being fight, + With lessen’d step thou wander wide, + To greet thy Mother—Ancient Night. + And as each jarring, monster-mass is past, + Fond recollect what once thou wast: + In manner due, beneath this sacred oak, + Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke! + By a Monarch’s heaven-struck fate, + By a disunited State, + By a generous Prince’s wrongs. + By a Senate’s strife of tongues, + By a Premier’s sullen pride, + Louring on the changing tide; + By dread Thurlow’s powers to awe + Rhetoric, blasphemy and law; + By the turbulent ocean— + A Nation’s commotion, + By the harlot-caresses + Of borough addresses, + By days few and evil, + (Thy portion, poor devil!) + By Power, Wealth, and Show, + (The Gods by men adored,) + By nameless Poverty, + (Their hell abhorred,) + By all they hope, by all they fear, + Hear! and appear! + + Stare not on me, thou ghastly Power! + Nor, grim with chained defiance, lour: + No Babel-structure would I build + Where, order exil’d from his native sway, + Confusion may the regent-sceptre wield, + While all would rule and none obey: + Go, to the world of man relate + The story of thy sad, eventful fate; + And call presumptuous Hope to hear + And bid him check his blind career; + And tell the sore-prest sons of Care, + Never, never to despair! + Paint Charles’ speed on wings of fire, + The object of his fond desire, + Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand: + Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band; + Hark how they lift the joy-elated voice! + And who are these that equally rejoice? + Jews, Gentiles, what a motley crew! + The iron tears their flinty cheeks bedew; + See how unfurled the parchment ensigns fly, + And Principal and Interest all the cry! + And how their num’rous creditors rejoice; + But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise, + Cry Convalescence! and the vision flies. + Then next pourtray a dark’ning twilight gloom, + Eclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn, + While proud Ambition to th’ untimely tomb + By gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is borne: + Paint ruin, in the shape of high D[undas] + Gaping with giddy terror o’er the brow; + In vain he struggles, the fates behind him press, + And clam’rous hell yawns for her prey below: + How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the skies! + And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise! + Again pronounce the powerful word; + See Day, triumphant from the night, restored. + + Then know this truth, ye Sons of Men! + (Thus ends thy moral tale,) + Your darkest terrors may be vain, + Your brightest hopes may fail. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0261"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, + How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner? + How do you this blae eastlin wind, + That’s like to blaw a body blind? + For me, my faculties are frozen, + My dearest member nearly dozen’d. + I’ve sent you here, by Johnie Simson, + Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; + Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling, + An’ Reid, to common sense appealing. + Philosophers have fought and wrangled, + An’ meikle Greek an’ Latin mangled, + Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d, + And in the depth of science mir’d, + To common sense they now appeal, + What wives and wabsters see and feel. + But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly, + Peruse them, an’ return them quickly: + For now I’m grown sae cursed douce + I pray and ponder butt the house; + My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’, + Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an’ Boston, + Till by an’ by, if I haud on, + I’ll grunt a real gospel-groan: + Already I begin to try it, + To cast my e’en up like a pyet, + When by the gun she tumbles o’er + Flutt’ring an’ gasping in her gore: + Sae shortly you shall see me bright, + A burning an’ a shining light. + + My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, + The ace an’ wale of honest men: + When bending down wi’ auld grey hairs + Beneath the load of years and cares, + May He who made him still support him, + An’ views beyond the grave comfort him; + His worthy fam’ly far and near, + God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear! + + My auld schoolfellow, Preacher Willie, + The manly tar, my mason-billie, + And Auchenbay, I wish him joy, + If he’s a parent, lass or boy, + May he be dad, and Meg the mither, + Just five-and-forty years thegither! + And no forgetting wabster Charlie, + I’m tauld he offers very fairly. + An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock, + Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock! + And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, + Since she is fitted to her fancy, + An’ her kind stars hae airted till her + gA guid chiel wi’ a pickle siller. + My kindest, best respects, I sen’ it, + To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet: + Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious, + For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them fashious; + To grant a heart is fairly civil, + But to grant a maidenhead’s the devil. + An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, + May guardian angels tak a spell, + An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell: + But first, before you see heaven’s glory, + May ye get mony a merry story, + Mony a laugh, and mony a drink, + And aye eneugh o’ needfu’ clink. + + Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you: + For my sake, this I beg it o’ you, + Assist poor Simson a’ ye can, + Ye’ll fin; him just an honest man; + Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, + Your’s, saint or sinner, + Rob the Ranter. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0262"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock + </h2></div> + <h3> + On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty’s Recovery. + </h3> +<div class='pre'> + O sing a new song to the Lord, + Make, all and every one, + A joyful noise, even for the King + His restoration. + + The sons of Belial in the land + Did set their heads together; + Come, let us sweep them off, said they, + Like an o’erflowing river. + + They set their heads together, I say, + They set their heads together; + On right, on left, on every hand, + We saw none to deliver. + + Thou madest strong two chosen ones + To quell the Wicked’s pride; + That Young Man, great in Issachar, + The burden-bearing tribe. + + And him, among the Princes chief + In our Jerusalem, + The judge that’s mighty in thy law, + The man that fears thy name. + + Yet they, even they, with all their strength, + Began to faint and fail: + Even as two howling, ravenous wolves + To dogs do turn their tail. + + Th’ ungodly o’er the just prevail’d, + For so thou hadst appointed; + That thou might’st greater glory give + Unto thine own anointed. + + And now thou hast restored our State, + Pity our Kirk also; + For she by tribulations + Is now brought very low. + + Consume that high-place, Patronage, + From off thy holy hill; + And in thy fury burn the book— + Even of that man M’Gill.<sup>1</sup> + + Now hear our prayer, accept our song, + And fight thy chosen’s battle: + We seek but little, Lord, from thee, + Thou kens we get as little. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. William M’Gill of Ayr, whose “Practical + Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ” led to a charge of + heresy against him. Burns took up his cause in “The Kirk of + Scotland’s Alarm” (p. 351).—Lang.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0263"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sketch In Verse + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox. + + How wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite, + How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white, + How Genius, th’ illustrious father of fiction, + Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction, + I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, + I care not, not I—let the Critics go whistle! + + But now for a Patron whose name and whose glory, + At once may illustrate and honour my story. + + Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; + Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; + With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, + No man with the half of ’em e’er could go wrong; + With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, + No man with the half of ’em e’er could go right; + A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, + For using thy name, offers fifty excuses. + Good Lord, what is Man! for as simple he looks, + Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks; + With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, + All in all he’s a problem must puzzle the devil. + + On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, + That, like th’ old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours: + Mankind are his show-box—a friend, would you know him? + Pull the string, Ruling Passion the picture will show him, + What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, + One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss’d him; + For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, + Mankind is a science defies definitions. + + Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, + And think human nature they truly describe; + Have you found this, or t’other? There’s more in the wind; + As by one drunken fellow his comrades you’ll find. + But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, + In the make of that wonderful creature called Man, + No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. + Nor even two different shades of the same, + Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, + Possessing the one shall imply you’ve the other. + + But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse + Whose rhymes you’ll perhaps, Sir, ne’er deign to peruse: + Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, + Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels? + My much-honour’d Patron, believe your poor poet, + Your courage, much more than your prudence, you show it: + In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle: + He’ll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle: + Not cabinets even of kings would conceal ’em, + He’d up the back stairs, and by God, he would steal ’em, + Then feats like Squire Billy’s you ne’er can achieve ’em; + It is not, out-do him—the task is, out-thieve him! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0264"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Wounded Hare + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art, + And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; + May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, + Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! + + Go live, poor wand’rer of the wood and field! + The bitter little that of life remains: + No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains + To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. + + Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, + No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! + The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head, + The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. + + Perhaps a mother’s anguish adds its woe; + The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; + Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide + That life a mother only can bestow! + + Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait + The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, + I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn, + And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0265"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Delia, An Ode + </h2></div> + <p> + “To the Editor of The Star.—Mr. Printer—If the productions of + a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester + Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with + the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be + succeeded by future communications from—Yours, &c., R. Burns. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Fair the face of orient day, + Fair the tints of op’ning rose; + But fairer still my Delia dawns, + More lovely far her beauty shows. + + Sweet the lark’s wild warbled lay, + Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; + But, Delia, more delightful still, + Steal thine accents on mine ear. + + The flower-enamour’d busy bee + The rosy banquet loves to sip; + Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse + To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip. + + But, Delia, on thy balmy lips + Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; + O let me steal one liquid kiss, + For Oh! my soul is parch’d with love. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0266"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Gardener’s March.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + When rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, + To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, + Then busy, busy are his hours, + The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle. + + The crystal waters gently fa’, + The merry bards are lovers a’, + The scented breezes round him blaw— + The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle. + + When purple morning starts the hare + To steal upon her early fare; + Then thro’ the dews he maun repair— + The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle. + + When day, expiring in the west, + The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, + He flies to her arms he lo’es the best, + The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0267"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On A Bank Of Flowers + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, + For summer lightly drest, + The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, + With love and sleep opprest; + When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the wood, + Who for her favour oft had sued; + He gaz’d, he wish’d + He fear’d, he blush’d, + And trembled where he stood. + + Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath’d, + Were seal’d in soft repose; + Her lip, still as she fragrant breath’d, + It richer dyed the rose; + The springing lilies, sweetly prest, + Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast; + He gaz’d, he wish’d, + He mear’d, he blush’d, + His bosom ill at rest. + + Her robes, light-waving in the breeze, + Her tender limbs embrace; + Her lovely form, her native ease, + All harmony and grace; + Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, + A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; + He gaz’d, he wish’d, + He fear’d, he blush’d, + And sigh’d his very soul. + + As flies the partridge from the brake, + On fear-inspired wings, + So Nelly, starting, half-awake, + Away affrighted springs; + But Willie follow’d—as he should, + He overtook her in the wood; + He vow’d, he pray’d, + He found the maid + Forgiving all, and good. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0268"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Young Jockie was the blythest lad, + In a’ our town or here awa; + Fu’ blythe he whistled at the gaud, + Fu’ lightly danc’d he in the ha’. + + He roos’d my een sae bonie blue, + He roos’d my waist sae genty sma’; + An’ aye my heart cam to my mou’, + When ne’er a body heard or saw. + + My Jockie toils upon the plain, + Thro’ wind and weet, thro’ frost and snaw: + And o’er the lea I leuk fu’ fain, + When Jockie’s owsen hameward ca’. + + An’ aye the night comes round again, + When in his arms he taks me a’; + An’ aye he vows he’ll be my ain, + As lang’s he has a breath to draw. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0269"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Banks Of Nith + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Thames flows proudly to the sea, + Where royal cities stately stand; + But sweeter flows the Nith to me, + Where Comyns ance had high command. + When shall I see that honour’d land, + That winding stream I love so dear! + Must wayward Fortune’s adverse hand + For ever, ever keep me here! + + How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, + Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom; + And sweetly spread thy sloping dales, + Where lambkins wanton through the broom. + Tho’ wandering now must be my doom, + Far from thy bonie banks and braes, + May there my latest hours consume, + Amang the friends of early days! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0270"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Jamie, Come Try Me + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Jamie, come try me, + Jamie, come try me, + If thou would win my love, + Jamie, come try me. + + If thou should ask my love, + Could I deny thee? + If thou would win my love, + Jamie, come try me! + Jamie, come try me, &c. + + If thou should kiss me, love, + Wha could espy thee? + If thou wad be my love, + Jamie, come try me! + Jamie, come try me, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0271"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I Love My Love In Secret + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My Sandy gied to me a ring, + Was a’ beset wi’ diamonds fine; + But I gied him a far better thing, + I gied my heart in pledge o’ his ring. + + Chorus.—My Sandy O, my Sandy O, + My bonie, bonie Sandy O; + Tho’ the love that I owe + To thee I dare na show, + Yet I love my love in secret, my Sandy O. + + My Sandy brak a piece o’ gowd, + While down his cheeks the saut tears row’d; + He took a hauf, and gied it to me, + And I’ll keep it till the hour I die. + My Sand O, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0272"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sweet Tibbie Dunbar + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? + O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? + Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, + Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? + + I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money, + I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly; + But sae that thou’lt hae me for better for waur, + And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0273"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Captain’s Lady + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—O mount and go, mount and make you ready, + O mount and go, and be the Captain’s lady. + + When the drums do beat, and the cannons rattle, + Thou shalt sit in state, and see thy love in battle: + When the drums do beat, and the cannons rattle, + Thou shalt sit in state, and see thy love in battle. + O mount and go, &c. + + When the vanquish’d foe sues for peace and quiet, + To the shades we’ll go, and in love enjoy it: + When the vanquish’d foe sues for peace and quiet, + To the shades we’ll go, and in love enjoy it. + O mount and go, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0274"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + John Anderson, My Jo + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + John Anderson, my jo, John, + When we were first acquent; + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonie brow was brent; + But now your brow is beld, John, + Your locks are like the snaw; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo. + + John Anderson, my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither; + And mony a cantie day, John, + We’ve had wi’ ane anither: + Now we maun totter down, John, + And hand in hand we’ll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0275"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Love, She’s But A Lassie Yet + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My love, she’s but a lassie yet, + My love, she’s but a lassie yet; + We’ll let her stand a year or twa, + She’ll no be half sae saucy yet; + I rue the day I sought her, O! + I rue the day I sought her, O! + Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d, + But he may say he’s bought her, O. + + Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet, + Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet, + Gae seek for pleasure whare you will, + But here I never miss’d it yet, + We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t, + We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t; + The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife; + He could na preach for thinkin o’t. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0276"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Tam Glen + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, + Some counsel unto me come len’, + To anger them a’ is a pity, + But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen? + + I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, + In poortith I might mak a fen; + What care I in riches to wallow, + If I maunna marry Tam Glen! + + There’s Lowrie the Laird o’ Dumeller— + “Gude day to you, brute!” he comes ben: + He brags and he blaws o’ his siller, + But when will he dance like Tam Glen! + + My minnie does constantly deave me, + And bids me beware o’ young men; + They flatter, she says, to deceive me, + But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen! + + My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him, + He’d gie me gude hunder marks ten; + But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him, + O wha will I get but Tam Glen! + + Yestreen at the Valentine’s dealing, + My heart to my mou’ gied a sten’; + For thrice I drew ane without failing, + And thrice it was written “Tam Glen”! + + The last Halloween I was waukin + My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, + His likeness came up the house staukin, + And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen! + + Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry; + I’ll gie ye my bonie black hen, + Gif ye will advise me to marry + The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0277"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Carle, An The King Come + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Carle, an the King come, + Carle, an the King come, + Thou shalt dance and I will sing, + Carle, an the King come. + + An somebody were come again, + Then somebody maun cross the main, + And every man shall hae his ain, + Carle, an the King come. + Carle, an the King come, &c. + + I trow we swapped for the worse, + We gae the boot and better horse; + And that we’ll tell them at the cross, + Carle, an the King come. + Carle, an the King come, &c. + + Coggie, an the King come, + Coggie, an the King come, + I’se be fou, and thou’se be toom + Coggie, an the King come. + Coggie, an the King come, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0278"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Laddie’s Dear Sel’ + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There’s a youth in this city, it were a great pity + That he from our lassies should wander awa’; + For he’s bonie and braw, weel-favor’d witha’, + An’ his hair has a natural buckle an’ a’. + + His coat is the hue o’ his bonnet sae blue, + His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw; + His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, + And his clear siller buckles, they dazzle us a’. + + For beauty and fortune the laddie’s been courtin; + Weel-featur’d, weel-tocher’d, weel-mounted an’ braw; + But chiefly the siller that gars him gang till her, + The penny’s the jewel that beautifies a’. + + There’s Meg wi’ the mailen that fain wad a haen him, + And Susie, wha’s daddie was laird o’ the Ha’; + There’s lang-tocher’d Nancy maist fetters his fancy, + —But the laddie’s dear sel’, he loes dearest of a’. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0279"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Whistle O’er The Lave O’t + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + First when Maggie was my care, + Heav’n, I thought, was in her air, + Now we’re married—speir nae mair, + But whistle o’er the lave o’t! + + Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, + Sweet and harmless as a child— + Wiser men than me’s beguil’d; + Whistle o’er the lave o’t! + + How we live, my Meg and me, + How we love, and how we gree, + I care na by how few may see— + Whistle o’er the lave o’t! + + Wha I wish were maggot’s meat, + Dish’d up in her winding-sheet, + I could write—but Meg maun see’t— + Whistle o’er the lave o’t! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0280"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Eppie Adair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—An’ O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie, + Wha wad na be happy wi’ Eppie Adair? + + By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty, + I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair! + By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty, + I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair! + And O my Eppie, &c. + + A’ pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me, + If e’er I beguile ye, my Eppie Adair! + A’ pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me, + If e’er I beguile thee, my Eppie Adair! + And O my Eppie, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0281"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On The Late Captain Grose’s Peregrinations Thro’ Scotland + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, + Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;— + If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, + I rede you tent it: + A chield’s amang you takin notes, + And, faith, he’ll prent it: + + If in your bounds ye chance to light + Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, + O’ stature short, but genius bright, + That’s he, mark weel; + And wow! he has an unco sleight + O’ cauk and keel. + + By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, + Or kirk deserted by its riggin, + It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in + Some eldritch part, + Wi’ deils, they say, Lord save’s! colleaguin + At some black art. + + Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer, + Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, + And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar, + Warlocks and witches, + Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer, + Ye midnight bitches. + + It’s tauld he was a sodger bred, + And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; + But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade, + And dog-skin wallet, + And taen the—Antiquarian trade, + I think they call it. + + He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: + Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, + Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, + A towmont gude; + And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets, + Before the Flood. + + Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder; + Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender; + That which distinguished the gender + O’ Balaam’s ass: + A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor, + Weel shod wi’ brass. + + Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg + The cut of Adam’s philibeg; + The knife that nickit Abel’s craig + He’ll prove you fully, + It was a faulding jocteleg, + Or lang-kail gullie. + + But wad ye see him in his glee, + For meikle glee and fun has he, + Then set him down, and twa or three + Gude fellows wi’ him: + And port, O port! shine thou a wee, + And Then ye’ll see him! + + Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose! + Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!— + Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose, + They sair misca’ thee; + I’d take the rascal by the nose, + Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0282"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying + So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; + But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning, + And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning, + Astonish’d, confounded, cries Satan—“By God, + I’ll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0283"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Ballad. + + Tune—“Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox, + Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: + A heretic blast has been blown in the West, + “That what is no sense must be nonsense,” + Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense. + + Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack, + To strike evil-doers wi’ terror: + To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence, + Was heretic, damnable error, + Doctor Mac!<sup>1</sup> ’Twas heretic, damnable error. + + Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, + To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing,<sup>2</sup> + Provost John<sup>3</sup> is still deaf to the Church’s relief, + And Orator Bob<sup>4</sup> is its ruin, + Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin. + + D’rymple mild! D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child, + And your life like the new-driven snaw, + Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you, + For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa, + D’rymple mild!<sup>5</sup> For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa. + + Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan, + Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d; + Then out wi’ your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle, + And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d. + Rumble John!<sup>6</sup> And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. M’Gill, Ayr.—R.B,] + + [Footnote 2: See the advertisement.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 3: John Ballantine,—R.B.] + + [Footnote 4: Robert Aiken.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 5: Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 6: John Russell, Kilmarnock.—R.B.] + + Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames, + There’s a holier chase in your view: + I’ll lay on your head, that the pack you’ll soon lead, + For puppies like you there’s but few, + Simper James!<sup>7</sup> For puppies like you there’s but few. + + Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny, + Unconscious what evils await? + With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev’ry soul, + For the foul thief is just at your gate. + Singet Sawnie!<sup>8</sup> For the foul thief is just at your gate. + + Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, + Wi’ your “Liberty’s Chain” and your wit; + O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride, + Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh—t. + Poet Willie!<sup>9</sup> Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh—t. + + Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? + If ye meddle nae mair wi’ the matter, + Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, + Wi’ people that ken ye nae better, + Barr Steenie!<sup>10</sup> Wi’people that ken ye nae better. + + Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose, + In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; + But the Doctor’s your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark, + He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t, + Jamie Goose!<sup>11</sup> He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t. + + Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster, + The corps is no nice o’ recruits; + + [Footnote 7: James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 8: Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, + who, among many other things, published an ode on the “Centenary + of the Revolution,” in which was the line: “And bound in + Liberty’s endering chain.”—R.B.] + + [Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been + foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant + Mitchel—R.B.] + + Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast, + If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes, + Davie Bluster!<sup>12</sup> If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes. + + Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride + Of manhood but sma’ is your share: + Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow, + And your friends they dare grant you nae mair, + Irvine Side!<sup>13</sup> And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. + + Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock, + To crush common-sense for her sins; + If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit + To confound the poor Doctor at ance, + Muirland Jock!<sup>14</sup> To confound the poor Doctor at ance. + + Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book, + An’ the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye; + Tho’ ye’re rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’ wig, + An’ ye’ll hae a calf’s—had o’ sma’ value, + Andro Gowk!<sup>15</sup> Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value. + + Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld, + A tod meikle waur than the clerk; + Tho’ ye do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death, + For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark, + Daddy Auld!<sup>16</sup> Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. + + Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull, + When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor; + The timmer is scant when ye’re taen for a saunt, + Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, + Holy Will!<sup>17</sup> Ye should swing in a rape for an hour. + + Calvin’s sons! Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns, + Ammunition you never can need; + + [Footnote 12: David Grant, Ochiltree.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 13: George Smith, Galston.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 14: John Shepherd Muirkirk.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 15: Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 16: William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see + “Holy Willie’s” prayer.—R.B.] + + [Footnote 17: Vide the “Prayer” of this saint.—R.B.] + + Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough, + And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead, + Calvin’s sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead. + + Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelpin turns, + Why desert ye your auld native shire? + Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’en tipsy, + She could ca’us nae waur than we are, + Poet Burns! She could ca’us nae waur than we are. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0284"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone, + And ne’er made anither, thy peer, + Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard, + He presents thee this token sincere, + Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere. + + Afton’s Laird! Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared, + A copy of this I bequeath, + On the same sicker score as I mention’d before, + To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith, + Afton’s Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0285"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sonnet On Receiving A Favour + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 10 Aug., 1979. + + Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry. + + I call no Goddess to inspire my strains, + A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns: + Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, + And all the tribute of my heart returns, + For boons accorded, goodness ever new, + The gifts still dearer, as the giver you. + Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! + And all ye many sparkling stars of night! + If aught that giver from my mind efface, + If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace, + Then roll to me along your wand’rig spheres, + Only to number out a villain’s years! + I lay my hand upon my swelling breast, + And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0286"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Extemporaneous Effusion + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On being appointed to an Excise division. + + Searching auld wives’ barrels, + Ochon the day! + That clarty barm should stain my laurels: + But—what’ll ye say? + These movin’ things ca’d wives an’ weans, + Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0287"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, + And Rob and Allen cam to see; + Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, + Ye wadna found in Christendie. + + Chorus.—We are na fou, we’re nae that fou, + But just a drappie in our ee; + The cock may craw, the day may daw + And aye we’ll taste the barley bree. + + Here are we met, three merry boys, + Three merry boys I trow are we; + And mony a night we’ve merry been, + And mony mae we hope to be! + We are na fou, &c. + + It is the moon, I ken her horn, + That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; + She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, + But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee! + We are na fou, &c. + + Wha first shall rise to gang awa, + A cuckold, coward loun is he! + Wha first beside his chair shall fa’, + He is the King amang us three. + We are na fou, &c. + + [Footnote 1: Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing— + master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of + the Lowes. Date, August—September, 1789.—Lang.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0288"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, + Ca’ them where the heather grows, + Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, + My bonie dearie + + As I gaed down the water-side, + There I met my shepherd lad: + He row’d me sweetly in his plaid, + And he ca’d me his dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + Will ye gang down the water-side, + And see the waves sae sweetly glide + Beneath the hazels spreading wide, + The moon it shines fu’ clearly. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, + Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, + And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep, + An’ ye sall be my dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said, + I’se gang wi’ thee, my shepherd lad, + And ye may row me in your plaid, + And I sall be your dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + While waters wimple to the sea, + While day blinks in the lift sae hie, + Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e, + Ye sall be my dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0289"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I Gaed A Waefu’ Gate Yestreen + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen, + A gate, I fear, I’ll dearly rue; + I gat my death frae twa sweet een, + Twa lovely een o’bonie blue. + + ’Twas not her golden ringlets bright, + Her lips like roses wat wi’ dew, + Her heaving bosom, lily-white— + It was her een sae bonie blue. + + She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she wyl’d; + She charm’d my soul I wist na how; + And aye the stound, the deadly wound, + Cam frae her een so bonie blue. + But “spare to speak, and spare to speed;” + She’ll aiblins listen to my vow: + Should she refuse, I’ll lay my dead + To her twa een sae bonie blue. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0290"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Highland Harry Back Again + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My Harry was a gallant gay, + Fu’ stately strade he on the plain; + But now he’s banish’d far away, + I’ll never see him back again. + + Chorus.—O for him back again! + O for him back again! + I wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s land + For Highland Harry back again. + + When a’ the lave gae to their bed, + I wander dowie up the glen; + I set me down and greet my fill, + And aye I wish him back again. + O for him, &c. + + O were some villains hangit high, + And ilka body had their ain! + Then I might see the joyfu’ sight, + My Highland Harry back again. + O for him, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0291"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Battle Of Sherramuir + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Cameronian Rant.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + “O cam ye here the fight to shun, + Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? + Or were ye at the Sherra-moor, + Or did the battle see, man?” + I saw the battle, sair and teugh, + And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh; + My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, + To hear the thuds, and see the cluds + O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, + Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man. + La, la, la, la, &c. + + The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockauds, + To meet them were na slaw, man; + They rush’d and push’d, and blude outgush’d + And mony a bouk did fa’, man: + The great Argyle led on his files, + I wat they glanced twenty miles; + They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles, + They hack’d and hash’d, while braid-swords, clash’d, + And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d, + Till fey men died awa, man. + La, la, la, la, &c. + + But had ye seen the philibegs, + And skyrin tartan trews, man; + When in the teeth they dar’d our Whigs, + And covenant True-blues, man: + In lines extended lang and large, + When baiginets o’erpower’d the targe, + And thousands hasten’d to the charge; + Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath + Drew blades o’ death, till, out o’ breath, + They fled like frighted dows, man! + La, la, la, la, &c. + + “O how deil, Tam, can that be true? + The chase gaed frae the north, man; + I saw mysel, they did pursue, + The horsemen back to Forth, man; + And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, + They took the brig wi’ a’ their might, + And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight; + But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; + And mony a huntit poor red-coat, + For fear amaist did swarf, man!” + La, la, la, la, &c. + + My sister Kate cam up the gate + Wi’ crowdie unto me, man; + She swoor she saw some rebels run + To Perth unto Dundee, man; + Their left-hand general had nae skill; + The Angus lads had nae gude will + That day their neibors’ blude to spill; + For fear, for foes, that they should lose + Their cogs o’ brose; they scar’d at blows, + And hameward fast did flee, man. + La, la, la, la, &c. + + They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen, + Amang the Highland clans, man! + I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, + Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man, + Now wad ye sing this double fight, + Some fell for wrang, and some for right; + But mony bade the world gude-night; + Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, + By red claymores, and muskets knell, + Wi’ dying yell, the Tories fell, + And Whigs to hell did flee, man. + La, la, la, la, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0292"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Braes O’ Killiecrankie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Where hae ye been sae braw, lad? + Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O? + Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? + Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O? + + Chorus.—An ye had been whare I hae been, + Ye wad na been sae cantie, O; + An ye had seen what I hae seen, + I’ the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. + + I faught at land, I faught at sea, + At hame I faught my Auntie, O; + But I met the devil an’ Dundee, + On the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. + An ye had been, &c. + + The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, + An’ Clavers gat a clankie, O; + Or I had fed an Athole gled, + On the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. + An ye had been, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0293"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Awa’ Whigs, Awa’ + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Awa’ Whigs, awa’! + Awa’ Whigs, awa’! + Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns, + Ye’ll do nae gude at a’. + + Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair, + And bonie bloom’d our roses; + But Whigs cam’ like a frost in June, + An’ wither’d a’ our posies. + Awa’ Whigs, &c. + + Our ancient crown’s fa’en in the dust— + Deil blin’ them wi’ the stoure o’t! + An’ write their names in his black beuk, + Wha gae the Whigs the power o’t. + Awa’ Whigs, &c. + + Our sad decay in church and state + Surpasses my descriving: + The Whigs cam’ o’er us for a curse, + An’ we hae done wi’ thriving. + Awa’ Whigs, &c. + + Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap, + But we may see him wauken: + Gude help the day when royal heads + Are hunted like a maukin! + Awa’ Whigs, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0294"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Waukrife Minnie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, + Whare are you gaun, my hinnie? + She answered me right saucilie, + “An errand for my minnie.” + + O whare live ye, my bonie lass, + O whare live ye, my hinnie? + “By yon burnside, gin ye maun ken, + In a wee house wi’ my minnie.” + + But I foor up the glen at e’en. + To see my bonie lassie; + And lang before the grey morn cam, + She was na hauf sae saucie. + + O weary fa’ the waukrife cock, + And the foumart lay his crawin! + He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep, + A wee blink or the dawin. + + An angry wife I wat she raise, + And o’er the bed she brocht her; + And wi’ a meikle hazel rung + She made her a weel-pay’d dochter. + + O fare thee weel, my bonie lass, + O fare thee well, my hinnie! + Thou art a gay an’ a bonnie lass, + But thou has a waukrife minnie. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0295"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Captive Ribband + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Robaidh dona gorach.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Dear Myra, the captive ribband’s mine, + ’Twas all my faithful love could gain; + And would you ask me to resign + The sole reward that crowns my pain? + + Go, bid the hero who has run + Thro’ fields of death to gather fame, + Go, bid him lay his laurels down, + And all his well-earn’d praise disclaim. + + The ribband shall its freedom lose— + Lose all the bliss it had with you, + And share the fate I would impose + On thee, wert thou my captive too. + + It shall upon my bosom live, + Or clasp me in a close embrace; + And at its fortune if you grieve, + Retrieve its doom, and take its place. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0296"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Heart’s In The Highlands + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Failte na Miosg.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, + The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; + Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, + The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. + + Chorus.—My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, + My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; + Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, + My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go. + + Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow, + Farewell to the straths and green vallies below; + Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, + Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. + My heart’s in the Highlands, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0297"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Whistle—A Ballad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, + I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. + Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, + And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. + + Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, + The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— + “The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er, + And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!” + + Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, + What champions ventur’d, what champions fell: + The son of great Loda was conqueror still, + And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. + + Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, + Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war, + He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea; + No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he. + + Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d; + Which now in his house has for ages remain’d; + Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, + The jovial contest again have renew’d. + + Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw + Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law; + And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins; + And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. + + Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, + Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil; + Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, + And once more, in claret, try which was the man. + + “By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies, + “Before I surrender so glorious a prize, + I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, + And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.” + + Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, + But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend; + Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,” + And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield. + + To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, + So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; + But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, + Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. + + A bard was selected to witness the fray, + And tell future ages the feats of the day; + A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, + And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been. + + The dinner being over, the claret they ply, + And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy; + In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, + And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. + + Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er: + Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core, + And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, + Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn. + + Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, + When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, + Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, + And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did. + + Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, + No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; + A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine; + He left the foul business to folks less divine. + + The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; + But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! + Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; + So uprose bright Phoebus—and down fell the knight. + + Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:— + “Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! + But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, + Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime! + + “Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, + Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: + So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; + The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0298"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Mary In Heaven + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Thou ling’ring star, with lessening ray, + That lov’st to greet the early morn, + Again thou usher’st in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn. + O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + That sacred hour can I forget, + Can I forget the hallow’d grove, + Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, + To live one day of parting love! + Eternity will not efface + Those records dear of transports past, + Thy image at our last embrace, + Ah! little thought we ’twas our last! + + Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d his pebbled shore, + O’erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; + The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, + ’Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene: + The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, + The birds sang love on every spray; + Till too, too soon, the glowing west, + Proclaim’d the speed of winged day. + + Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes, + And fondly broods with miser-care; + Time but th’ impression stronger makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear, + My Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy blissful place of rest? + See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0299"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Dr. Blacklock + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789. + + Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! + And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? + I ken’d it still, your wee bit jauntie + Wad bring ye to: + Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye! + And then ye’ll do. + + The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! + And never drink be near his drouth! + He tauld myself by word o’ mouth, + He’d tak my letter; + I lippen’d to the chiel in trouth, + And bade nae better. + + But aiblins, honest Master Heron + Had, at the time, some dainty fair one + To ware this theologic care on, + And holy study; + And tired o’ sauls to waste his lear on, + E’en tried the body. + + But what d’ye think, my trusty fere, + I’m turned a gauger—Peace be here! + Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, + Ye’ll now disdain me! + And then my fifty pounds a year + Will little gain me. + + Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, + Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin streamies, + Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, + Ye ken, ye ken, + That strang necessity supreme is + ’Mang sons o’ men. + + I hae a wife and twa wee laddies; + They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; + Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— + I need na vaunt + But I’ll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies, + Before they want. + + Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! + I’m weary sick o’t late and air! + Not but I hae a richer share + Than mony ithers; + But why should ae man better fare, + And a’ men brithers? + + Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, + Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! + And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan + A lady fair: + Wha does the utmost that he can, + Will whiles do mair. + + But to conclude my silly rhyme + (I’m scant o’ verse and scant o’ time), + To make a happy fireside clime + To weans and wife, + That’s the true pathos and sublime + Of human life. + + My compliments to sister Beckie, + And eke the same to honest Lucky; + I wat she is a daintie chuckie, + As e’er tread clay; + And gratefully, my gude auld cockie, + I’m yours for aye. + Robert Burns. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0300"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Five Carlins + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + An Election Ballad. + + Tune—“Chevy Chase.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + There was five Carlins in the South, + They fell upon a scheme, + To send a lad to London town, + To bring them tidings hame. + + Nor only bring them tidings hame, + But do their errands there, + And aiblins gowd and honor baith + Might be that laddie’s share. + + There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith, + A dame wi’ pride eneugh; + And Marjory o’ the mony Lochs, + A Carlin auld and teugh. + + And blinkin Bess of Annandale, + That dwelt near Solway-side; + And whisky Jean, that took her gill, + In Galloway sae wide. + + And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel,<sup>1</sup> + O’ gipsy kith an’ kin; + Five wighter Carlins were na found + The South countrie within. + + To send a lad to London town, + They met upon a day; + And mony a knight, and mony a laird, + This errand fain wad gae. + + O mony a knight, and mony a laird, + This errand fain wad gae; + But nae ane could their fancy please, + O ne’er a ane but twae. + + The first ane was a belted Knight, + Bred of a Border band;<sup>2</sup> + And he wad gae to London town, + Might nae man him withstand. + + And he wad do their errands weel, + And meikle he wad say; + And ilka ane about the court + Wad bid to him gude-day. + + [Footnote 1: Sanquhar.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir James Johnston of Westerhall.] + + The neist cam in a Soger youth,<sup>3</sup> + Who spak wi’ modest grace, + And he wad gae to London town, + If sae their pleasure was. + + He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, + Nor meikle speech pretend; + But he wad hecht an honest heart, + Wad ne’er desert his friend. + + Now, wham to chuse, and wham refuse, + At strife thir Carlins fell; + For some had Gentlefolks to please, + And some wad please themsel’. + + Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith, + And she spak up wi’ pride, + And she wad send the Soger youth, + Whatever might betide. + + For the auld Gudeman o’ London court<sup>4</sup> + She didna care a pin; + But she wad send the Soger youth, + To greet his eldest son.<sup>5</sup> + + Then up sprang Bess o’ Annandale, + And a deadly aith she’s ta’en, + That she wad vote the Border Knight, + Though she should vote her lane. + + “For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, + And fools o’ change are fain; + But I hae tried the Border Knight, + And I’ll try him yet again.” + + Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, + A Carlin stoor and grim. + “The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman, + For me may sink or swim; + + [Footnote 3: Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton.] + + [Footnote 4: The King.] + + [Footnote 5: The Prince of Wales.] + + For fools will prate o’ right or wrang, + While knaves laugh them to scorn; + But the Soger’s friends hae blawn the best, + So he shall bear the horn.” + + Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink, + “Ye weel ken, kimmers a’, + The auld gudeman o’ London court, + His back’s been at the wa’; + + “And mony a friend that kiss’d his caup + Is now a fremit wight; + But it’s ne’er be said o’ whisky Jean— + We’ll send the Border Knight.” + + Then slow raise Marjory o’ the Lochs, + And wrinkled was her brow, + Her ancient weed was russet gray, + Her auld Scots bluid was true; + + “There’s some great folk set light by me, + I set as light by them; + But I will send to London town + Wham I like best at hame.” + + Sae how this mighty plea may end, + Nae mortal wight can tell; + God grant the King and ilka man + May look weel to himsel. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0301"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Election Ballad For Westerha’ + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Up and waur them a’, Willie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + The Laddies by the banks o’ Nith + Wad trust his Grace<sup>1</sup> wi a’, Jamie; + But he’ll sair them, as he sair’d the King— + Turn tail and rin awa’, Jamie. + + [Footnote 1: The fourth Duke of Queensberry, who supported the + proposal that, during George III’s illness, the Prince of Wales + should assume the Government with full prerogative.] + + Chorus.—Up and waur them a’, Jamie, + Up and waur them a’; + The Johnstones hae the guidin o’t, + Ye turncoat Whigs, awa’! + + The day he stude his country’s friend, + Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie, + Or frae puir man a blessin wan, + That day the Duke ne’er saw, Jamie. + Up and waur them, &c. + + But wha is he, his country’s boast? + Like him there is na twa, Jamie; + There’s no a callent tents the kye, + But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie. + Up and waur them, &c. + + To end the wark, here’s Whistlebirk, + Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; + And Maxwell true, o’ sterling blue; + And we’ll be Johnstones a’, Jamie. + Up and waur them, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_PROL_2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On New Year’s Day Evening, 1790. + + No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, + That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity: + Tho’ by the bye, abroad why will you roam? + Good sense and taste are natives here at home: + But not for panegyric I appear, + I come to wish you all a good New Year! + Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, + Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: + The sage, grave Ancient cough’d, and bade me say, + “You’re one year older this important day,” + If wiser too—he hinted some suggestion, + But ’twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; + And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, + Said—“Sutherland, in one word, bid them Think!” + + Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, + Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, + To you the dotard has a deal to say, + In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! + He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, + That the first blow is ever half the battle; + That tho’ some by the skirt may try to snatch him, + Yet by the foreclock is the hold to catch him; + That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, + You may do miracles by persevering. + + Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair, + Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care! + To you old Bald-pate smoothes his wrinkled brow, + And humbly begs you’ll mind the important—Now! + To crown your happiness he asks your leave, + And offers, bliss to give and to receive. + + For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours, + With grateful pride we own your many favours; + And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it, + Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0303"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1790 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0304"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sketch—New Year’s Day, 1790 + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + To Mrs. Dunlop. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + This day, Time winds th’ exhausted chain; + To run the twelvemonth’s length again: + I see, the old bald-pated fellow, + With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, + Adjust the unimpair’d machine, + To wheel the equal, dull routine. + + The absent lover, minor heir, + In vain assail him with their prayer; + Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, + Nor makes the hour one moment less, + Will you (the Major’s with the hounds, + The happy tenants share his rounds; + Coila’s fair Rachel’s care to-day, + And blooming Keith’s engaged with Gray) + From housewife cares a minute borrow, + (That grandchild’s cap will do to-morrow,) + And join with me a-moralizing; + This day’s propitious to be wise in. + + First, what did yesternight deliver? + “Another year has gone for ever.” + And what is this day’s strong suggestion? + “The passing moment’s all we rest on!” + Rest on—for what? what do we here? + Or why regard the passing year? + Will Time, amus’d with proverb’d lore, + Add to our date one minute more? + A few days may—a few years must— + Repose us in the silent dust. + Then, is it wise to damp our bliss? + Yes—all such reasonings are amiss! + The voice of Nature loudly cries, + And many a message from the skies, + That something in us never dies: + That on his frail, uncertain state, + Hang matters of eternal weight: + That future life in worlds unknown + Must take its hue from this alone; + Whether as heavenly glory bright, + Or dark as Misery’s woeful night. + + Since then, my honour’d first of friends, + On this poor being all depends, + Let us th’ important now employ, + And live as those who never die. + Tho’ you, with days and honours crown’d, + Witness that filial circle round, + (A sight life’s sorrows to repulse, + A sight pale Envy to convulse), + Others now claim your chief regard; + Yourself, you wait your bright reward. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0305"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Scots’ Prologue For Mr. Sutherland + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On his Benefit-Night, at the Theatre, Dumfries. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + What needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on, + How this new play an’ that new sang is comin? + Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? + Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported? + Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, + Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? + For Comedy abroad he need to toil, + A fool and knave are plants of every soil; + Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece, + To gather matter for a serious piece; + There’s themes enow in Caledonian story, + Would shew the Tragic Muse in a’ her glory.— + + Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell + How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? + Where are the Muses fled that could produce + A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce? + How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword + ’Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord; + And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, + Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of Ruin! + O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene, + To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! + Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms + ’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms: + She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, + To glut that direst foe—a vengeful woman; + A woman, (tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil,) + As able and as wicked as the Devil! + One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page, + But Douglasses were heroes every age: + And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life, + A Douglas followed to the martial strife, + Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, + Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads! + + As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land + Would take the Muses’ servants by the hand; + Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, + And where he justly can commend, commend them; + And aiblins when they winna stand the test, + Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best! + Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caition, + Ye’ll soon hae Poets o’ the Scottish nation + Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, + And warsle Time, an’ lay him on his back! + + For us and for our Stage, should ony spier, + “Whase aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here?” + My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow— + We have the honour to belong to you! + We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like, + But like good mithers shore before ye strike; + And gratefu’ still, I trust ye’ll ever find us, + For gen’rous patronage, and meikle kindness + We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets and ranks: + God help us! we’re but poor—ye’se get but thanks. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0306"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines To A Gentleman, + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Who had sent the Poet a Newspaper, and offered + to continue it free of Expense. + + Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper through, + And faith, to me, ’twas really new! + How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? + This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted, + To ken what French mischief was brewin; + Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin; + That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, + If Venus yet had got his nose off; + Or how the collieshangie works + Atween the Russians and the Turks, + Or if the Swede, before he halt, + Would play anither Charles the twalt; + If Denmark, any body spak o’t; + Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t: + How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin; + How libbet Italy was singin; + + If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, + Were sayin’ or takin’ aught amiss; + Or how our merry lads at hame, + In Britain’s court kept up the game; + How royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him! + Was managing St. Stephen’s quorum; + If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, + Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; + How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, + If Warren Hasting’s neck was yeukin; + How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d. + Or if bare arses yet were tax’d; + The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls, + Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; + If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, + Was threshing still at hizzies’ tails; + Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, + And no a perfect kintra cooser: + A’ this and mair I never heard of; + And, but for you, I might despair’d of. + So, gratefu’, back your news I send you, + And pray a’ gude things may attend you. + + Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0307"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On Willie Nicol’s Mare + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, + As ever trod on airn; + But now she’s floating down the Nith, + And past the mouth o’ Cairn. + + Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, + An’ rode thro’ thick and thin; + But now she’s floating down the Nith, + And wanting even the skin. + + Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, + And ance she bore a priest; + But now she’s floating down the Nith, + For Solway fish a feast. + + Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, + An’ the priest he rode her sair; + And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was, + As priest-rid cattle are,—&c. &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0308"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Gowden Locks Of Anna + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine, + A place where body saw na; + Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine + The gowden locks of Anna. + + The hungry Jew in wilderness, + Rejoicing o’er his manna, + Was naething to my hinny bliss + Upon the lips of Anna. + + Ye monarchs, take the East and West + Frae Indus to Savannah; + Gie me, within my straining grasp, + The melting form of Anna: + + There I’ll despise Imperial charms, + An Empress or Sultana, + While dying raptures in her arms + I give and take wi’ Anna! + + Awa, thou flaunting God of Day! + Awa, thou pale Diana! + Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray, + When I’m to meet my Anna! + + Come, in thy raven plumage, Night, + (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a’;) + And bring an angel-pen to write + My transports with my Anna! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0309"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Postscript + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Kirk an’ State may join an’ tell, + To do sic things I maunna: + The Kirk an’ State may gae to hell, + And I’ll gae to my Anna. + + She is the sunshine o’ my e’e, + To live but her I canna; + Had I on earth but wishes three, + The first should be my Anna. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0310"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—I Murder Hate + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I murder hate by flood or field, + Tho’ glory’s name may screen us; + In wars at home I’ll spend my blood— + Life-giving wars of Venus. + The deities that I adore + Are social Peace and Plenty; + I’m better pleas’d to make one more, + Than be the death of twenty. + + I would not die like Socrates, + For all the fuss of Plato; + Nor would I with Leonidas, + Nor yet would I with Cato: + The zealots of the Church and State + Shall ne’er my mortal foes be; + But let me have bold Zimri’s fate, + Within the arms of Cozbi! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0311"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Gudewife, Count The Lawin + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night, + But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light; + Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon, + And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun. + + Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin, + The lawin, the lawin, + Then gudewife, count the lawin, + And bring a coggie mair. + + There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen, + And simple folk maun fecht and fen’; + But here we’re a’ in ae accord, + For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord. + Then gudewife, &c. + + My coggie is a haly pool + That heals the wounds o’ care and dool; + And Pleasure is a wanton trout, + An ye drink it a’, ye’ll find him out. + Then gudewife, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0312"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Election Ballad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Addressed to R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry. + + Fintry, my stay in wordly strife, + Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, + Are ye as idle’s I am? + Come then, wi’ uncouth kintra fleg, + O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg, + And ye shall see me try him. + + But where shall I go rin a ride, + That I may splatter nane beside? + I wad na be uncivil: + In manhood’s various paths and ways + There’s aye some doytin’ body strays, + And I ride like the devil. + + Thus I break aff wi’ a’ my birr, + And down yon dark, deep alley spur, + Where Theologics daunder: + Alas! curst wi’ eternal fogs, + And damn’d in everlasting bogs, + As sure’s the creed I’ll blunder! + + I’ll stain a band, or jaup a gown, + Or rin my reckless, guilty crown + Against the haly door: + Sair do I rue my luckless fate, + When, as the Muse an’ Deil wad hae’t, + I rade that road before. + + Suppose I take a spurt, and mix + Amang the wilds o’ Politics— + Electors and elected, + Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!) + Septennially a madness touches, + Till all the land’s infected. + + All hail! Drumlanrig’s haughty Grace, + Discarded remnant of a race + Once godlike—great in story; + Thy forbears’ virtues all contrasted, + The very name of Douglas blasted, + Thine that inverted glory! + + Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore, + But thou hast superadded more, + And sunk them in contempt; + Follies and crimes have stain’d the name, + But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, + From aught that’s good exempt! + + I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, + Who left the all-important cares + Of princes, and their darlings: + And, bent on winning borough touns, + Came shaking hands wi’ wabster-loons, + And kissing barefit carlins. + + Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode, + Whistling his roaring pack abroad + Of mad unmuzzled lions; + As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl’d, + And Westerha’ and Hopetoun hurled + To every Whig defiance. + + But cautious Queensberry left the war, + Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star, + Besides, he hated bleeding: + But left behind him heroes bright, + Heroes in Caesarean fight, + Or Ciceronian pleading. + + O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, + To muster o’er each ardent Whig + Beneath Drumlanrig’s banners; + Heroes and heroines commix, + All in the field of politics, + To win immortal honours. + + M’Murdo and his lovely spouse, + (Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!) + Led on the Loves and Graces: + She won each gaping burgess’ heart, + While he, sub rosa, played his part + Amang their wives and lasses. + + Craigdarroch led a light-arm’d core, + Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, + Like Hecla streaming thunder: + Glenriddel, skill’d in rusty coins, + Blew up each Tory’s dark designs, + And bared the treason under. + + In either wing two champions fought; + Redoubted Staig, who set at nought + The wildest savage Tory; + And Welsh who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground, + High-wav’d his magnum-bonum round + With Cyclopeian fury. + + Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks, + The many-pounders of the Banks, + Resistless desolation! + While Maxwelton, that baron bold, + ’Mid Lawson’s port entrench’d his hold, + And threaten’d worse damnation. + + To these what Tory hosts oppos’d + With these what Tory warriors clos’d + Surpasses my descriving; + Squadrons, extended long and large, + With furious speed rush to the charge, + Like furious devils driving. + + What verse can sing, what prose narrate, + The butcher deeds of bloody Fate, + Amid this mighty tulyie! + Grim Horror girn’d, pale Terror roar’d, + As Murder at his thrapple shor’d, + And Hell mix’d in the brulyie. + + As Highland craigs by thunder cleft, + When lightnings fire the stormy lift, + Hurl down with crashing rattle; + As flames among a hundred woods, + As headlong foam from a hundred floods, + Such is the rage of Battle. + + The stubborn Tories dare to die; + As soon the rooted oaks would fly + Before th’ approaching fellers: + The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar, + When all his wintry billows pour + Against the Buchan Bullers. + + Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night, + Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, + And think on former daring: + The muffled murtherer of Charles + The Magna Charter flag unfurls, + All deadly gules its bearing. + + Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame; + Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham; + Auld Covenanters shiver— + Forgive! forgive! much-wrong’d Montrose! + Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes, + Thou liv’st on high for ever. + + Still o’er the field the combat burns, + The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; + But Fate the word has spoken: + For woman’s wit and strength o’man, + Alas! can do but what they can; + The Tory ranks are broken. + + O that my een were flowing burns! + My voice, a lioness that mourns + Her darling cubs’ undoing! + That I might greet, that I might cry, + While Tories fall, while Tories fly, + And furious Whigs pursuing! + + What Whig but melts for good Sir James, + Dear to his country, by the names, + Friend, Patron, Benefactor! + Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save; + And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave; + And Stewart, bold as Hector. + + Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow, + And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, + And Melville melt in wailing: + Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice, + And Burke shall sing, “O Prince, arise! + Thy power is all-prevailing!” + + For your poor friend, the Bard, afar + He only hears and sees the war, + A cool spectator purely! + So, when the storm the forest rends, + The robin in the hedge descends, + And sober chirps securely. + + Now, for my friends’ and brethren’s sakes, + And for my dear-lov’d Land o’ Cakes, + I pray with holy fire: + Lord, send a rough-shod troop o’ Hell + O’er a’ wad Scotland buy or sell, + To grind them in the mire! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0313"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson + </h2></div> + <p> + A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from Almighty + God. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Should the poor be flattered?—Shakespeare. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! + The meikle devil wi’ a woodie + Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, + O’er hurcheon hides, + And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie + Wi’ thy auld sides! + + He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn, + The ae best fellow e’er was born! + Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn, + By wood and wild, + Where haply, Pity strays forlorn, + Frae man exil’d. + + Ye hills, near neighbours o’ the starns, + That proudly cock your cresting cairns! + Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, + Where Echo slumbers! + Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns, + My wailing numbers! + + Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! + Ye haz’ly shaws and briery dens! + Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens, + Wi’ toddlin din, + Or foaming, strang, wi’ hasty stens, + Frae lin to lin. + + Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea; + Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see; + Ye woodbines hanging bonilie, + In scented bow’rs; + Ye roses on your thorny tree, + The first o’ flow’rs. + + At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade + Droops with a diamond at his head, + At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shed, + I’ th’ rustling gale, + Ye maukins, whiddin thro’ the glade, + Come join my wail. + + Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood; + Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; + Ye curlews, calling thro’ a clud; + Ye whistling plover; + And mourn, we whirring paitrick brood; + He’s gane for ever! + + Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; + Ye fisher herons, watching eels; + Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels + Circling the lake; + Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, + Rair for his sake. + + Mourn, clam’ring craiks at close o’ day, + ’Mang fields o’ flow’ring clover gay; + And when ye wing your annual way + Frae our claud shore, + Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, + Wham we deplore. + + Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r + In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r, + What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r, + Sets up her horn, + Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour, + Till waukrife morn! + + O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! + Oft have ye heard my canty strains; + But now, what else for me remains + But tales of woe; + And frae my een the drapping rains + Maun ever flow. + + Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! + Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: + Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear + Shoots up its head, + Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear, + For him that’s dead! + + Thou, Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair, + In grief thy sallow mantle tear! + Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air + The roaring blast, + Wide o’er the naked world declare + The worth we’ve lost! + + Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light! + Mourn, Empress of the silent night! + And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, + My Matthew mourn! + For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight, + Ne’er to return. + + O Henderson! the man! the brother! + And art thou gone, and gone for ever! + And hast thou crost that unknown river, + Life’s dreary bound! + Like thee, where shall I find another, + The world around! + + Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye Great, + In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state! + But by thy honest turf I’ll wait, + Thou man of worth! + And weep the ae best fellow’s fate + E’er lay in earth. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0314"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Epitaph + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Stop, passenger! my story’s brief, + And truth I shall relate, man; + I tell nae common tale o’ grief, + For Matthew was a great man. + + If thou uncommon merit hast, + Yet spurn’d at Fortune’s door, man; + A look of pity hither cast, + For Matthew was a poor man. + + If thou a noble sodger art, + That passest by this grave, man; + There moulders here a gallant heart, + For Matthew was a brave man. + + If thou on men, their works and ways, + Canst throw uncommon light, man; + Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, + For Matthew was a bright man. + + If thou, at Friendship’s sacred ca’, + Wad life itself resign, man: + Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’, + For Matthew was a kind man. + + If thou art staunch, without a stain, + Like the unchanging blue, man; + This was a kinsman o’ thy ain, + For Matthew was a true man. + + If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, + And ne’er guid wine did fear, man; + This was thy billie, dam, and sire, + For Matthew was a queer man. + + If ony whiggish, whingin’ sot, + To blame poor Matthew dare, man; + May dool and sorrow be his lot, + For Matthew was a rare man. + + But now, his radiant course is run, + For Matthew’s was a bright one! + His soul was like the glorious sun, + A matchless, Heavenly light, man. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0315"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Verses On Captain Grose + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Written on an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Him. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Ken ye aught o’ Captain Grose?—Igo, and ago, + If he’s amang his friends or foes?—Iram, coram, dago. + + Is he to Abra’m’s bosom gane?—Igo, and ago, + Or haudin Sarah by the wame?—Iram, coram dago. + + Is he south or is he north?—Igo, and ago, + Or drowned in the river Forth?—Iram, coram dago. + + Is he slain by Hielan’ bodies?—Igo, and ago, + And eaten like a wether haggis?—Iram, coram, dago. + + Where’er he be, the Lord be near him!—Igo, and ago, + As for the deil, he daur na steer him.—Iram, coram, dago. + + But please transmit th’ enclosed letter,—Igo, and ago, + Which will oblige your humble debtor.—Iram, coram, dago. + + So may ye hae auld stanes in store,—Igo, and ago, + The very stanes that Adam bore.—Iram, coram, dago, + + So may ye get in glad possession,—Igo, and ago, + The coins o’ Satan’s coronation!—Iram coram dago. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0316"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Tam O’ Shanter + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Tale. + + “Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.” + + Gawin Douglas. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + When chapman billies leave the street, + And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet; + As market days are wearing late, + And folk begin to tak the gate, + While we sit bousing at the nappy, + An’ getting fou and unco happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles, + The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + + This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, + As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: + (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, + For honest men and bonie lasses). + + O Tam! had’st thou but been sae wise, + As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice! + She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, + A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; + That frae November till October, + Ae market-day thou was na sober; + That ilka melder wi’ the Miller, + Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; + That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on + The Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on; + That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, + Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday, + She prophesied that late or soon, + Thou wad be found, deep drown’d in Doon, + Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, + By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk. + + Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, + To think how mony counsels sweet, + How mony lengthen’d, sage advices, + The husband frae the wife despises! + + But to our tale: Ae market night, + Tam had got planted unco right, + Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, + Wi reaming saats, that drank divinely; + And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, + His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony: + Tam lo’ed him like a very brither; + They had been fou for weeks thegither. + The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter; + And aye the ale was growing better: + The Landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious: + The Souter tauld his queerest stories; + The Landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: + The storm without might rair and rustle, + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. + + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy. + As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, + The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure: + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious! + + But pleasures are like poppies spread, + You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed; + Or like the snow falls in the river, + A moment white—then melts for ever; + Or like the Borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the Rainbow’s lovely form + Evanishing amid the storm.— + Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, + The hour approaches Tam maun ride; + That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane, + That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; + And sic a night he taks the road in, + As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in. + + The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last; + The rattling showers rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d; + Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d: + That night, a child might understand, + The deil had business on his hand. + + Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg, + A better never lifted leg, + Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, + Despising wind, and rain, and fire; + Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, + Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet, + Whiles glow’rin round wi’ prudent cares, + Lest bogles catch him unawares; + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. + + By this time he was cross the ford, + Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d; + And past the birks and meikle stane, + Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane; + And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, + Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, + Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’. + Before him Doon pours all his floods, + The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods, + The lightnings flash from pole to pole, + Near and more near the thunders roll, + When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze, + Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing, + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! + What dangers thou canst make us scorn! + Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil; + Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil! + The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle, + Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle, + But Maggie stood, right sair astonish’d, + Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, + She ventur’d forward on the light; + And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! + + Warlocks and witches in a dance: + Nae cotillon, brent new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, + Put life and mettle in their heels. + A winnock-bunker in the east, + There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast; + A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, + To gie them music was his charge: + He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl, + Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.— + Coffins stood round, like open presses, + That shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses; + And (by some devilish cantraip sleight) + Each in its cauld hand held a light. + By which heroic Tam was able + To note upon the haly table, + A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns; + Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; + A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, + Wi’ his last gasp his gabudid gape; + Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted: + Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted; + A garter which a babe had strangled: + A knife, a father’s throat had mangled. + Whom his ain son of life bereft, + The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; + Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’, + Which even to name wad be unlawfu’. + + As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; + The Piper loud and louder blew, + The dancers quick and quicker flew, + The reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, + Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies to the wark, + And linkit at it in her sark! + + Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, + A’ plump and strapping in their teens! + Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flainen, + Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!— + Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, + That ance were plush o’ guid blue hair, + I wad hae gien them off my hurdies, + For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies! + But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, + Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, + Louping an’ flinging on a crummock. + I wonder did na turn thy stomach. + + But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie: + There was ae winsome wench and waulie + That night enlisted in the core, + Lang after ken’d on Carrick shore; + (For mony a beast to dead she shot, + And perish’d mony a bonie boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bear, + And kept the country-side in fear); + Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, + That while a lassie she had worn, + In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie. + Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie, + That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, + Wi twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches), + Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches! + + But here my Muse her wing maun cour, + Sic flights are far beyond her power; + To sing how Nannie lap and flang, + (A souple jade she was and strang), + And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc’d, + And thought his very een enrich’d: + Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain, + And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main: + Till first ae caper, syne anither, + Tam tint his reason a thegither, + And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” + And in an instant all was dark: + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. + When out the hellish legion sallied. + + As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, + When plundering herds assail their byke; + As open pussie’s mortal foes, + When, pop! she starts before their nose; + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud; + So Maggie runs, the witches follow, + Wi’ mony an eldritch skreich and hollow. + + Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin! + In hell, they’ll roast thee like a herrin! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! + Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! + Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg, + And win the key-stone o’ the brig;<sup>1</sup> + There, at them thou thy tail may toss, + A running stream they dare na cross. + But ere the keystane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake! + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; + But little wist she Maggie’s mettle! + Ae spring brought off her master hale, + But left behind her ain grey tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + + Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, + Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: + Whene’er to Drink you are inclin’d, + Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind, + Think ye may buy the joys o’er dear; + Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkposthumous"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love, + And ward o’ mony a prayer, + What heart o’ stane wad thou na move, + Sae helpless, sweet, and fair? + + November hirples o’er the lea, + Chil, on thy lovely form: + And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree, + Should shield thee frae the storm. + + [Footnote 1: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil + spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than + the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise + to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with + bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is + much more hazard in turning back.—R.B.] + + May He who gives the rain to pour, + And wings the blast to blaw, + Protect thee frae the driving show’r, + The bitter frost and snaw. + + May He, the friend o’ Woe and Want, + Who heals life’s various stounds, + Protect and guard the mother plant, + And heal her cruel wounds. + + But late she flourish’d, rooted fast, + Fair in the summer morn, + Now feebly bends she in the blast, + Unshelter’d and forlorn. + + Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, + Unscath’d by ruffian hand! + And from thee many a parent stem + Arise to deck our land! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0317"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Life ne’er exulted in so rich a prize, + As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; + Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow, + As that which laid th’ accomplish’d Burnet low. + + Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? + In richest ore the brightest jewel set! + In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, + As by His noblest work the Godhead best is known. + + In vain ye flaunt in summer’s pride, ye groves; + Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, + Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves, + Ye cease to charm; Eliza is no more. + + Ye healthy wastes, immix’d with reedy fens; + Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor’d: + Ye rugged cliffs, o’erhanging dreary glens, + To you I fly—ye with my soul accord. + + Princes, whose cumb’rous pride was all their worth, + Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail, + And thou, sweet Excellence! forsake our earth, + And not a Muse with honest grief bewail? + + We saw thee shine in youth and beauty’s pride, + And Virtue’s light, that beams beyond the spheres; + But, like the sun eclips’d at morning tide, + Thou left us darkling in a world of tears. + + The parent’s heart that nestled fond in thee, + That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; + So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; + So, from it ravish’d, leaves it bleak and bare. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0318"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1791 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0319"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Now Nature hangs her mantle green + On every blooming tree, + And spreads her sheets o’ daisies white + Out o’er the grassy lea; + Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, + And glads the azure skies; + But nought can glad the weary wight + That fast in durance lies. + + Now laverocks wake the merry morn + Aloft on dewy wing; + The merle, in his noontide bow’r, + Makes woodland echoes ring; + The mavis wild wi’ mony a note, + Sings drowsy day to rest: + In love and freedom they rejoice, + Wi’ care nor thrall opprest. + + Now blooms the lily by the bank, + The primrose down the brae; + The hawthorn’s budding in the glen, + And milk-white is the slae: + The meanest hind in fair Scotland + May rove their sweets amang; + But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland, + Maun lie in prison strang. + + I was the Queen o’ bonie France, + Where happy I hae been; + Fu’ lightly raise I in the morn, + As blythe lay down at e’en: + And I’m the sov’reign of Scotland, + And mony a traitor there; + Yet here I lie in foreign bands, + And never-ending care. + + But as for thee, thou false woman, + My sister and my fae, + Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword + That thro’ thy soul shall gae; + The weeping blood in woman’s breast + Was never known to thee; + Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of woe + Frae woman’s pitying e’e. + + My son! my son! may kinder stars + Upon thy fortune shine; + And may those pleasures gild thy reign, + That ne’er wad blink on mine! + God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes, + Or turn their hearts to thee: + And where thou meet’st thy mother’s friend, + Remember him for me! + + O! soon, to me, may Summer suns + Nae mair light up the morn! + Nae mair to me the Autumn winds + Wave o’er the yellow corn? + And, in the narrow house of death, + Let Winter round me rave; + And the next flow’rs that deck the Spring, + Bloom on my peaceful grave! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0320"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + There’ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + By yon Castle wa’, at the close of the day, + I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: + And as he was singing, the tears doon came,— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. + + The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars, + Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars, + We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame,— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. + + My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, + But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; + It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithful and dame,— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. + + Now life is a burden that bows me down, + Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; + But till my last moments my words are the same,— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0321"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Out Over The Forth + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Out over the Forth, I look to the North; + But what is the north and its Highlands to me? + The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, + The far foreign land, or the wide rolling sea. + + But I look to the west when I gae to rest, + That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; + For far in the west lives he I loe best, + The man that is dear to my babie and me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0322"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Banks O’ Doon—First Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sweet are the banks—the banks o’ Doon, + The spreading flowers are fair, + And everything is blythe and glad, + But I am fu’ o’ care. + Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird, + That sings upon the bough; + Thou minds me o’ the happy days + When my fause Luve was true: + Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird, + That sings beside thy mate; + For sae I sat, and sae I sang, + And wist na o’ my fate. + + Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon, + To see the woodbine twine; + And ilka birds sang o’ its Luve, + And sae did I o’ mine: + Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, + Upon its thorny tree; + But my fause Luver staw my rose + And left the thorn wi’ me: + Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, + Upon a morn in June; + And sae I flourished on the morn, + And sae was pu’d or noon! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0323"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Banks O’ Doon—Second Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon, + How can ye blume sae fair? + How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae fu’ o care! + Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird, + That sings upon the bough! + Thou minds me o’ the happy days + When my fause Luve was true. + Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird, + That sings beside thy mate; + For sae I sat, and sae I sang, + And wist na o’ my fate. + + Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon, + To see the woodbine twine; + And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve, + And sae did I o’ mine. + Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, + Upon its thorny tree; + But my fause Luver staw my rose, + And left the thorn wi’ me. + Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, + Upon a morn in June; + And sae I flourished on the morn, + And sae was pu’d or noon. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0324"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Banks O’ Doon—Third Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon, + How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? + How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! + Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird, + That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: + Thou minds me o’ departed joys, + Departed never to return. + + Aft hae I rov’d by Bonie Doon, + To see the rose and woodbine twine: + And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve, + And fondly sae did I o’ mine; + Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, + Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree! + And may fause Luver staw my rose, + But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0325"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The wind blew hollow frae the hills, + By fits the sun’s departing beam + Look’d on the fading yellow woods, + That wav’d o’er Lugar’s winding stream: + Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, + Laden with years and meikle pain, + In loud lament bewail’d his lord, + Whom Death had all untimely ta’en. + + He lean’d him to an ancient aik, + Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years; + His locks were bleached white with time, + His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears! + And as he touch’d his trembling harp, + And as he tun’d his doleful sang, + The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves, + To Echo bore the notes alang. + + “Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing, + The reliques o’ the vernal queir! + Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds + The honours of the aged year! + A few short months, and glad and gay, + Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e; + But nocht in all-revolving time + Can gladness bring again to me. + + “I am a bending aged tree, + That long has stood the wind and rain; + But now has come a cruel blast, + And my last hald of earth is gane; + Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, + Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; + But I maun lie before the storm, + And ithers plant them in my room. + + “I’ve seen sae mony changefu’ years, + On earth I am a stranger grown: + I wander in the ways of men, + Alike unknowing, and unknown: + Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, + I bear alane my lade o’ care, + For silent, low, on beds of dust, + Lie a’ + hat would my sorrows share. + + “And last, (the sum of a’ my griefs!) + My noble master lies in clay; + The flow’r amang our barons bold, + His country’s pride, his country’s stay: + In weary being now I pine, + For a’ the life of life is dead, + And hope has left may aged ken, + On forward wing for ever fled. + + “Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! + The voice of woe and wild despair! + Awake, resound thy latest lay, + Then sleep in silence evermair! + And thou, my last, best, only, friend, + That fillest an untimely tomb, + Accept this tribute from the Bard + Thou brought from Fortune’s mirkest gloom. + + “In Poverty’s low barren vale, + Thick mists obscure involv’d me round; + Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye, + Nae ray of fame was to be found: + Thou found’st me, like the morning sun + That melts the fogs in limpid air, + The friendless bard and rustic song + Became alike thy fostering care. + + “O! why has worth so short a date, + While villains ripen grey with time? + Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great, + Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prim + Why did I live to see that day— + A day to me so full of woe? + O! had I met the mortal shaft + That laid my benefactor low! + + “The bridegroom may forget the bride + Was made his wedded wife yestreen; + The monarch may forget the crown + That on his head an hour has been; + The mother may forget the child + That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; + But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn, + And a’ that thou hast done for me!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0326"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + With The Lament On The Death Of the Earl Of Glencairn +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever’st, + Who, save thy mind’s reproach, nought earthly fear’st, + To thee this votive offering I impart, + The tearful tribute of a broken heart. + The Friend thou valued’st, I, the Patron lov’d; + His worth, his honour, all the world approved: + We’ll mourn till we too go as he has gone, + And tread the shadowy path to that dark world unknown. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0327"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Craigieburn Wood + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sweet closes the ev’ning on Craigieburn Wood, + And blythely awaukens the morrow; + But the pride o’ the spring in the Craigieburn Wood + Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. + + Chorus.—Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, + And O to be lying beyond thee! + O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep + That’s laid in the bed beyond thee! + + I see the spreading leaves and flowers, + I hear the wild birds singing; + But pleasure they hae nane for me, + While care my heart is wringing. + Beyond thee, &c. + + I can na tell, I maun na tell, + I daur na for your anger; + But secret love will break my heart, + If I conceal it langer. + Beyond thee, &c. + + I see thee gracefu’, straight and tall, + I see thee sweet and bonie; + But oh, what will my torment be, + If thou refuse thy Johnie! + Beyond thee, &c. + + To see thee in another’s arms, + In love to lie and languish, + ’Twad be my dead, that will be seen, + My heart wad burst wi’ anguish. + Beyond thee, &c. + + But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, + Say thou lo’es nane before me; + And a’ may days o’ life to come + I’l gratefully adore thee, + Beyond thee, &c. + + The Bonie Wee Thing + + Chorus.—Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing, + Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, + I wad wear thee in my bosom, + Lest my jewel it should tine. + + Wishfully I look and languish + In that bonie face o’ thine, + And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish, + Lest my wee thing be na mine. + Bonie wee thing, &c. + + Wit, and Grace, and Love, and Beauty, + In ae constellation shine; + To adore thee is my duty, + Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine! + Bonie wee thing, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0328"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On Miss Davies + </h2></div> + <h3> + On being asked why she had been formed so little, and Mrs. A—so big. + </h3> +<div class='pre'> + Ask why God made the gem so small? + And why so huge the granite?— + Because God meant mankind should set + That higher value on it. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0329"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Charms Of Lovely Davies + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Miss Muir.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O how shall I, unskilfu’, try + The poet’s occupation? + The tunefu’ powers, in happy hours, + That whisper inspiration; + Even they maun dare an effort mair + Than aught they ever gave us, + Ere they rehearse, in equal verse, + The charms o’ lovely Davies. + + Each eye it cheers when she appears, + Like Phoebus in the morning, + When past the shower, and every flower + The garden is adorning: + As the wretch looks o’er Siberia’s shore, + When winter-bound the wave is; + Sae droops our heart, when we maun part + Frae charming, lovely Davies. + + Her smile’s a gift frae ’boon the lift, + That maks us mair than princes; + A sceptred hand, a king’s command, + Is in her darting glances; + The man in arms ’gainst female charms + Even he her willing slave is, + He hugs his chain, and owns the reign + Of conquering, lovely Davies. + + My Muse, to dream of such a theme, + Her feeble powers surrender: + The eagle’s gaze alone surveys + The sun’s meridian splendour. + I wad in vain essay the strain, + The deed too daring brave is; + I’ll drap the lyre, and mute admire + The charms o’ lovely Davies. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0330"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + What Can A Young Lassie Do Wi’ An Auld Man + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, + What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? + Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie + To sell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’. + Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie + To sell her puir Jenny for siller an’ lan’! + + He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, + He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang; + He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen,— + O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man! + He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his blude it is frozen, + O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man. + + He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, + I never can please him do a’ that I can; + He’s peevish an’ jealous o’ a’ the young fellows,— + O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man! + He’s peevish an’ jealous o’ a’ the young fellows, + O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man. + + My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, + I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; + I’ll cross him an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him + And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan, + I’ll cross him an’ wrack him, until I heartbreak him, + And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0331"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Posie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O luve will venture in where it daur na weel be seen, + O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; + But I will doun yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, + And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year, + And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear; + For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, + For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet, bonie mou; + The hyacinth’s for constancy wi’ its unchanging blue, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, + And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there; + The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller gray, + Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day; + But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The woodbine I will pu’, when the e’ening star is near, + And the diamond draps o’ dew shall be her een sae clear; + The violet’s for modesty, which weel she fa’s to wear, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve, + And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above, + That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove, + And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0332"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Glenriddell’s Fox Breaking His Chain + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A Fragment, 1791. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Thou, Liberty, thou art my theme; + Not such as idle poets dream, + Who trick thee up a heathen goddess + That a fantastic cap and rod has; + Such stale conceits are poor and silly; + I paint thee out, a Highland filly, + A sturdy, stubborn, handsome dapple, + As sleek’s a mouse, as round’s an apple, + That when thou pleasest canst do wonders; + But when thy luckless rider blunders, + Or if thy fancy should demur there, + Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further. + + These things premised, I sing a Fox, + Was caught among his native rocks, + And to a dirty kennel chained, + How he his liberty regained. + + Glenriddell! Whig without a stain, + A Whig in principle and grain, + Could’st thou enslave a free-born creature, + A native denizen of Nature? + How could’st thou, with a heart so good, + (A better ne’er was sluiced with blood!) + Nail a poor devil to a tree, + That ne’er did harm to thine or thee? + + The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was, + Quite frantic in his country’s cause; + And oft was Reynard’s prison passing, + And with his brother-Whigs canvassing + The Rights of Men, the Powers of Women, + With all the dignity of Freemen. + + Sir Reynard daily heard debates + Of Princes’, Kings’, and Nations’ fates, + With many rueful, bloody stories + Of Tyrants, Jacobites, and Tories: + From liberty how angels fell, + That now are galley-slaves in hell; + How Nimrod first the trade began + Of binding Slavery’s chains on Man; + How fell Semiramis—God damn her! + Did first, with sacrilegious hammer, + (All ills till then were trivial matters) + For Man dethron’d forge hen-peck fetters; + + How Xerxes, that abandoned Tory, + Thought cutting throats was reaping glory, + Until the stubborn Whigs of Sparta + Taught him great Nature’s Magna Charta; + How mighty Rome her fiat hurl’d + Resistless o’er a bowing world, + And, kinder than they did desire, + Polish’d mankind with sword and fire; + With much, too tedious to relate, + Of ancient and of modern date, + But ending still, how Billy Pitt + (Unlucky boy!) with wicked wit, + Has gagg’d old Britain, drain’d her coffer, + As butchers bind and bleed a heifer, + + Thus wily Reynard by degrees, + In kennel listening at his ease, + Suck’d in a mighty stock of knowledge, + As much as some folks at a College; + Knew Britain’s rights and constitution, + Her aggrandisement, diminution, + How fortune wrought us good from evil; + Let no man, then, despise the Devil, + As who should say, ’I never can need him,’ + Since we to scoundrels owe our freedom. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0333"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Poem On Pastoral Poetry + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv’d! + In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d + Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d + ’Mang heaps o’ clavers: + And och! o’er aft thy joes hae starv’d, + ’Mid a’ thy favours! + + Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang, + While loud the trump’s heroic clang, + And sock or buskin skelp alang + To death or marriage; + Scarce ane has tried the shepherd—sang + But wi’ miscarriage? + + In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives; + Eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare drives; + Wee Pope, the knurlin’, till him rives + Horatian fame; + In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives + Even Sappho’s flame. + + But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? + They’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s catches; + Squire Pope but busks his skinklin’ patches + O’ heathen tatters: + I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, + That ape their betters. + + In this braw age o’ wit and lear, + Will nane the Shepherd’s whistle mair + Blaw sweetly in its native air, + And rural grace; + And, wi’ the far-fam’d Grecian, share + A rival place? + + Yes! there is ane—a Scottish callan! + There’s ane; come forrit, honest Allan! + Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, + A chiel sae clever; + The teeth o’ time may gnaw Tantallan, + But thou’s for ever. + + Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, + In thy sweet Caledonian lines; + Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtle twines, + Where Philomel, + While nightly breezes sweep the vines, + Her griefs will tell! + + In gowany glens thy burnie strays, + Where bonie lasses bleach their claes, + Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, + Wi’ hawthorns gray, + Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays, + At close o’ day. + + Thy rural loves are Nature’s sel’; + Nae bombast spates o’ nonsense swell; + Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell + O’ witchin love, + That charm that can the strongest quell, + The sternest move. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0334"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near Drumlanrig + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + As on the banks o’ wandering Nith, + Ae smiling simmer morn I stray’d, + And traced its bonie howes and haughs, + Where linties sang and lammies play’d, + I sat me down upon a craig, + And drank my fill o’ fancy’s dream, + When from the eddying deep below, + Up rose the genius of the stream. + + Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, + And troubled, like his wintry wave, + And deep, as sughs the boding wind + Amang his caves, the sigh he gave— + “And come ye here, my son,” he cried, + “To wander in my birken shade? + To muse some favourite Scottish theme, + Or sing some favourite Scottish maid? + + “There was a time, it’s nae lang syne, + Ye might hae seen me in my pride, + When a’ my banks sae bravely saw + Their woody pictures in my tide; + When hanging beech and spreading elm + Shaded my stream sae clear and cool: + And stately oaks their twisted arms + Threw broad and dark across the pool; + + “When, glinting thro’ the trees, appear’d + The wee white cot aboon the mill, + And peacefu’ rose its ingle reek, + That, slowly curling, clamb the hill. + But now the cot is bare and cauld, + Its leafy bield for ever gane, + And scarce a stinted birk is left + To shiver in the blast its lane.” + + “Alas!” quoth I, “what ruefu’ chance + Has twin’d ye o’ your stately trees? + Has laid your rocky bosom bare— + Has stripped the cleeding o’ your braes? + Was it the bitter eastern blast, + That scatters blight in early spring? + Or was’t the wil’fire scorch’d their boughs, + Or canker-worm wi’ secret sting?” + + “Nae eastlin blast,” the sprite replied; + “It blaws na here sae fierce and fell, + And on my dry and halesome banks + Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: + Man! cruel man!” the genius sighed— + As through the cliffs he sank him down— + “The worm that gnaw’d my bonie trees, + That reptile wears a ducal crown.”<sup>1</sup> +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0335"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Gallant Weaver + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea, + By mony a flower and spreading tree, + There lives a lad, the lad for me, + He is a gallant Weaver. + O, I had wooers aught or nine, + They gied me rings and ribbons fine; + And I was fear’d my heart wad tine, + And I gied it to the Weaver. + + My daddie sign’d my tocher-band, + To gie the lad that has the land, + But to my heart I’ll add my hand, + And give it to the Weaver. + While birds rejoice in leafy bowers, + While bees delight in opening flowers, + While corn grows green in summer showers, + I love my gallant Weaver. + + [Footnote 1: The Duke of Queensberry.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0336"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram At Brownhill Inn<sup>1</sup> + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, + And plenty of bacon each day in the year; + We’ve a’ thing that’s nice, and mostly in season, + But why always Bacon—come, tell me a reason? + + You’re Welcome, Willie Stewart + + Chorus.—You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, + You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, + There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May, + That’s half sae welcome’s thou art! + + Come, bumpers high, express your joy, + The bowl we maun renew it, + The tappet hen, gae bring her ben, + To welcome Willie Stewart, + You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, &c. + + May foes be strang, and friends be slack + Ilk action, may he rue it, + May woman on him turn her back + That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart, + You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0337"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lovely Polly Stewart + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—O lovely Polly Stewart, + O charming Polly Stewart, + There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May, + That’s half so fair as thou art! + + The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa’s, + And art can ne’er renew it; + But worth and truth, eternal youth + Will gie to Polly Stewart, + O lovely Polly Stewart, &c. + + [Footnote 1: Bacon was the name of a presumably intrusive host. + The lines are said to have “afforded much amusement.”—Lang] + + May he whase arms shall fauld thy charms + Possess a leal and true heart! + To him be given to ken the heaven + He grasps in Polly Stewart! + O lovely Polly Stewart, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0338"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment,—Damon And Sylvia + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Tither Morn.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Yon wandering rill that marks the hill, + And glances o’er the brae, Sir, + Slides by a bower, where mony a flower + Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir; + There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay, + To love they thought no crime, Sir, + The wild birds sang, the echoes rang, + While Damon’s heart beat time, Sir. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0339"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + When first my brave Johnie lad came to this town, + He had a blue bonnet that wanted the crown; + But now he has gotten a hat and a feather, + Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver! + + Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush, + We’ll over the border, and gie them a brush; + There’s somebody there we’ll teach better behaviour, + Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0340"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Eppie Macnab + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? + O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? + She’s down in the yard, she’s kissin the laird, + She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. + + O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab; + O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab; + Whate’er thou hast dune, be it late, be it sune, + Thou’s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. + + What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? + What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? + She let’s thee to wit that she has thee forgot, + And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. + + O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! + O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! + As light as the air, and as fause as thou’s fair, + Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy ain Jock Rab. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0341"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Altho’ He Has Left Me + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Altho’ he has left me for greed o’ the siller, + I dinna envy him the gains he can win; + I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow, + Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0342"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Tocher’s The Jewel + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Meikle thinks my luve o’ my beauty, + And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin; + But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie + My tocher’s the jewel has charms for him. + It’s a’ for the apple he’ll nourish the tree, + It’s a’ for the hinny he’ll cherish the bee, + My laddie’s sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller, + He canna hae luve to spare for me. + + Your proffer o’ luve’s an airle-penny, + My tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy; + But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin’, + Sae ye wi anither your fortune may try. + Ye’re like to the timmer o’ yon rotten wood, + Ye’re like to the bark o’ yon rotten tree, + Ye’ll slip frae me like a knotless thread, + And ye’ll crack your credit wi’ mae nor me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0343"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O For Ane An’ Twenty, Tam + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam! + And hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! + I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang, + An’ I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. + + They snool me sair, and haud me down, + An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam; + But three short years will soon wheel roun’, + An’ then comes ane an’ twenty, Tam. + An’ O for, &c. + + A glieb o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear, + Was left me by my auntie, Tam; + At kith or kin I need na spier, + An I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. + An’ O for, &c. + + They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, + Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; + But, hear’st thou laddie! there’s my loof, + I’m thine at ane an’ twenty, Tam! + An’ O for, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0344"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Thou Fair Eliza + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Turn again, thou fair Eliza! + Ae kind blink before we part; + Rue on thy despairing lover, + Can’st thou break his faithfu’ heart? + Turn again, thou fair Eliza! + If to love thy heart denies, + Oh, in pity hide the sentence + Under friendship’s kind disguise! + + Thee, sweet maid, hae I offended? + My offence is loving thee; + Can’st thou wreck his peace for ever, + Wha for thine would gladly die? + While the life beats in my bosom, + Thou shalt mix in ilka throe: + Turn again, thou lovely maiden, + Ae sweet smile on me bestow. + + Not the bee upon the blossom, + In the pride o’ sinny noon; + Not the little sporting fairy, + All beneath the simmer moon; + Not the Minstrel in the moment + Fancy lightens in his e’e, + Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, + That thy presence gies to me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0345"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Bonie Bell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, + And surly Winter grimly flies; + Now crystal clear are the falling waters, + And bonie blue are the sunny skies. + Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning, + The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell; + All creatures joy in the sun’s returning, + And I rejoice in my bonie Bell. + + The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, + The yellow Autumn presses near; + Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, + Till smiling Spring again appear: + Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, + Old Time and Nature their changes tell; + But never ranging, still unchanging, + I adore my bonie Bell. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0346"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sweet Afton + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes, + Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; + My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + + Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen, + Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, + Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, + I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair. + + How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, + Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills; + There daily I wander as noon rises high, + My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye. + + How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, + Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow; + There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea, + The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + + Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, + And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; + How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, + As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave. + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes, + Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; + My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0347"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To The Shade Of Thomson + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + While virgin Spring by Eden’s flood, + Unfolds her tender mantle green, + Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, + Or tunes Eolian strains between. + + While Summer, with a matron grace, + Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade, + Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace + The progress of the spiky blade. + + While Autumn, benefactor kind, + By Tweed erects his aged head, + And sees, with self-approving mind, + Each creature on his bounty fed. + + While maniac Winter rages o’er + The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, + Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar, + Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows. + + So long, sweet Poet of the year! + Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; + While Scotia, with exulting tear, + Proclaims that Thomson was her son. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0348"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Nithsdale’s Welcome Hame + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The noble Maxwells and their powers + Are coming o’er the border, + And they’ll gae big Terreagles’ towers + And set them a’ in order. + And they declare Terreagles fair, + For their abode they choose it; + There’s no a heart in a’ the land + But’s lighter at the news o’t. + + Tho’ stars in skies may disappear, + And angry tempests gather; + The happy hour may soon be near + That brings us pleasant weather: + The weary night o’ care and grief + May hae a joyfu’ morrow; + so dawning day has brought relief, + Fareweel our night o’ sorrow. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0349"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Frae The Friends And Land I Love + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Carron Side.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Frae the friends and land I love, + Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite; + Frae my best belov’d I rove, + Never mair to taste delight: + Never mair maun hope to find + Ease frae toil, relief frae care; + When Remembrance wracks the mind, + Pleasures but unveil despair. + + Brightest climes shall mirk appear, + Desert ilka blooming shore, + Till the Fates, nae mair severe, + Friendship, love, and peace restore, + Till Revenge, wi’ laurel’d head, + Bring our banished hame again; + And ilk loyal, bonie lad + Cross the seas, and win his ain. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0350"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame, + Fareweel our ancient glory; + Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name, + Sae fam’d in martial story. + Now Sark rins over Solway sands, + An’ Tweed rins to the ocean, + To mark where England’s province stands— + Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! + + What force or guile could not subdue, + Thro’ many warlike ages, + Is wrought now by a coward few, + For hireling traitor’s wages. + The English stell we could disdain, + Secure in valour’s station; + But English gold has been our bane— + Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! + + O would, or I had seen the day + That Treason thus could sell us, + My auld grey head had lien in clay, + Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace! + But pith and power, till my last hour, + I’ll mak this declaration; + We’re bought and sold for English gold— + Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0351"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ye Jacobites By Name + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear, + Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, + Ye Jacobites by name, + Your fautes I will proclaim, + Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear. + + What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law? + What is Right and what is Wrang by the law? + What is Right, and what is Wrang? + A short sword, and a lang, + A weak arm and a strang, for to draw. + + What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? + What makes heroic strife famed afar? + What makes heroic strife? + To whet th’ assassin’s knife, + Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war? + + Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state, + Then let your schemes alone in the state. + Then let your schemes alone, + Adore the rising sun, + And leave a man undone, to his fate. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0352"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I Hae Been At Crookieden + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I Hae been at Crookieden, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, + Viewing Willie and his men, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. + There our foes that burnt and slew, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, + There, at last, they gat their due, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. + + Satan sits in his black neuk, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, + Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, + The bloody monster gae a yell, + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. + And loud the laugh gied round a’ hell + My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0353"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, + O Kenmure’s on and awa: + An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord + That ever Galloway saw. + + Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! + Success to Kenmure’s band! + There’s no a heart that fears a Whig, + That rides by kenmure’s hand. + + Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie! + Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! + There’s ne’er a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, + Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. + + O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie, + O Kenmure’s lads are men; + Their hearts and swords are metal true, + And that their foes shall ken. + + They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie; + They’ll live or die wi’ fame; + But sune, wi’ sounding victorie, + May Kenmure’s lord come hame! + + Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! + Here’s him that’s far awa! + And here’s the flower that I loe best, + The rose that’s like the snaw. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0354"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On His Birthday. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Health to the Maxwell’s veteran Chief! + Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief: + Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf, + This natal morn, + I see thy life is stuff o’ prief, + Scarce quite half-worn. + + This day thou metes threescore eleven, + And I can tell that bounteous Heaven + (The second-sight, ye ken, is given + To ilka Poet) + On thee a tack o’ seven times seven + Will yet bestow it. + + If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow + Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow, + May Desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow, + Nine miles an hour, + Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, + In brunstane stour. + + But for thy friends, and they are mony, + Baith honest men, and lassies bonie, + May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie, + In social glee, + Wi’ mornings blythe, and e’enings funny, + Bless them and thee! + + Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, + And then the deil, he daurna steer ye: + Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye; + For me, shame fa’ me, + If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, + While Burns they ca’ me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0355"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of Fintry + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 5th October 1791. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg, + About to beg a pass for leave to beg; + Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest + (Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest); + Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail? + (It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale) + And hear him curse the light he first survey’d, + And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? + + Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign; + Of thy caprice maternal I complain; + The lion and the bull thy care have found, + One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground; + Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell; + Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell; + Thy minions kings defend, control, devour, + In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power; + Foxes and statesmen subtile wiles ensure; + The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; + Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, + The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug; + Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts, + Her tongue and eyes—her dreaded spear and darts. + + But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, + To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—the Bard! + A thing unteachable in world’s skill, + And half an idiot too, more helpless still: + No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun; + No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; + No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, + And those, alas! not, Amalthea’s horn: + No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur, + Clad in rich Dulness’ comfortable fur; + In naked feeling, and in aching pride, + He bears th’ unbroken blast from ev’ry side: + Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, + And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. + + Critics—appall’d, I venture on the name; + Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: + Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; + He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: + + His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, + By blockheads’ daring into madness stung; + His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, + By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear; + Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife, + The hapless Poet flounders on thro’ life: + Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d, + And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d, + Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, + Dead even resentment for his injur’d page, + He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage! + + So, by some hedge, the gen’rous steed deceas’d, + For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast; + By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, + Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch’s son. + + O Dulness! portion of the truly blest! + Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest! + Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes + Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams. + If mantling high she fills the golden cup, + With sober selfish ease they sip it up; + Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, + They only wonder “some folks” do not starve. + The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, + And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. + When disappointments snaps the clue of hope, + And thro’ disastrous night they darkling grope, + With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, + And just conclude that “fools are fortune’s care.” + So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, + Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. + + Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train, + Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; + In equanimity they never dwell, + By turns in soaring heav’n, or vaulted hell. + + I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, + With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear! + Already one strong hold of hope is lost— + Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust + (Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears, + And left us darkling in a world of tears); + O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! + Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! + Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown, + And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! + May bliss domestic smooth his private path; + Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, + With many a filial tear circling the bed of death! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0356"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Song Of Death + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Oran an aoig.” + + Scene—A Field of Battle. Time of the day—evening. The wounded + and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the + following song. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, + Now gay with the broad setting sun; + Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, + Our race of existence is run! + Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life’s gloomy foe! + Go, frighten the coward and slave; + Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know + No terrors hast thou to the brave! + + Thou strik’st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark, + Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name; + Thou strik’st the young hero—a glorious mark; + He falls in the blaze of his fame! + In the field of proud honour—our swords in our hands, + Our King and our country to save; + While victory shines on Life’s last ebbing sands,— + O! who would not die with the brave! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0357"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Poem On Sensibility + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sensibility, how charming, + Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell; + But distress, with horrors arming, + Thou alas! hast known too well! + + Fairest flower, behold the lily + Blooming in the sunny ray: + Let the blast sweep o’er the valley, + See it prostrate in the clay. + + Hear the wood lark charm the forest, + Telling o’er his little joys; + But alas! a prey the surest + To each pirate of the skies. + + Dearly bought the hidden treasure + Finer feelings can bestow: + Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure + Thrill the deepest notes of woe. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0358"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Toadeater + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Of Lordly acquaintance you boast, + And the Dukes that you dined wi’ yestreen, + Yet an insect’s an insect at most, + Tho’ it crawl on the curl of a Queen! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0359"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + As cauld a wind as ever blew, + A cauld kirk, an in’t but few: + As cauld a minister’s e’er spak; + Ye’se a’ be het e’er I come back. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0360"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Keekin’-Glass + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + How daur ye ca’ me howlet-face, + Ye blear-e’ed, withered spectre? + Ye only spied the keekin’-glass, + An’ there ye saw your picture. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0361"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Grace Before Dinner, Extempore + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O thou who kindly dost provide + For every creature’s want! + We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, + For all Thy goodness lent: + And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, + May never worse be sent; + But, whether granted, or denied, + Lord, bless us with content. Amen! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0362"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Grace After Dinner, Extempore + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O thou, in whom we live and move— + Who made the sea and shore; + Thy goodness constantly we prove, + And grateful would adore; + And, if it please Thee, Power above! + Still grant us, with such store, + The friend we trust, the fair we love— + And we desire no more. Amen! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0363"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O May, Thy Morn + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O may, thy morn was ne’er so sweet + As the mirk night o’ December! + For sparkling was the rosy wine, + And private was the chamber: + And dear was she I dare na name, + But I will aye remember: + And dear was she I dare na name, + But I will aye remember. + + And here’s to them that, like oursel, + Can push about the jorum! + And here’s to them that wish us weel, + May a’ that’s guid watch o’er ’em! + And here’s to them, we dare na tell, + The dearest o’ the quorum! + And here’s to them, we dare na tell, + The dearest o’ the quorum. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0364"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Rory Dall’s Port.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; + Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, + Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. + Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, + While the star of hope she leaves him? + Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; + Dark despair around benights me. + + I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, + Naething could resist my Nancy: + But to see her was to love her; + Love but her, and love for ever. + Had we never lov’d sae kindly, + Had we never lov’d sae blindly, + Never met—or never parted, + We had ne’er been broken-hearted. + + Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! + Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! + Thine be ilka joy and treasure, + Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae fareweeli alas, for ever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, + Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0365"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Behold the hour, the boat, arrive! + My dearest Nancy, O fareweel! + Severed frae thee, can I survive, + Frae thee whom I hae lov’d sae weel? + + Endless and deep shall be my grief; + LNae ray of comfort shall I see, + But this most precious, dear belief, + That thou wilt still remember me! + + Alang the solitary shore + Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry, + Across the rolling, dashing roar, + I’ll westward turn my wishful eye. + + “Happy thou Indian grove,” I’ll say, + “Where now my Nancy’s path shall be! + While thro’ your sweets she holds her way, + O tell me, does she muse on me?” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0366"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Thou Gloomy December + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! + Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; + Sad was the parting thou makes me remember— + Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair! + + Fond lovers’ parting is sweet, painful pleasure, + Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; + But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! + Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure! + + Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, + Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown; + Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, + Till my last hope and last comfort is gone. + + Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, + Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; + For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, + Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0367"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Native Land Sae Far Awa + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O sad and heavy, should I part, + But for her sake, sae far awa; + Unknowing what my way may thwart, + My native land sae far awa. + + Thou that of a’ things Maker art, + That formed this Fair sae far awa, + Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start + At this my way sae far awa. + + How true is love to pure desert! + Like mine for her sae far awa; + And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart, + While, oh, she is sae far awa! + + Nane other love, nane other dart, + I feel but her’s sae far awa; + But fairer never touch’d a heart + Than her’s, the Fair, sae far awa. + + +</div> + <p> + <br> <br> <br> <br> <a id="linkyr1792"></a> + </p> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1792 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="linkconfess"></a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Alteration of an Old Poem. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + I Do confess thou art sae fair, + I was been o’er the lugs in luve, + Had I na found the slightest prayer + That lips could speak thy heart could muve. + + I do confess thee sweet, but find + Thou art so thriftless o’ thy sweets, + Thy favours are the silly wind + That kisses ilka thing it meets. + + See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, + Amang its native briers sae coy; + How sune it tines its scent and hue, + When pu’d and worn a common toy. + + Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, + Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile; + And sune thou shalt be thrown aside, + Like ony common weed and vile. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0369"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines On Fergusson, The Poet + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson! + What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, + To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun + To shed its influence on thy bright career. + + O why should truest Worth and Genius pine + Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe, + While titled knaves and idiot—Greatness shine + In all the splendour Fortune can bestow? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0370"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Weary Pund O’ Tow + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—The weary pund, the weary pund, + The weary pund o’ tow; + I think my wife will end her life, + Before she spin her tow. + + I bought my wife a stane o’ lint, + As gude as e’er did grow, + And a’ that she has made o’ that + Is ae puir pund o’ tow. + The weary pund, &c. + + There sat a bottle in a bole, + Beyont the ingle low; + And aye she took the tither souk, + To drouk the stourie tow. + The weary pund, &c. + + Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, + Gae spin your tap o’ tow! + She took the rock, and wi’ a knock, + She brak it o’er my pow. + The weary pund, &c. + + At last her feet—I sang to see’t! + Gaed foremost o’er the knowe, + And or I wad anither jad, + I’ll wallop in a tow. + The weary pund, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0371"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, + O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, + And when she cam’ ben, she kiss’d Cockpen, + And syne denied she did it at a’. + + And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? + And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? + In leaving the daughter of a lord, + And kissin’ a collier lassie an’ a’! + + O never look down, my lassie, at a’, + O never look down, my lassie, at a’, + Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, + As the finest dame in castle or ha’. + + Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, + Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, + Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark, + And lady Jean was never sae braw. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0372"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Scroggam, My Dearie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There was a wife wonn’d in Cockpen, Scroggam; + She brew’d gude ale for gentlemen; + Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, + Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. + + The gudewife’s dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam; + The priest o’ the parish he fell in anither; + Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, + Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. + + They laid the twa i’ the bed thegither, Scroggam; + That the heat o’ the tane might cool the tither; + Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me, + Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0373"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Collier Laddie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + “Whare live ye, my bonie lass? + And tell me what they ca’ ye;” + “My name,” she says, “is mistress Jean, + And I follow the Collier laddie.” + “My name, she says, &c. + + “See you not yon hills and dales + The sun shines on sae brawlie; + They a’ are mine, and they shall be thine, + Gin ye’ll leave your Collier laddie.” + “They a’ are mine, &c. + + “Ye shall gang in gay attire, + Weel buskit up sae gaudy; + And ane to wait on every hand, + Gin ye’ll leave your Collier laddie.” + “And ane to wait, &c. + + “Tho’ ye had a’ the sun shines on, + And the earth conceals sae lowly, + I wad turn my back on you and it a’, + And embrace my Collier laddie.” + “I wad turn my back, &c. + + “I can win my five pennies in a day, + An’ spen’t at night fu’ brawlie: + And make my bed in the collier’s neuk, + And lie down wi’ my Collier laddie.” + “And make my bed, &c. + + “Love for love is the bargain for me, + Tho’ the wee cot-house should haud me; + and the warld before me to win my bread, + And fair fa’ my Collier laddie!” + “And the warld before me, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0374"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sic A Wife As Willie Had + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, + The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie; + Willie was a wabster gude, + Could stown a clue wi’ ony body: + He had a wife was dour and din, + O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wad na gie a button for her! + + She has an e’e, she has but ane, + The cat has twa the very colour; + Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, + A clapper tongue wad deave a miller: + A whiskin beard about her mou’, + Her nose and chin they threaten ither; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wadna gie a button for her! + + She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shin’d, + Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; + She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left, + To balance fair in ilka quarter: + She has a lump upon her breast, + The twin o’ that upon her shouther; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wadna gie a button for her! + + Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, + An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin; + But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, + She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion; + Her walie nieves like midden-creels, + Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wadna gie a button for her! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0375"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lady Mary Ann + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O lady Mary Ann looks o’er the Castle wa’, + She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba’, + The youngest he was the flower amang them a’, + My bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet. + + O father, O father, an ye think it fit, + We’ll send him a year to the college yet, + We’ll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, + And that will let them ken he’s to marry yet. + + Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, + Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue, + And the longer it blossom’d the sweeter it grew, + For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet. + + Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik, + Bonie and bloomin’ and straught was its make, + The sun took delight to shine for its sake, + And it will be the brag o’ the forest yet. + + The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green, + And the days are awa’ that we hae seen, + But far better days I trust will come again; + For my bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0376"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Kellyburn Braes + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + And he had a wife was the plague of his days, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + He met with the Devil, says, “How do you fen?” + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + I’ve got a bad wife, sir, that’s a’ my complaint, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + “For, savin your presence, to her ye’re a saint,” + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + It’s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + “But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,” + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + “O welcome most kindly!” the blythe carl said, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + “But if ye can match her ye’re waur than ye’re ca’d,” + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + The Devil has got the auld wife on his back, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + And, like a poor pedlar, he’s carried his pack, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + He’s carried her hame to his ain hallan door, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch, and a whore, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o’ his band, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme: + Turn out on her guard in the clap o’ a hand, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + The carlin gaed thro’ them like ony wud bear, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + Whae’er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa’, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + “O help, maister, help, or she’ll ruin us a’!” + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + The Devil he swore by the edge o’ his knife, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + He pitied the man that was tied to a wife, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + He was not in wedlock, thank Heav’n, but in hell, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + Then Satan has travell’d again wi’ his pack, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + And to her auld husband he’s carried her back, + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. + + I hae been a Devil the feck o’ my life, + Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ thyme; + “But ne’er was in hell till I met wi’ a wife,” + And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0377"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Slave’s Lament + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, + For the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: + Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; + And alas! I am weary, weary O: + Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; + And alas! I am weary, weary O. + + All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, + Like the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O: + There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, + And alas! I am weary, weary O: + There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, + And alas! I am weary, weary O: + + The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, + In the lands of Virginia,—ginia, O; + And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, + And alas! I am weary, weary O: + And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, + And alas! I am weary, weary O: +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0378"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Can Ye Labour Lea? + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—O can ye labour lea, young man, + O can ye labour lea? + It fee nor bountith shall us twine + Gin ye can labour lea. + + I fee’d a man at Michaelmas, + Wi’ airle pennies three; + But a’ the faut I had to him, + He could na labour lea, + O can ye labour lea, &c. + + O clappin’s gude in Febarwar, + An’ kissin’s sweet in May; + But my delight’s the ploughman lad, + That weel can labour lea, + O can ye labour lea, &c. + + O kissin is the key o’ luve, + And clappin’ is the lock; + An’ makin’ o’s the best thing yet, + That e’er a young thing gat. + O can ye labour lea, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0379"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Deuks Dang O’er My Daddie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout, + The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O! + The fien-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife, + He was but a paidlin’ body, O! + He paidles out, and he paidles in, + rn’ he paidles late and early, O! + This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, + An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O. + + O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, + O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O: + I’ve seen the day, and sae hae ye, + Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O. + I’ve seen the day ye butter’d my brose, + And cuddl’d me late and early, O; + But downa-do’s come o’er me now, + And oh, I find it sairly, O! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0380"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Deil’s Awa Wi’ The Exciseman + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The deil cam fiddlin’ thro’ the town, + And danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman, + And ilka wife cries, “Auld Mahoun, + I wish you luck o’ the prize, man.” + + Chorus—The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa, + The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman, + He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa, + He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman. + + We’ll mak our maut, and we’ll brew our drink, + We’ll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man, + And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, + That danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman. + The deil’s awa, &c. + + There’s threesome reels, there’s foursome reels, + There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man, + But the ae best dance ere came to the land + Was—the deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman. + The deil’s awa, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0381"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Country Lass + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + In simmer, when the hay was mawn, + And corn wav’d green in ilka field, + While claver blooms white o’er the lea + And roses blaw in ilka beild! + Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, + Says—“I’ll be wed, come o’t what will”: + Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild; + “O’ gude advisement comes nae ill. + + “It’s ye hae wooers mony ane, + And lassie, ye’re but young ye ken; + Then wait a wee, and cannie wale + A routhie butt, a routhie ben; + There’s Johnie o’ the Buskie-glen, + Fu’ is his barn, fu’ is his byre; + Take this frae me, my bonie hen, + It’s plenty beets the luver’s fire.” + + “For Johnie o’ the Buskie-glen, + I dinna care a single flie; + He lo’es sae weel his craps and kye, + He has nae love to spare for me; + But blythe’s the blink o’ Robie’s e’e, + And weel I wat he lo’es me dear: + Ae blink o’ him I wad na gie + For Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.” + + “O thoughtless lassie, life’s a faught; + The canniest gate, the strife is sair; + But aye fu’—han’t is fechtin’ best, + A hungry care’s an unco care: + But some will spend and some will spare, + An’ wilfu’ folk maun hae their will; + Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, + Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.” + + “O gear will buy me rigs o’ land, + And gear will buy me sheep and kye; + But the tender heart o’ leesome love, + The gowd and siller canna buy; + We may be poor—Robie and I— + Light is the burden love lays on; + Content and love brings peace and joy— + What mair hae Queens upon a throne?” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0382"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Bessy And Her Spinnin’ Wheel + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel, + And leeze me on my rock and reel; + Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, + And haps me biel and warm at e’en; + I’ll set me down and sing and spin, + While laigh descends the simmer sun, + Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal, + O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel. + + On ilka hand the burnies trot, + And meet below my theekit cot; + The scented birk and hawthorn white, + Across the pool their arms unite, + Alike to screen the birdie’s nest, + And little fishes’ caller rest; + The sun blinks kindly in the beil’, + Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel. + + On lofty aiks the cushats wail, + And Echo cons the doolfu’ tale; + The lintwhites in the hazel braes, + Delighted, rival ither’s lays; + The craik amang the claver hay, + The pairtrick whirring o’er the ley, + The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel, + Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel. + + Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy, + Aboon distress, below envy, + O wha wad leave this humble state, + For a’ the pride of a’ the great? + Amid their flairing, idle toys, + Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, + Can they the peace and pleasure feel + Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0383"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Love For Love + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ithers seek they ken na what, + Features, carriage, and a’ that; + Gie me love in her I court, + Love to love maks a’ the sport. + + Let love sparkle in her e’e; + Let her lo’e nae man but me; + That’s the tocher-gude I prize, + There the luver’s treasure lies. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0384"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Saw Ye Bonie Lesley + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O saw ye bonie Lesley, + As she gaed o’er the Border? + She’s gane, like Alexander, + To spread her conquests farther. + + To see her is to love her, + And love but her for ever; + For Nature made her what she is, + And never made anither! + + Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, + Thy subjects, we before thee; + Thou art divine, fair Lesley, + The hearts o’ men adore thee. + + The deil he could na scaith thee, + Or aught that wad belang thee; + He’d look into thy bonie face, + And say—“I canna wrang thee!” + + The Powers aboon will tent thee, + Misfortune sha’na steer thee; + Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely, + That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. + + Return again, fair Lesley, + Return to Caledonie! + That we may brag we hae a lass + There’s nane again sae bonie. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0385"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment Of Song + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + No cold approach, no altered mien, + Just what would make suspicion start; + No pause the dire extremes between, + He made me blest—and broke my heart. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linklea_rig"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I’ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + When o’er the hill the eastern star + Tells bughtin time is near, my jo, + And owsen frae the furrow’d field + Return sae dowf and weary O; + Down by the burn, where birken buds + Wi’ dew are hangin clear, my jo, + I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, + My ain kind Dearie O. + + At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, + I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie, O, + If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, + My ain kind Dearie O; + Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild, + And I were ne’er sae weary O, + I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, + My ain kind Dearie O. + + The hunter lo’es the morning sun; + To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; + At noon the fisher seeks the glen + Adown the burn to steer, my jo: + Gie me the hour o’ gloamin’ grey, + It maks my heart sae cheery O, + To meet thee on the lea-rig, + My ain kind Dearie O. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0386"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Wife’s A Winsome Wee Thing + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“My Wife’s a Wanton Wee Thing.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—She is a winsome wee thing, + She is a handsome wee thing, + She is a lo’esome wee thing, + This dear wee wife o’ mine. + + I never saw a fairer, + I never lo’ed a dearer, + And neist my heart I’ll wear her, + For fear my jewel tine, + She is a winsome, &c. + + The warld’s wrack we share o’t; + The warstle and the care o’t; + Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it, + And think my lot divine. + She is a winsome, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0387"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Highland Mary + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Katherine Ogie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o’ Montgomery! + Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie: + There Simmer first unfauld her robes, + And there the langest tarry; + For there I took the last Farewell + O’ my sweet Highland Mary. + + How sweetly bloom’d the gay, green birk, + How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, + As underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasp’d her to my bosom! + The golden Hours on angel wings, + Flew o’er me and my Dearie; + For dear to me, as light and life, + Was my sweet Highland Mary. + + Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace, + Our parting was fu’ tender; + And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder; + But oh! fell Death’s untimely frost, + That nipt my Flower sae early! + Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay + That wraps my Highland Mary! + + O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, + I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly! + And clos’d for aye, the sparkling glance + That dwalt on me sae kindly! + And mouldering now in silent dust, + That heart that lo’ed me dearly! + But still within my bosom’s core + Shall live my Highland Mary. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0388"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Auld Rob Morris + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There’s Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, + He’s the King o’ gude fellows, and wale o’ auld men; + He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, + And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine. + + She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; + She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; + As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, + And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e. + + But oh! she’s an Heiress, auld Robin’s a laird, + And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; + A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, + The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. + + The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; + The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; + I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, + And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. + + O had she but been of a lower degree, + I then might hae hop’d she wad smil’d upon me! + O how past descriving had then been my bliss, + As now my distraction nae words can express. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0389"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Rights Of Woman + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + An Occasional Address. + + Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things, + The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; + While quacks of State must each produce his plan, + And even children lisp the Rights of Man; + Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, + The Rights of Woman merit some attention. + + First, in the Sexes’ intermix’d connection, + One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.— + The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, + Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, + Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form, + Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm. + + Our second Right—but needless here is caution, + To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion; + Each man of sense has it so full before him, + He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.— + There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days, + A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways, + Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, + Nay even thus invade a Lady’s quiet. + + Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; + Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred— + Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) + Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. + + For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, + That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest; + Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration, + Most humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration! + In that blest sphere alone we live and move; + There taste that life of life—immortal love. + Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs; + ’Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares, + When awful Beauty joins with all her charms— + Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? + + But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, + With bloody armaments and revolutions; + Let Majesty your first attention summon, + Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0390"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sweet naivete of feature, + Simple, wild, enchanting elf, + Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, + Thou art acting but thyself. + + Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, + Spurning Nature, torturing art; + Loves and Graces all rejected, + Then indeed thou’d’st act a part. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0391"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Dost thou not rise, indignant shade, + And smile wi’ spurning scorn, + When they wha wad hae starved thy life, + Thy senseless turf adorn? + + Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae, + Wi’ meikle honest toil, + And claught th’ unfading garland there— + Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil. + + And wear it thou! and call aloud + This axiom undoubted— + Would thou hae Nobles’ patronage? + First learn to live without it! + + To whom hae much, more shall be given, + Is every Great man’s faith; + But he, the helpless, needful wretch, + Shall lose the mite he hath. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0392"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Duncan Gray + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Duncan Gray cam’ here to woo, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + On blythe Yule-night when we were fou, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh, + Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, + Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d; + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: + Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, + Grat his e’en baith blear’t an’ blin’, + Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Time and Chance are but a tide, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Slighted love is sair to bide, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: + Shall I like a fool, quoth he, + For a haughty hizzie die? + She may gae to—France for me! + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + How it comes let doctors tell, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; + Meg grew sick, as he grew hale, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Something in her bosom wrings, + For relief a sigh she brings: + And oh! her een they spak sic things! + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Duncan was a lad o’ grace, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: + Maggie’s was a piteous case, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: + Duncan could na be her death, + Swelling Pity smoor’d his wrath; + Now they’re crouse and canty baith, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0393"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Here’s A Health To Them That’s Awa + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa; + And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, + May never gude luck be their fa’! + It’s gude to be merry and wise, + It’s gude to be honest and true; + It’s gude to support Caledonia’s cause, + And bide by the buff and the blue. + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to Charlie<sup>1</sup> the chief o’ the clan, + Altho’ that his band be but sma’! + May Liberty meet wi’ success! + May Prudence protect her frae evil! + May tyrants and tyranny tine i’ the mist, + And wander their way to the devil! + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa; + Here’s a health to Tammie,<sup>2</sup> the Norlan’ laddie, + That lives at the lug o’ the law! + Here’s freedom to them that wad read, + Here’s freedom to them that wad write, + + [Footnote 1: Charles James Fox.] + + [Footnote 2: Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.] + + There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard, + But they whom the truth would indite. + + Here’s a Health to them that’s awa, + An’ here’s to them that’s awa! + Here’s to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna like ’em + Be built in a hole in the wa’; + Here’s timmer that’s red at the heart + Here’s fruit that is sound at the core; + And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat + Be turn’d to the back o’ the door. + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa; + Here’s chieftain M’Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, + Tho’ bred amang mountains o’ snaw; + Here’s friends on baith sides o’ the firth, + And friends on baith sides o’ the Tweed; + And wha wad betray old Albion’s right, + May they never eat of her bread! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0394"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Tippling Ballad + </h2></div> + <p> + On the Duke of Brunswick’s Breaking up his Camp, and the defeat of the + Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + When Princes and Prelates, + And hot-headed zealots, + A’Europe had set in a low, a low, + The poor man lies down, + Nor envies a crown, + And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow, + And comforts himself as he dow. + + The black-headed eagle, + As keen as a beagle, + He hunted o’er height and o’er howe, + In the braes o’ Gemappe, + He fell in a trap, + E’en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow, + E’en let him come out as he dow. + + But truce with commotions, + And new-fangled notions, + A bumper, I trust you’ll allow; + Here’s George our good king, + And Charlotte his queen, + And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow, + And lang may they ring as they dow. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0395"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1793 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0396"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Poortith Cauld And Restless Love + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O poortith cauld, and restless love, + Ye wrack my peace between ye; + Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, + An ’twere na for my Jeanie. + + Chorus—O why should Fate sic pleasure have, + Life’s dearest bands untwining? + Or why sae sweet a flower as love + Depend on Fortune’s shining? + + The warld’s wealth, when I think on, + It’s pride and a’ the lave o’t; + O fie on silly coward man, + That he should be the slave o’t! + O why, &c. + + Her e’en, sae bonie blue, betray + How she repays my passion; + But prudence is her o’erword aye, + She talks o’ rank and fashion. + O why, &c. + + O wha can prudence think upon, + And sic a lassie by him? + O wha can prudence think upon, + And sae in love as I am? + O why, &c. + + How blest the simple cotter’s fate! + He woos his artless dearie; + The silly bogles, wealth and state, + Can never make him eerie, + O why, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0397"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Politics + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + In Politics if thou would’st mix, + And mean thy fortunes be; + Bear this in mind,—be deaf and blind, + Let great folk hear and see. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkbraw_lads"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Braw Lads O’ Galla Water + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes, + They rove amang the blooming heather; + But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws + Can match the lads o’ Galla Water. + + But there is ane, a secret ane, + Aboon them a’ I loe him better; + And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine, + The bonie lad o’ Galla Water. + + Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, + And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher, + Yet rich in kindest, truest love, + We’ll tent our flocks by Galla Water. + + It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, + That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; + The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, + O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0398"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday, + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, + Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, + See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, + At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow. + + So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear, + Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; + Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, + Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. + + I thank thee, Author of this opening day! + Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! + Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys— + What wealth could never give nor take away! + + Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, + The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0399"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Wandering Willie—First Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, + Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; + Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, + And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. + Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; + It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e: + Now welcome the Simmer, and welcome my Willie, + The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me. + + Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o’your slumbers, + O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! + Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, + And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. + But if he’s forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, + O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main; + May I never see it, may I never trow it, + But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0400"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Wandering Willie—Revised Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, + Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; + Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, + Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. + Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, + Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e’e, + Welcome now the Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, + The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me! + + Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, + How your dread howling a lover alarms! + Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, + And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. + But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, + Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main! + May I never see it, may I never trow it, + But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0401"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lord Gregory + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, + And loud the tempest’s roar; + A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower, + Lord Gregory, ope thy door. + An exile frae her father’s ha’, + And a’ for loving thee; + At least some pity on me shaw, + If love it may na be. + + Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove + By bonie Irwine side, + Where first I own’d that virgin love + I lang, lang had denied. + How aften didst thou pledge and vow + Thou wad for aye be mine! + And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true, + It ne’er mistrusted thine. + + Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, + And flinty is thy breast: + Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by, + O, wilt thou bring me rest! + Ye mustering thunders from above, + Your willing victim see; + But spare and pardon my fause Love, + His wrangs to Heaven and me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0402"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Open The Door To Me, Oh + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, + Oh, open the door to me, oh, + Tho’ thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true, + Oh, open the door to me, oh. + + Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, + But caulder thy love for me, oh: + The frost that freezes the life at my heart, + Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh. + + The wan Moon is setting beyond the white wave, + And Time is setting with me, oh: + False friends, false love, farewell! for mair + I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, oh. + + She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide, + She sees the pale corse on the plain, oh: + “My true love!” she cried, and sank down by his side, + Never to rise again, oh. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0403"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lovely Young Jessie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + True hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow, + And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr; + But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river, + Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: + To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; + To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, + Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, + And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. + + O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, + And sweet is the lily, at evening close; + But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie, + Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. + Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; + Enthron’d in her een he delivers his law: + And still to her charms she alone is a stranger; + Her modest demeanour’s the jewel of a’. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0404"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Meg O’ The Mill + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten, + An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten? + She gotten a coof wi’ a claut o’ siller, + And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller. + + The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; + A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; + The laird was a widdifu’, bleerit knurl; + She’s left the gude fellow, and taen the churl. + + The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving, + The lair did address her wi’ matter mair moving, + A fine pacing-horse wi’ a clear chained bridle, + A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. + + O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin’, + And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen! + A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle, + But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl’! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0405"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Meg O’ The Mill—Another Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten, + An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten? + A braw new naig wi’ the tail o’ a rottan, + And that’s what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten. + + O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly, + An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly? + A dram o’ gude strunt in the morning early, + And that’s what Meg o’ the Mill lo’es dearly. + + O ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was married, + An’ ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was married? + The priest he was oxter’d, the clark he was carried, + And that’s how Meg o’ the Mill was married. + + O ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was bedded, + An’ ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was bedded? + The groom gat sae fou’, he fell awald beside it, + And that’s how Meg o’ the Mill was bedded. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0406"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Soldier’s Return + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“The Mill, mill, O.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, + And gentle peace returning, + Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, + And mony a widow mourning; + I left the lines and tented field, + Where lang I’d been a lodger, + My humble knapsack a’ my wealth, + A poor and honest sodger. + + A leal, light heart was in my breast, + My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder; + And for fair Scotia hame again, + I cheery on did wander: + I thought upon the banks o’ Coil, + I thought upon my Nancy, + I thought upon the witching smile + That caught my youthful fancy. + + At length I reach’d the bonie glen, + Where early life I sported; + I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn, + Where Nancy aft I courted: + Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, + Down by her mother’s dwelling! + And turn’d me round to hide the flood + That in my een was swelling. + + Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass, + Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom, + O! happy, happy may he be, + That’s dearest to thy bosom: + My purse is light, I’ve far to gang, + And fain would be thy lodger; + I’ve serv’d my king and country lang— + Take pity on a sodger.” + + Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me, + And lovelier was than ever; + Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed, + Forget him shall I never: + Our humble cot, and hamely fare, + Ye freely shall partake it; + That gallant badge—the dear cockade, + Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.” + + She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose— + Syne pale like only lily; + She sank within my arms, and cried, + “Art thou my ain dear Willie?” + “By him who made yon sun and sky! + By whom true love’s regarded, + I am the man; and thus may still + True lovers be rewarded. + + “The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame, + And find thee still true-hearted; + Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love, + And mair we’se ne’er be parted.” + Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd, + A mailen plenish’d fairly; + And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad, + Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!” + + For gold the merchant ploughs the main, + The farmer ploughs the manor; + But glory is the sodger’s prize, + The sodgerpppp’s wealth is honor: + The brave poor sodger ne’er despise, + Nor count him as a stranger; + Remember he’s his country’s stay, + In day and hour of danger. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0407"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Versicles, A.D. 1793 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="linknatives"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The True Loyal Natives + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye true “Loyal Natives” attend to my song + In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; + From Envy and Hatred your corps is exempt, + But where is your shield from the darts of Contempt! +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkgoldie"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Commissary Goldie’s Brains + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Lord, to account who dares thee call, + Or e’er dispute thy pleasure? + Else why, within so thick a wall, + Enclose so poor a treasure? +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkalmanac"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines Inscribed In A Lady’s Pocket Almanac + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live, + To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; + Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air, + Till Slave and Despot be but things that were. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkvictory"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Thanksgiving For A National Victory + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks? + To murder men and give God thanks! + Desist, for shame!—proceed no further; + God won’t accept your thanks for Murther! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0408"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines On The Commemoration Of Rodney’s Victory + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Instead of a Song, boy’s, I’ll give you a Toast; + Here’s to the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!— + That we lost, did I say?—nay, by Heav’n, that we found; + For their fame it will last while the world goes round. + + The next in succession I’ll give you’s the King! + Whoe’er would betray him, on high may he swing! + And here’s the grand fabric, our free Constitution, + As built on the base of our great Revolution! + + And longer with Politics not to be cramm’d, + Be Anarchy curs’d, and Tyranny damn’d! + And who would to Liberty e’er prove disloyal, + May his son be a hangman—and he his first trial! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0409"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Raptures Of Folly + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Thou greybeard, old Wisdom! may boast of thy treasures; + Give me with young Folly to live; + I grant thee thy calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, + But Folly has raptures to give. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0410"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Kirk and State Excisemen + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering + ’Gainst poor Excisemen? Give the cause a hearing: + What are your Landlord’s rent-rolls? Taxing ledgers! + What Premiers? What ev’n Monarchs? Mighty Gaugers! + Nay, what are Priests? (those seeming godly wise-men,) + What are they, pray, but Spiritual Excisemen! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0411"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Extempore Reply To An Invitation + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The King’s most humble servant, I + Can scarcely spare a minute; + But I’ll be wi’ you by an’ by; + Or else the Deil’s be in it. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0412"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Grace After Meat + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Lord, we thank, and thee adore, + For temporal gifts we little merit; + At present we will ask no more— + Let William Hislop give the spirit. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0413"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Grace Before And After Meat + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Lord, when hunger pinches sore, + Do thou stand us in stead, + And send us, from thy bounteous store, + A tup or wether head! Amen. + + O Lord, since we have feasted thus, + Which we so little merit, + Let Meg now take away the flesh, + And Jock bring in the spirit! Amen. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0414"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Impromptu On General Dumourier’s Desertion From The French Republican Army + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier; + You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier: + How does Dampiere do? + Ay, and Bournonville too? + Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier? + + I will fight France with you, Dumourier; + I will fight France with you, Dumourier; + I will fight France with you, + I will take my chance with you; + By my soul, I’ll dance with you, Dumourier. + + Then let us fight about, Dumourier; + Then let us fight about, Dumourier; + Then let us fight about, + Till Freedom’s spark be out, + Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt, Dumourier. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0415"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Last Time I Came O’er The Moor + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The last time I came o’er the moor, + And left Maria’s dwelling, + What throes, what tortures passing cure, + Were in my bosom swelling: + Condemn’d to see my rival’s reign, + While I in secret languish; + To feel a fire in every vein, + Yet dare not speak my anguish. + + Love’s veriest wretch, despairing, I + Fain, fain, my crime would cover; + Th’ unweeting groan, the bursting sigh, + Betray the guilty lover. + I know my doom must be despair, + Thou wilt nor canst relieve me; + But oh, Maria, hear my prayer, + For Pity’s sake forgive me! + + The music of thy tongue I heard, + Nor wist while it enslav’d me; + I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d, + Till fear no more had sav’d me: + The unwary sailor thus, aghast, + The wheeling torrent viewing, + ’Mid circling horrors yields at last + To overwhelming ruin. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0416"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Logan Braes + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Logan Water.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, + That day I was my Willie’s bride, + And years sin syne hae o’er us run, + Like Logan to the simmer sun: + But now thy flowery banks appear + Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, + While my dear lad maun face his faes, + Far, far frae me and Logan braes. + + Again the merry month of May + Has made our hills and valleys gay; + The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, + The bees hum round the breathing flowers; + Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, + And Evening’s tears are tears o’ joy: + My soul, delightless a’ surveys, + While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. + + Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, + Amang her nestlings sits the thrush: + Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil, + Or wi’ his song her cares beguile; + But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, + Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, + Pass widow’d nights and joyless days, + While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. + + O wae be to you, Men o’ State, + That brethren rouse to deadly hate! + As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, + Sae may it on your heads return! + How can your flinty hearts enjoy + The widow’s tear, the orphan’s cry? + But soon may peace bring happy days, + And Willie hame to Logan braes! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0417"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Quaker’s Wife.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Blythe hae I been on yon hill, + As the lambs before me; + Careless ilka thought and free, + As the breeze flew o’er me; + Now nae langer sport and play, + Mirth or sang can please me; + Lesley is sae fair and coy, + Care and anguish seize me. + + Heavy, heavy is the task, + Hopeless love declaring; + Trembling, I dow nocht but glow’r, + Sighing, dumb despairing! + If she winna ease the thraws + In my bosom swelling, + Underneath the grass-green sod, + Soon maun be my dwelling. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0418"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“Hughie Graham.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O were my love yon Lilac fair, + Wi’ purple blossoms to the Spring, + And I, a bird to shelter there, + When wearied on my little wing! + How I wad mourn when it was torn + By Autumn wild, and Winter rude! + But I wad sing on wanton wing, + When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d. + + O gin my love were yon red rose, + That grows upon the castle wa’; + And I myself a drap o’ dew, + Into her bonie breast to fa’! + O there, beyond expression blest, + I’d feast on beauty a’ the night; + Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest, + Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0419"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Bonie Jean—A Ballad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + To its ain tune. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + There was a lass, and she was fair, + At kirk or market to be seen; + When a’ our fairest maids were met, + The fairest maid was bonie Jean. + + And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark, + And aye she sang sae merrilie; + The blythest bird upon the bush + Had ne’er a lighter heart than she. + + But hawks will rob the tender joys + That bless the little lintwhite’s nest; + And frost will blight the fairest flowers, + And love will break the soundest rest. + + Young Robie was the brawest lad, + The flower and pride of a’ the glen; + And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, + And wanton naigies nine or ten. + + He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryste, + He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down; + And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, + Her heart was tint, her peace was stown! + + As in the bosom of the stream, + The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en; + So trembling, pure, was tender love + Within the breast of bonie Jean. + + And now she works her mammie’s wark, + And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain; + Yet wist na what her ail might be, + Or what wad make her weel again. + + But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light, + And didna joy blink in her e’e, + As Robie tauld a tale o’ love + Ae e’ening on the lily lea? + + The sun was sinking in the west, + The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; + His cheek to hers he fondly laid, + And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love: + + “O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; + O canst thou think to fancy me, + Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot, + And learn to tent the farms wi’ me? + + “At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, + Or naething else to trouble thee; + But stray amang the heather-bells, + And tent the waving corn wi’ me.” + + Now what could artless Jeanie do? + She had nae will to say him na: + At length she blush’d a sweet consent, + And love was aye between them twa. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0420"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines On John M’Murdo, ESQ. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Blest be M’Murdo to his latest day! + No envious cloud o’ercast his evening ray; + No wrinkle, furrow’d by the hand of care, + Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! + O may no son the father’s honour stain, + Nor ever daughter give the mother pain! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0421"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On A Lap-Dog + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Named Echo +</div> +<div class='pre'> + In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, + Your heavy loss deplore; + Now, half extinct your powers of song, + Sweet Echo is no more. + + Ye jarring, screeching things around, + Scream your discordant joys; + Now, half your din of tuneless sound + With Echo silent lies. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0422"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + What dost thou in that mansion fair? + Flit, Galloway, and find + Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, + The picture of thy mind. + + No Stewart art thou, Galloway, + The Stewarts ’ll were brave; + Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, + Not one of them a knave. + + Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, + Thro’ many a far-fam’d sire! + So ran the far-famed Roman way, + And ended in a mire. + + Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway! + In quiet let me live: + I ask no kindness at thy hand, + For thou hast none to give. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0423"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + When Morine, deceas’d, to the Devil went down, + ’Twas nothing would serve him but Satan’s own crown; + “Thy fool’s head,” quoth Satan, “that crown shall wear never, + I grant thou’rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0424"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Phillis The Fair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Robin Adair.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + While larks, with little wing, + Fann’d the pure air, + Tasting the breathing Spring, + Forth I did fare: + Gay the sun’s golden eye + Peep’d o’er the mountains high; + Such thy morn! did I cry, + Phillis the fair. + + In each bird’s careless song, + Glad I did share; + While yon wild-flowers among, + Chance led me there! + Sweet to the op’ning day, + Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; + Such thy bloom! did I say, + Phillis the fair. + + Down in a shady walk, + Doves cooing were; + I mark’d the cruel hawk + Caught in a snare: + So kind may fortune be, + Such make his destiny, + He who would injure thee, + Phillis the fair. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0425"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—Had I A Cave + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Robin Adair.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, + Where the winds howl to the wave’s dashing roar: + There would I weep my woes, + There seek my lost repose, + Till grief my eyes should close, + Ne’er to wake more! + + Falsest of womankind, can’st thou declare + All thy fond, plighted vows fleeting as air! + To thy new lover hie, + Laugh o’er thy perjury; + Then in thy bosom try + What peace is there! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0426"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song—By Allan Stream + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + By Allan stream I chanc’d to rove, + While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; + The winds are whispering thro’ the grove, + The yellow corn was waving ready: + I listen’d to a lover’s sang, + An’ thought on youthfu’ pleasures mony; + And aye the wild-wood echoes rang— + “O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! + + “O, happy be the woodbine bower, + Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; + Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, + The place and time I met my Dearie! + Her head upon my throbbing breast, + She, sinking, said, ’I’m thine for ever!’ + While mony a kiss the seal imprest— + The sacred vow we ne’er should sever.” + + The haunt o’ Spring’s the primrose-brae, + The Summer joys the flocks to follow; + How cheery thro’ her short’ning day, + Is Autumn in her weeds o’ yellow; + But can they melt the glowing heart, + Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? + Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart, + Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure? +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkwhistle"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Whistle, And I’ll Come To You, My Lad + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—O Whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, + O whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad, + Tho’ father an’ mother an’ a’ should gae mad, + O whistle, an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad. + + But warily tent when ye come to court me, + And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee; + Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, + And come as ye were na comin’ to me, + And come as ye were na comin’ to me. + O whistle an’ I’ll come, &c. + + At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me, + Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flie; + But steal me a blink o’ your bonie black e’e, + Yet look as ye were na lookin’ to me, + Yet look as ye were na lookin’ to me. + O whistle an’ I’ll come, &c. + + Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, + And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a-wee; + But court na anither, tho’ jokin’ ye be, + For fear that she wile your fancy frae me, + For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. + O whistle an’ I’ll come, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0427"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Phillis The Queen O’ The Fair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Muckin o’ Geordie’s Byre.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Adown winding Nith I did wander, + To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; + Adown winding Nith I did wander, + Of Phillis to muse and to sing. + + Chorus.—Awa’ wi’ your belles and your beauties, + They never wi’ her can compare, + Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis, + Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair. + + The daisy amus’d my fond fancy, + So artless, so simple, so wild; + Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis— + For she is Simplicity’s child. + Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. + + The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my charmer, + Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest: + How fair and how pure is the lily! + But fairer and purer her breast. + Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. + + Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, + They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie: + Her breath is the breath of the woodbine, + Its dew-drop o’ diamond her eye. + Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. + + Her voice is the song o’ the morning, + That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove + When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, + On music, and pleasure, and love. + Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. + + But beauty, how frail and how fleeting! + The bloom of a fine summer’s day; + While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis, + Will flourish without a decay. + Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0428"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Come, Let Me Take Thee To My Breast + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Come, let me take thee to my breast, + And pledge we ne’er shall sunder; + And I shall spurn as vilest dust + The world’s wealth and grandeur: + And do I hear my Jeanie own + That equal transports move her? + I ask for dearest life alone, + That I may live to love her. + + Thus, in my arms, wi’ a’ her charms, + I clasp my countless treasure; + I’ll seek nae main o’ Heav’n to share, + Tha sic a moment’s pleasure: + And by thy e’en sae bonie blue, + I swear I’m thine for ever! + And on thy lips I seal my vow, + And break it shall I never. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0429"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Dainty Davie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, + To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; + And now comes in the happy hours, + To wander wi’ my Davie. + + Chorus.—Meet me on the warlock knowe, + Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie; + There I’ll spend the day wi’ you, + My ain dear Dainty Davie. + + The crystal waters round us fa’, + The merry birds are lovers a’, + The scented breezes round us blaw, + A wandering wi’ my Davie. + Meet me on, &c. + + As purple morning starts the hare, + To steal upon her early fare, + Then thro’ the dews I will repair, + To meet my faithfu’ Davie. + Meet me on, &c. + + When day, expiring in the west, + The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, + I flee to his arms I loe’ the best, + And that’s my ain dear Davie. + Meet me on, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0430"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Robert Bruce’s March To Bannockburn + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to Victorie! + + Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; + See the front o’ battle lour; + See approach proud Edward’s power— + Chains and Slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward’s grave? + Wha sae base as be a Slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha, for Scotland’s King and Law, + Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, + Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’, + Let him on wi’ me! + + By Oppression’s woes and pains! + By your Sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud Usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty’s in every blow!— + Let us Do or Die! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0431"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Behold the hour, the boat arrive; + Thou goest, the darling of my heart; + Sever’d from thee, can I survive, + But Fate has will’d and we must part. + I’ll often greet the surging swell, + Yon distant Isle will often hail: + “E’en here I took the last farewell; + There, latest mark’d her vanish’d sail.” + Along the solitary shore, + While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, + Across the rolling, dashing roar, + I’ll westward turn my wistful eye: + “Happy thou Indian grove,” I’ll say, + “Where now my Nancy’s path may be! + While thro’ thy sweets she loves to stray, + O tell me, does she muse on me!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0432"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Down The Burn, Davie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + As down the burn they took their way, + And thro’ the flowery dale; + His cheek to hers he aft did lay, + And love was aye the tale: + + With “Mary, when shall we return, + Sic pleasure to renew?” + Quoth Mary—“Love, I like the burn, + And aye shall follow you.” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0433"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Thou Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Fee him, father, fee him.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, + Thou hast left me ever; + Thou has left me ever, Jamie, + Thou hast left me ever: + Aften hast thou vow’d that Death + Only should us sever; + Now thou’st left thy lass for aye— + I maun see thee never, Jamie, + I’ll see thee never. + + Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, + Thou hast me forsaken; + Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, + Thou hast me forsaken; + Thou canst love another jo, + While my heart is breaking; + Soon my weary een I’ll close, + Never mair to waken, Jamie, + Never mair to waken! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0434"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Where Are The Joys I have Met? + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Saw ye my father.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Where are the joys I have met in the morning, + That danc’d to the lark’s early song? + Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring, + At evening the wild-woods among? + + No more a winding the course of yon river, + And marking sweet flowerets so fair, + No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure, + But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care. + + Is it that Summer’s forsaken our valleys, + And grim, surly Winter is near? + No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses + Proclaim it the pride of the year. + + Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, + Yet long, long, too well have I known; + All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, + Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. + + Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, + Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow: + Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish, + Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0435"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Deluded Swain, The Pleasure + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Collier’s Dochter.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Deluded swain, the pleasure + The fickle Fair can give thee, + Is but a fairy treasure, + Thy hopes will soon deceive thee: + The billows on the ocean, + The breezes idly roaming, + The cloud’s uncertain motion, + They are but types of Woman. + + O art thou not asham’d + To doat upon a feature? + If Man thou wouldst be nam’d, + Despise the silly creature. + Go, find an honest fellow, + Good claret set before thee, + Hold on till thou art mellow, + And then to bed in glory! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0436"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Thine Am I, My Faithful Fair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Quaker’s Wife.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Thine am I, my faithful Fair, + Thine, my lovely Nancy; + Ev’ry pulse along my veins, + Ev’ry roving fancy. + To thy bosom lay my heart, + There to throb and languish; + Tho’ despair had wrung its core, + That would heal its anguish. + + Take away those rosy lips, + Rich with balmy treasure; + Turn away thine eyes of love, + Lest I die with pleasure! + What is life when wanting Love? + Night without a morning: + Love’s the cloudless summer sun, + Nature gay adorning. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0437"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + 4th November 1793. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Old Winter, with his frosty beard, + Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred: + “What have I done of all the year, + To bear this hated doom severe? + + My cheerless suns no pleasure know; + Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow; + My dismal months no joys are crowning, + But spleeny English hanging, drowning. + + “Now Jove, for once be mighty civil. + To counterbalance all this evil; + Give me, and I’ve no more to say, + Give me Maria’s natal day! + That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, + Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.” + “’Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story, + And Winter once rejoiced in glory. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linknancy"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Spouse Nancy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“My Jo Janet.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + “Husband, husband, cease your strife, + Nor longer idly rave, Sir; + Tho’ I am your wedded wife + Yet I am not your slave, Sir.” + + “One of two must still obey, + Nancy, Nancy; + Is it Man or Woman, say, + My spouse Nancy?’ + + “If ’tis still the lordly word, + Service and obedience; + I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, + And so, good bye, allegiance!” + + “Sad shall I be, so bereft, + Nancy, Nancy; + Yet I’ll try to make a shift, + My spouse Nancy.” + + “My poor heart, then break it must, + My last hour I am near it: + When you lay me in the dust, + Think how you will bear it.” + + “I will hope and trust in Heaven, + Nancy, Nancy; + Strength to bear it will be given, + My spouse Nancy.” + + “Well, Sir, from the silent dead, + Still I’ll try to daunt you; + Ever round your midnight bed + Horrid sprites shall haunt you!” + + “I’ll wed another like my dear + Nancy, Nancy; + Then all hell will fly for fear, + My spouse Nancy.” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0438"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address + </h2></div> + <p> + Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the + Theatre, Dumfries. + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Still anxious to secure your partial favour, + And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, + A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, + ’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; + So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, + Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; + Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; + And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. + “Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes, + “I know your bent—these are no laughing times: + Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears— + Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears; + With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, + Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; + Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, + Waving on high the desolating brand, + Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?” + + I could no more—askance the creature eyeing, + “D’ye think,” said I, “this face was made for crying? + I’ll laugh, that’s poz-nay more, the world shall know it; + And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!” + + Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief, + That Misery’s another word for Grief: + I also think—so may I be a bride! + That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d. + + Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, + Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye; + Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive— + To make three guineas do the work of five: + Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch! + Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich. + + Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, + Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove; + Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, + Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck— + Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, + Peerest to meditate the healing leap: + Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf? + Laugh at her follies—laugh e’en at thyself: + Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, + And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific. + + To sum up all, be merry, I advise; + And as we’re merry, may we still be wise. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0439"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + “Praise Woman still,” his lordship roars, + “Deserv’d or not, no matter?” + But thee, whom all my soul adores, + Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter: + + Maria, all my thought and dream, + Inspires my vocal shell; + The more I praise my lovely theme, + The more the truth I tell. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0440"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1794 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0441"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Remorseful Apology + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The friend whom, wild from Wisdom’s way, + The fumes of wine infuriate send, + (Not moony madness more astray) + Who but deplores that hapless friend? + + Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part, + Ah! why should I such scenes outlive? + Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!— + ’Tis thine to pity and forgive. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0442"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Wilt Thou Be My Dearie? + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Sutor’s Dochter.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Wilt thou be my Dearie? + When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart, + O wilt thou let me cheer thee! + By the treasure of my soul, + That’s the love I bear thee: + I swear and vow that only thou + Shall ever be my Dearie! + Only thou, I swear and vow, + Shall ever be my Dearie! + + Lassie, say thou lo’es me; + Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, + O say na thou’lt refuse me! + If it winna, canna be, + Thou for thine may choose me, + Let me, lassie, quickly die, + Still trusting that thou lo’es me! + Lassie, let me quickly die, + Still trusting that thou lo’es me! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0443"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Fiddler In The North + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The King o’ France he rade a race.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Amang the trees, where humming bees, + At buds and flowers were hinging, O, + Auld Caledon drew out her drone, + And to her pipe was singing, O: + ’Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels, + She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly, O: + When there cam’ a yell o’ foreign squeels, + That dang her tapsalteerie, O. + + Their capon craws an’ queer “ha, ha’s,” + They made our lugs grow eerie, O; + The hungry bike did scrape and fyke, + Till we were wae and weary, O: + But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d, + A prisoner, aughteen year awa’, + He fir’d a Fiddler in the North, + That dang them tapsalteerie, O. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0444"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Minstrel At Lincluden + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Cumnock Psalms.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + As I stood by yon roofless tower, + Where the wa’flow’r scents the dery air, + Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, + And tells the midnight moon her care. + + Chorus—A lassie all alone, was making her moan, + Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: + In the bluidy wars they fa’, and our honour’s gane an’ a’, + And broken-hearted we maun die. + + The winds were laid, the air was till, + The stars they shot along the sky; + The tod was howling on the hill, + And the distant-echoing glens reply. + A lassie all alone, &c. + + The burn, adown its hazelly path, + Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’, + Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, + Whase roarings seem’d to rise and fa’. + A lassie all alone, &c. + + The cauld blae North was streaming forth + Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din, + Athort the lift they start and shift, + Like Fortune’s favours, tint as win. + A lassie all alone, &c. + + Now, looking over firth and fauld, + Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear’d, + When lo! in form of Minstrel auld, + A stern and stalwart ghaist appear’d. + A lassie all alone, &c. + + And frae his harp sic strains did flow, + Might rous’d the slumbering Dead to hear; + But oh, it was a tale of woe, + As ever met a Briton’s ear! + A lassie all alone, &c. + + He sang wi’ joy his former day, + He, weeping, wail’d his latter times; + But what he said—it was nae play, + I winna venture’t in my rhymes. + A lassie all alone, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0445"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Vision + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + As I stood by yon roofless tower, + Where the wa’flower scents the dewy air, + Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, + And tells the midnight moon her care. + + The winds were laid, the air was still, + The stars they shot alang the sky; + The fox was howling on the hill, + And the distant echoing glens reply. + + The stream, adown its hazelly path, + Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s, + Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, + Whase distant roaring swells and fa’s. + + The cauld blae North was streaming forth + Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din; + Athwart the lift they start and shift, + Like Fortune’s favors, tint as win. + + By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes, + And, by the moonbeam, shook to see + A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, + Attir’d as Minstrels wont to be. + + Had I a statue been o’ stane, + His daring look had daunted me; + And on his bonnet grav’d was plain, + The sacred posy—“Libertie!” + + And frae his harp sic strains did flow, + Might rous’d the slumb’ring Dead to hear; + But oh, it was a tale of woe, + As ever met a Briton’s ear! + + He sang wi’ joy his former day, + He, weeping, wailed his latter times; + But what he said—it was nae play, + I winna venture’t in my rhymes. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0446"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Red, Red Rose + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + [Hear Red, Red Rose] +</div> +<div class='pre'> + O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, + That’s newly sprung in June: + O my Luve’s like the melodie, + That’s sweetly play’d in tune. + + As fair art thou, my bonie lass, + So deep in luve am I; + And I will luve thee still, my dear, + Till a’ the seas gang dry. + + Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, + And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; + And I will luve thee still, my dear, + While the sands o’ life shall run. + + And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! + And fare-thee-weel, a while! + And I will come again, my Luve, + Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0447"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Young Jamie, Pride Of A’ The Plain + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Carlin of the Glen.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain, + Sae gallant and sae gay a swain, + Thro’ a’ our lasses he did rove, + And reign’d resistless King of Love. + + But now, wi’ sighs and starting tears, + He strays amang the woods and breirs; + Or in the glens and rocky caves, + His sad complaining dowie raves:— + + “I wha sae late did range and rove, + And chang’d with every moon my love, + I little thought the time was near, + Repentance I should buy sae dear. + + “The slighted maids my torments see, + And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree; + While she, my cruel, scornful Fair, + Forbids me e’er to see her mair.” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0448"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Flowery Banks Of Cree + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here is the glen, and here the bower + All underneath the birchen shade; + The village-bell has told the hour, + O what can stay my lovely maid? + + ’Tis not Maria’s whispering call; + ’Tis but the balmy breathing gale, + Mixt with some warbler’s dying fall, + The dewy star of eve to hail. + + It is Maria’s voice I hear; + So calls the woodlark in the grove, + His little, faithful mate to cheer; + At once ’tis music and ’tis love. + + And art thou come! and art thou true! + O welcome dear to love and me! + And let us all our vows renew, + Along the flowery banks of Cree. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0449"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Monody + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On a lady famed for her Caprice. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, + How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d; + How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, + How dull is that ear which to flatt’ry so listen’d! + + If sorrow and anguish their exit await, + From friendship and dearest affection remov’d; + How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, + Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov’d. + + Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; + So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: + But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, + And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier. + + We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower, + We’ll roam thro’ the forest for each idle weed; + But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, + For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed. + + We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay; + Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; + There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey, + Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0450"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Epitaph + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, + What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam: + Want only of wisdom denied her respect, + Want only of goodness denied her esteem. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0451"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell’s Carriage + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + If you rattle along like your Mistress’ tongue, + Your speed will outrival the dart; + But a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road, + If your stuff be as rotten’s her heart. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0452"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sic a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave, + That the worms ev’n damn’d him when laid in his grave; + “In his flesh there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries, + “And his heart is rank poison!” another replies. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0453"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle From Esopus To Maria + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, + Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells; + Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, + And deal from iron hands the spare repast; + Where truant ’prentices, yet young in sin, + Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; + Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, + Resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more; + Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing, + Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: + From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, + To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate. + + “Alas! I feel I am no actor here!” + ’Tis real hangmen real scourges bear! + Prepare Maria, for a horrid tale + Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; + Will make thy hair, tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d, + By barber woven, and by barber sold, + Though twisted smooth with Harry’s nicest care, + Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. + The hero of the mimic scene, no more + I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; + Or, haughty Chieftain, ’mid the din of arms + In Highland Bonnet, woo Malvina’s charms; + While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high, + And steal from me Maria’s prying eye. + Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress, + Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press; + I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, + And call each coxcomb to the wordy war: + I see her face the first of Ireland’s sons, + And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; + The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan’d lines, + For other wars, where he a hero shines: + The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, + Who owns a Bushby’s heart without the head, + Comes ’mid a string of coxcombs, to display + That veni, vidi, vici, is his way: + The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks, + And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks: + Though there, his heresies in Church and State + Might well award him Muir and Palmer’s fate: + Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, + And dares the public like a noontide sun. + What scandal called Maria’s jaunty stagger + The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger? + Whose spleen (e’en worse than Burns’ venom, when + He dips in gall unmix’d his eager pen, + And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)— + Who christen’d thus Maria’s lyre-divine + The idiot strum of Vanity bemus’d, + And even the abuse of Poesy abus’d?— + Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made + For motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed? + + A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, + And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose! + In durance vile here must I wake and weep, + And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep; + That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, + And vermin’d gipsies litter’d heretofore. + + Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? + Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? + Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, + And make a vast monopoly of hell? + Thou know’st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse; + The Vices also, must they club their curse? + Or must no tiny sin to others fall, + Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for all? + + Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; + In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. + As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, + Who on my fair one Satire’s vengeance hurls— + Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, + A wit in folly, and a fool in wit! + Who says that fool alone is not thy due, + And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true! + + Our force united on thy foes we’ll turn, + And dare the war with all of woman born: + For who can write and speak as thou and I? + My periods that deciphering defy, + And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0454"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Capt. Wm. Roddirk, of Corbiston. + + Light lay the earth on Billy’s breast, + His chicken heart so tender; + But build a castle on his head, + His scull will prop it under. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linklascelles"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Capt. Lascelles + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + When Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart, + Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart; + A bystander whispers—“Pray don’t make so much o’t, + The subject is poison, no reptile will touch it.” + </div> + <p> + <a id="linkgraham"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + “Stop thief!” dame Nature call’d to Death, + As Willy drew his latest breath; + How shall I make a fool again? + My choicest model thou hast ta’en. +</div> + <p> + <a id="linkbushby"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here lies John Bushby—honest man, + Cheat him, Devil—if you can! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0455"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Of Glenriddell and Friars’ Carse. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more; + Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; + Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole, + More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest roar. + + How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? + Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! + How can I to the tuneful strain attend? + That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies. + + Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe, + And soothe the Virtues weeping o’er his bier: + The man of worth—and hath not left his peer! + Is in his “narrow house,” for ever darkly low. + + Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet; + Me, memory of my loss will only meet. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0456"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lovely Lass O’ Inverness + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The lovely lass o’ Inverness, + Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; + For, e’en to morn she cries, alas! + And aye the saut tear blin’s her e’e. + + “Drumossie moor, Drumossie day— + A waefu’ day it was to me! + For there I lost my father dear, + My father dear, and brethren three. + + “Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, + Their graves are growin’ green to see; + And by them lies the dearest lad + That ever blest a woman’s e’e! + + “Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, + A bluidy man I trow thou be; + For mony a heart thou has made sair, + That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0457"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Charlie, He’s My Darling + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + ’Twas on a Monday morning, + Right early in the year, + That Charlie came to our town, + The young Chevalier. + + Chorus—An’ Charlie, he’s my darling, + My darling, my darling, + Charlie, he’s my darling, + The young Chevalier. + + As he was walking up the street, + The city for to view, + O there he spied a bonie lass + The window looking through, + An’ Charlie, &c. + + Sae light’s he jumped up the stair, + And tirl’d at the pin; + And wha sae ready as hersel’ + To let the laddie in. + An’ Charlie, &c. + + He set his Jenny on his knee, + All in his Highland dress; + For brawly weel he ken’d the way + To please a bonie lass. + An’ Charlie, &c. + + It’s up yon heathery mountain, + An’ down yon scroggie glen, + We daur na gang a milking, + For Charlie and his men, + An’ Charlie, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0458"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Bannocks O’ Bear Meal + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—Bannocks o’ bear meal, + Bannocks o’ barley, + Here’s to the Highlandman’s + Bannocks o’ barley! + + Wha, in a brulyie, will + First cry a parley? + Never the lads wi’ the + Bannocks o’ barley, + Bannocks o’ bear meal, &c. + + Wha, in his wae days, + Were loyal to Charlie? + Wha but the lads wi’ the + Bannocks o’ barley! + Bannocks o’ bear meal, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0459"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Highland Balou + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Hee balou, my sweet wee Donald, + Picture o’ the great Clanronald; + Brawlie kens our wanton Chief + Wha gat my young Highland thief. + + Leeze me on thy bonie craigie, + An’ thou live, thou’ll steal a naigie, + Travel the country thro’ and thro’, + And bring hame a Carlisle cow. + + Thro’ the Lawlands, o’er the Border, + Weel, my babie, may thou furder! + Herry the louns o’ the laigh Countrie, + Syne to the Highlands hame to me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0460"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Highland Widow’s Lament + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Oh I am come to the low Countrie, + Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! + Without a penny in my purse, + To buy a meal to me. + + It was na sae in the Highland hills, + Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! + Nae woman in the Country wide, + Sae happy was as me. + + For then I had a score o’kye, + Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! + Feeding on you hill sae high, + And giving milk to me. + + And there I had three score o’yowes, + Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! + Skipping on yon bonie knowes, + And casting woo’ to me. + + I was the happiest of a’ the Clan, + Sair, sair, may I repine; + For Donald was the brawest man, + And Donald he was mine. + + Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, + Sae far to set us free; + My Donald’s arm was wanted then, + For Scotland and for me. + + Their waefu’ fate what need I tell, + Right to the wrang did yield; + My Donald and his Country fell, + Upon Culloden field. + + Oh I am come to the low Countrie, + Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! + Nae woman in the warld wide, + Sae wretched now as me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0461"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + It Was A’ For Our Rightfu’ King + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + It was a’ for our rightfu’ King + We left fair Scotland’s strand; + It was a’ for our rightfu’ King + We e’er saw Irish land, my dear, + We e’er saw Irish land. + + Now a’ is done that men can do, + And a’ is done in vain; + My Love and Native Land fareweel, + For I maun cross the main, my dear, + For I maun cross the main. + + He turn’d him right and round about, + Upon the Irish shore; + And gae his bridle reins a shake, + With adieu for evermore, my dear, + And adiue for evermore. + + The soger frae the wars returns, + The sailor frae the main; + But I hae parted frae my Love, + Never to meet again, my dear, + Never to meet again. + + When day is gane, and night is come, + And a’ folk bound to sleep; + I think on him that’s far awa, + The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear, + The lee-lang night, and weep. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0462"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ode For General Washington’s Birthday + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + No Spartan tube, no Attic shell, + No lyre Aeolian I awake; + ’Tis liberty’s bold note I swell, + Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! + See gathering thousands, while I sing, + A broken chain exulting bring, + And dash it in a tyrant’s face, + And dare him to his very beard, + And tell him he no more is feared— + No more the despot of Columbia’s race! + A tyrant’s proudest insults brav’d, + They shout—a People freed! They hail an Empire saved. + Where is man’s god-like form? + Where is that brow erect and bold— + That eye that can unmov’d behold + The wildest rage, the loudest storm + That e’er created fury dared to raise? + Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base, + That tremblest at a despot’s nod, + Yet, crouching under the iron rod, + Canst laud the hand that struck th’ insulting blow! + Art thou of man’s Imperial line? + Dost boast that countenance divine? + Each skulking feature answers, No! + But come, ye sons of Liberty, + Columbia’s offspring, brave as free, + In danger’s hour still flaming in the van, + Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man! + + Alfred! on thy starry throne, + Surrounded by the tuneful choir, + The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre, + And rous’d the freeborn Briton’s soul of fire, + No more thy England own! + Dare injured nations form the great design, + To make detested tyrants bleed? + Thy England execrates the glorious deed! + Beneath her hostile banners waving, + Every pang of honour braving, + England in thunder calls, “The tyrant’s cause is mine!” + That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice + And hell, thro’ all her confines, raise the exulting voice, + That hour which saw the generous English name + Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame! + + Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among, + Fam’d for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song, + To thee I turn with swimming eyes; + Where is that soul of Freedom fled? + Immingled with the mighty dead, + Beneath that hallow’d turf where Wallace lies + Hear it not, Wallace! in thy bed of death. + Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep, + Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep, + Nor give the coward secret breath! + Is this the ancient Caledonian form, + Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm? + Show me that eye which shot immortal hate, + Blasting the despot’s proudest bearing; + Show me that arm which, nerv’d with thundering fate, + Crush’d Usurpation’s boldest daring!— + Dark-quench’d as yonder sinking star, + No more that glance lightens afar; + That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0463"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription To Miss Graham Of Fintry + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, + In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined, + Accept the gift; though humble he who gives, + Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. + + So may no ruffian-feeling in my breast, + Discordant, jar thy bosom-chords among; + But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, + Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song, + + Or Pity’s notes, in luxury of tears, + As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; + While conscious Virtue all the strains endears, + And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0464"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On The Seas And Far Away + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“O’er the hills and far away.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + How can my poor heart be glad, + When absent from my sailor lad; + How can I the thought forego— + He’s on the seas to meet the foe? + Let me wander, let me rove, + Still my heart is with my love; + Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, + Are with him that’s far away. + + Chorus.—On the seas and far away, + On stormy seas and far away; + Nightly dreams and thoughts by day, + Are aye with him that’s far away. + + When in summer noon I faint, + As weary flocks around me pant, + Haply in this scorching sun, + My sailor’s thund’ring at his gun; + Bullets, spare my only joy! + Bullets, spare my darling boy! + Fate, do with me what you may, + Spare but him that’s far away, + On the seas and far away, + On stormy seas and far away; + Fate, do with me what you may, + Spare but him that’s far away. + + At the starless, midnight hour + When Winter rules with boundless power, + As the storms the forests tear, + And thunders rend the howling air, + Listening to the doubling roar, + Surging on the rocky shore, + All I can—I weep and pray + For his weal that’s far away, + On the seas and far away, + On stormy seas and far away; + All I can—I weep and pray, + For his weal that’s far away. + + Peace, thy olive wand extend, + And bid wild War his ravage end, + Man with brother Man to meet, + And as a brother kindly greet; + Then may heav’n with prosperous gales, + Fill my sailor’s welcome sails; + To my arms their charge convey, + My dear lad that’s far away. + On the seas and far away, + On stormy seas and far away; + To my arms their charge convey, + My dear lad that’s far away. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0465"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes—Second Version + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Ca’the yowes to the knowes, + Ca’ them where the heather grows, + Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, + My bonie Dearie. + + Hark the mavis’ e’ening sang, + Sounding Clouden’s woods amang; + Then a-faulding let us gang, + My bonie Dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + We’ll gae down by Clouden side, + Thro’ the hazels, spreading wide, + O’er the waves that sweetly glide, + To the moon sae clearly. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + Yonder Clouden’s silent towers,<sup>1</sup> + Where, at moonshine’s midnight hours, + O’er the dewy-bending flowers, + Fairies dance sae cheery. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear, + Thou’rt to Love and Heav’n sae dear, + Nocht of ill may come thee near; + My bonie Dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + Fair and lovely as thou art, + Thou hast stown my very heart; + I can die—but canna part, + My bonie Dearie. + Ca’ the yowes, &c. + + [Footnote 1: An old ruin in a sweet situation at the + confluence of the Clouden and the Nith.—R. B.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0466"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + She Says She Loes Me Best Of A’ + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Oonagh’s Waterfall.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Sae flaxen were her ringlets, + Her eyebrows of a darker hue, + Bewitchingly o’er-arching + Twa laughing e’en o’ lovely blue; + Her smiling, sae wyling. + Wad make a wretch forget his woe; + What pleasure, what treasure, + Unto these rosy lips to grow! + Such was my Chloris’ bonie face, + When first that bonie face I saw; + And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm— + She says, she lo’es me best of a’. + + Like harmony her motion, + Her pretty ankle is a spy, + Betraying fair proportion, + Wad make a saint forget the sky: + Sae warming, sae charming, + Her faultless form and gracefu’ air; + Ilk feature—auld Nature + Declar’d that she could do nae mair: + Hers are the willing chains o’ love, + By conquering Beauty’s sovereign law; + And still my Chloris’ dearest charm— + She says, she lo’es me best of a’. + + Let others love the city, + And gaudy show, at sunny noon; + Gie me the lonely valley, + The dewy eve and rising moon, + Fair beaming, and streaming, + Her silver light the boughs amang; + While falling; recalling, + The amorous thrush concludes his sang; + There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove, + By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, + And hear my vows o’ truth and love, + And say, thou lo’es me best of a’. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0467"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To Dr. Maxwell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On Miss Jessy Staig’s recovery. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Maxwell, if merit here you crave, + That merit I deny; + You save fair Jessie from the grave!— + An Angel could not die! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0468"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + To The Beautiful Miss Eliza J—N + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + On her Principles of Liberty and Equality. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + How, Liberty! girl, can it be by thee nam’d? + Equality too! hussey, art not asham’d? + Free and Equal indeed, while mankind thou enchainest, + And over their hearts a proud Despot so reignest. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0469"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Chloris + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + From the white-blossom’d sloe my dear Chloris requested + A sprig, her fair breast to adorn: + No, by Heavens! I exclaim’d, let me perish, if ever + I plant in that bosom a thorn! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0470"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Kemble, thou cur’st my unbelief + For Moses and his rod; + At Yarico’s sweet nor of grief + The rock with tears had flow’d. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0471"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On A Country Laird, + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + not quite so wise as Solomon. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardonessp, + With grateful, lifted eyes, + Who taught that not the soul alone, + But body too shall rise; + For had He said “the soul alone + From death I will deliver,” + Alas, alas! O Cardoness, + Then hadst thou lain for ever. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0472"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Being Shewn A Beautiful Country Seat + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Belonging to the same Laird. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + We grant they’re thine, those beauties all, + So lovely in our eye; + Keep them, thou eunuch, Cardoness, + For others to enjoy! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0473"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Hearing It Asserted Falsehood + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + is expressed in the Rev. Dr. Babington’s very looks. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + That there is a falsehood in his looks, + I must and will deny: + They tell their Master is a knave, + And sure they do not lie. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0474"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On A Suicide + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Earth’d up, here lies an imp o’ hell, + Planted by Satan’s dibble; + Poor silly wretch, he’s damned himsel’, + To save the Lord the trouble. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0475"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On A Swearing Coxcomb + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here cursing, swearing Burton lies, + A buck, a beau, or “Dem my eyes!” + Who in his life did little good, + And his last words were “Dem my blood!” + </div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0476"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On An Innkeeper Nicknamed “The Marquis” + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm’d, + If ever he rise, it will be to be damn’d. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0477"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + On Andrew Turner + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + In se’enteen hunder’n forty-nine, + The deil gat stuff to mak a swine, + An’ coost it in a corner; + But wilily he chang’d his plan, + An’ shap’d it something like a man, + An’ ca’d it Andrew Turner. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0478"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Pretty Peg + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + As I gaed up by yon gate-end, + When day was waxin’ weary, + Wha did I meet come down the street, + But pretty Peg, my dearie! + + Her air sae sweet, an’ shape complete, + Wi’ nae proportion wanting, + The Queen of Love did never move + Wi’ motion mair enchanting. + + Wi’ linked hands we took the sands, + Adown yon winding river; + Oh, that sweet hour and shady bower, + Forget it shall I never! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0479"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Esteem For Chloris + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + As, Chloris, since it may not be, + That thou of love wilt hear; + If from the lover thou maun flee, + Yet let the friend be dear. + + Altho’ I love my Chloris mair + Than ever tongue could tell; + My passion I will ne’er declare— + I’ll say, I wish thee well. + + Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art, + And a’ my nightly dream, + I’ll hide the struggle in my heart, + And say it is esteem. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0480"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“When she cam’ ben she bobbit.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O saw ye my Dear, my Philly? + O saw ye my Dear, my Philly, + She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’ a new Love, + She winna come hame to her Willy. + + What says she my dear, my Philly? + What says she my dear, my Philly? + She lets thee to wit she has thee forgot, + And forever disowns thee, her Willy. + + O had I ne’er seen thee, my Philly! + O had I ne’er seen thee, my Philly! + As light as the air, and fause as thou’s fair, + Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy Willy. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0481"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + How Lang And Dreary Is The Night + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + How lang and dreary is the night + When I am frae my Dearie; + I restless lie frae e’en to morn + Though I were ne’er sae weary. + + Chorus.—For oh, her lanely nights are lang! + And oh, her dreams are eerie; + And oh, her window’d heart is sair, + That’s absent frae her Dearie! + + When I think on the lightsome days + I spent wi’ thee, my Dearie; + And now what seas between us roar, + How can I be but eerie? + For oh, &c. + + How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; + The joyless day how dreary: + It was na sae ye glinted by, + When I was wi’ my Dearie! + For oh, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0482"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inconstancy In Love + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Duncan Gray.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Let not Woman e’er complain + Of inconstancy in love; + Let not Woman e’er complain + Fickle Man is apt to rove: + Look abroad thro’ Nature’s range, + Nature’s mighty Law is change, + Ladies, would it not seem strange + Man should then a monster prove! + + Mark the winds, and mark the skies, + Ocean’s ebb, and ocean’s flow, + Sun and moon but set to rise, + Round and round the seasons go. + Why then ask of silly Man + To oppose great Nature’s plan? + We’ll be constant while we can— + You can be no more, you know. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0483"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Deil tak the wars.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature? + Rosy morn now lifts his eye, + Numbering ilka bud which Nature + Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy. + Now, to the streaming fountain, + Or up the heathy mountain, + The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray; + In twining hazel bowers, + Its lay the linnet pours, + The laverock to the sky + Ascends, wi’ sangs o’ joy, + While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. + + Phoebus gilding the brow of morning, + Banishes ilk darksome shade, + Nature, gladdening and adorning; + Such to me my lovely maid. + When frae my Chloris parted, + Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, + The night’s gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o’ercast my sky: + But when she charms my sight, + In pride of Beauty’s light— + When thro’ my very heart + Her burning glories dart; + ’Tis then—’tis then I wake to life and joy! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0484"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Winter Of Life + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + But lately seen in gladsome green, + The woods rejoic’d the day, + Thro’ gentle showers, the laughing flowers + In double pride were gay: + But now our joys are fled + On winter blasts awa; + Yet maiden May, in rich array, + Again shall bring them a’. + + But my white pow, nae kindly thowe + Shall melt the snaws of Age; + My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, + Sinks in Time’s wintry rage. + Oh, Age has weary days, + And nights o’ sleepless pain: + Thou golden time, o’ Youthfu’ prime, + Why comes thou not again! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0485"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“My lodging is on the cold ground.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Behold, my love, how green the groves, + The primrose banks how fair; + The balmy gales awake the flowers, + And wave thy flowing hair. + + The lav’rock shuns the palace gay, + And o’er the cottage sings: + For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, + To Shepherds as to Kings. + + Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string, + In lordly lighted ha’: + The Shepherd stops his simple reed, + Blythe in the birken shaw. + + The Princely revel may survey + Our rustic dance wi’ scorn; + But are their hearts as light as ours, + Beneath the milk-white thorn! + + The shepherd, in the flowery glen; + In shepherd’s phrase, will woo: + The courtier tells a finer tale, + But is his heart as true! + + These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck + That spotless breast o’ thine: + The courtiers’ gems may witness love, + But, ’tis na love like mine. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0486"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Charming Month Of May + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Daintie Davie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + It was the charming month of May, + When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay. + One morning, by the break of day, + The youthful, charming Chloe— + From peaceful slumber she arose, + Girt on her mantle and her hose, + And o’er the flow’ry mead she goes— + The youthful, charming Chloe. + + Chorus.—Lovely was she by the dawn, + Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, + Tripping o’er the pearly lawn, + The youthful, charming Chloe. + + The feather’d people you might see + Perch’d all around on every tree, + In notes of sweetest melody + They hail the charming Chloe; + Till, painting gay the eastern skies, + The glorious sun began to rise, + Outrival’d by the radiant eyes + Of youthful, charming Chloe. + Lovely was she, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0487"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lassie Wi’ The Lint-White Locks + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Rothiemurchie’s Rant.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus.—Lassie wi’the lint-white locks, + Bonie lassie, artless lassie, + Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks, + Wilt thou be my Dearie, O? + + Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea, + And a’ is young and sweet like thee, + O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me, + And say thou’lt be my Dearie, O. + Lassie wi’ the, &c. + + The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, + The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn, + The wanton lambs at early morn, + Shall welcome thee, my Dearie, O. + Lassie wi’ the, &c. + + And when the welcome simmer shower + Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower, + We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower, + At sultry noon, my Dearie, O. + Lassie wi’ the, &c. + + When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray, + The weary shearer’s hameward way, + Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray, + And talk o’ love, my Dearie, O. + Lassie wi’ the, &c. + + And when the howling wintry blast + Disturbs my Lassie’s midnight rest, + Enclasped to my faithfu’ breast, + I’ll comfort thee, my Dearie, O. + Lassie wi’ the, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0488"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Dialogue song—Philly And Willy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Sow’s tail to Geordie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + He. O Philly, happy be that day, + When roving thro’ the gather’d hay, + My youthfu’ heart was stown away, + And by thy charms, my Philly. + + She. O Willy, aye I bless the grove + Where first I own’d my maiden love, + Whilst thou did pledge the Powers above, + To be my ain dear Willy. + + Both. For a’ the joys that gowd can gie, + I dinna care a single flie; + The lad I love’s the lad for me, + The lass I love’s the lass for me, + And that’s my ain dear Willy. + And that’s my ain dear Philly. + + He. As songsters of the early year, + Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, + So ilka day to me mair dear + And charming is my Philly. + + She. As on the brier the budding rose, + Still richer breathes and fairer blows, + So in my tender bosom grows + The love I bear my Willy. + + Both. For a’ the joys, &c. + + He. The milder sun and bluer sky + That crown my harvest cares wi’ joy, + Were ne’er sae welcome to my eye + As is a sight o’ Philly. + + She. The little swallow’s wanton wing, + Tho’ wafting o’er the flowery Spring, + Did ne’er to me sic tidings bring, + As meeting o’ my Willy. + Both. For a’ the joys, &c. + + He. The bee that thro’ the sunny hour + Sips nectar in the op’ning flower, + Compar’d wi’ my delight is poor, + Upon the lips o’ Philly. + + She. The woodbine in the dewy weet, + When ev’ning shades in silence meet, + Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet + As is a kiss o’ Willy. + + Both. For a’ the joys, &c. + + He. Let fortune’s wheel at random rin, + And fools may tine and knaves may win; + My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane, + And that’s my ain dear Philly. + + She. What’s a’ the joys that gowd can gie? + I dinna care a single flie; + The lad I love’s the lad for me, + And that’s my ain dear Willy. + + Both. For a’ the joys, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0489"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Contented Wi’ Little And Cantie Wi’ Mair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Lumps o’ Puddin’.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair, + Whene’er I forgather wi’ Sorrow and Care, + I gie them a skelp as they’re creeping alang, + Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats and an auld Scottish sang. + Chorus—Contented wi’ little, &c. + + I whiles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought; + But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught; + My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, + And my Freedom’s my Lairdship nae monarch dare touch. + Contented wi’ little, &c. + + A townmond o’ trouble, should that be may fa’, + A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’: + When at the blythe end o’ our journey at last, + Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past? + Contented wi’ little, &c. + + Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; + Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade gae: + Come Ease, or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain, + My warst word is: “Welcome, and welcome again!” + Contented wi’ little, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0490"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Farewell Thou Stream + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“Nansie’s to the greenwood gane.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Farewell, thou stream that winding flows + Around Eliza’s dwelling; + O mem’ry! spare the cruel thoes + Within my bosom swelling. + Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain + And yet in secret languish; + To feel a fire in every vein, + Nor dare disclose my anguish. + + Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, + I fain my griefs would cover; + The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting groan, + Betray the hapless lover. + I know thou doom’st me to despair, + Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; + But, O Eliza, hear one prayer— + For pity’s sake forgive me! + + The music of thy voice I heard, + Nor wist while it enslav’d me; + I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d, + Till fears no more had sav’d me: + Th’ unwary sailor thus, aghast + The wheeling torrent viewing, + ’Mid circling horrors sinks at last, + In overwhelming ruin. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0491"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Canst Thou Leave Me Thus, My Katie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Roy’s Wife.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie? + Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie? + Well thou know’st my aching heart, + And canst thou leave me thus, for pity? + + Is this thy plighted, fond regard, + Thus cruelly to part, my Katie? + Is this thy faithful swain’s reward— + An aching, broken heart, my Katie! + Canst thou leave me, &c. + + Farewell! and ne’er such sorrows tear + That finkle heart of thine, my Katie! + Thou maysn find those will love thee dear, + But not a love like mine, my Katie, + Canst thou leave me, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0492"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + My Nanie’s Awa + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, + And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er her braes; + While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw, + But to me it’s delightless—my Nanie’s awa. + + The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn, + And violetes bathe in the weet o’ the morn; + They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, + They mind me o’ Nanie—and Nanie’s awa. + + Thou lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, + The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn, + And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa’, + Give over for pity—my Nanie’s awa. + + Come Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, + And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ Nature’s decay: + The dark, dreary Winter, and wild-driving snaw + Alane can delight me—now Nanie’s awa. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0493"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Tear-Drop + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Wae is my heart, and the tear’s in my e’e; + Lang, lang has Joy been a stranger to me: + Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, + And the sweet voice o’ Pity ne’er sounds in my ear. + + Love thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I luv’d; + Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I pruv’d; + But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, + I can feel, by its throbbings, will soon be at rest. + + Oh, if I were—where happy I hae been— + Down by yon stream, and yon bonie castle-green; + For there he is wand’ring and musing on me, + Wha wad soon dry the tear-drop that clings to my e’e. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0494"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + For The Sake O’ Somebody + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My heart is sair—I dare na tell, + My heart is sair for Somebody; + I could wake a winter night + For the sake o’ Somebody. + O-hon! for Somebody! + O-hey! for Somebody! + I could range the world around, + For the sake o’ Somebody. + + Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love, + O, sweetly smile on Somebody! + Frae ilka danger keep him free, + And send me safe my Somebody! + O-hon! for Somebody! + O-hey! for Somebody! + I wad do—what wad I not? + For the sake o’ Somebody. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0495"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1795 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0496"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Man’s A Man For A’ That + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“For a’ that.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Is there for honest Poverty + That hings his head, an’ a’ that; + The coward slave—we pass him by, + We dare be poor for a’ that! + For a’ that, an’ a’ that. + Our toils obscure an’ a’ that, + The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, + The Man’s the gowd for a’ that. + + What though on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that; + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; + A Man’s a Man for a’ that: + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that; + The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, + Is king o’ men for a’ that. + + Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, + Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that; + Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, + He’s but a coof for a’ that: + For a’ that, an’ a’ that, + His ribband, star, an’ a’ that: + The man o’ independent mind + He looks an’ laughs at a’ that. + + A prince can mak a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that; + But an honest man’s abon his might, + Gude faith, he maunna fa’ that! + For a’ that, an’ a’ that, + Their dignities an’ a’ that; + The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth, + Are higher rank than a’ that. + + Then let us pray that come it may, + (As come it will for a’ that,) + That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth, + Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that. + For a’ that, an’ a’ that, + It’s coming yet for a’ that, + That Man to Man, the world o’er, + Shall brothers be for a’ that. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0497"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Craigieburn Wood + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigieburn, + And blythe awakes the morrow; + But a’ the pride o’ Spring’s return + Can yield me nocht but sorrow. + + I see the flowers and spreading trees, + I hear the wild birds singing; + But what a weary wight can please, + And Care his bosom wringing! + + Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, + Yet dare na for your anger; + But secret love will break my heart, + If I conceal it langer. + + If thou refuse to pity me, + If thou shalt love another, + When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, + Around my grave they’ll wither. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0498"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Versicles of 1795 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0499"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Solemn League And Covenant + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Solemn League and Covenant + Now brings a smile, now brings a tear; + But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs: + If thou’rt a slave, indulge thy sneer. + + Compliments Of John Syme Of Ryedale +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0500"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Lines sent with a Present of a Dozen of Porter. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O had the malt thy strength of mind, + Or hops the flavour of thy wit, + ’Twere drink for first of human kind, + A gift that e’en for Syme were fit. + + Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0501"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription On A Goblet + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There’s Death in the cup, so beware! + Nay, more—there is danger in touching; + But who can avoid the fell snare, + The man and his wine’s so bewitching! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0502"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Apology For Declining An Invitation To Dine + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + No more of your guests, be they titled or not, + And cookery the first in the nation; + Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, + Is proof to all other temptation. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0503"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Here Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct, + And empty all his barrels: + He’s blest—if, as he brew’d, he drink, + In upright, honest morals. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0504"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epigram On Mr. James Gracie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Gracie, thou art a man of worth, + O be thou Dean for ever! + May he be damned to hell henceforth, + Who fauts thy weight or measure! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0505"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Bonie Peg-a-Ramsay + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Cauld is the e’enin blast, + O’ Boreas o’er the pool, + An’ dawin’ it is dreary, + When birks are bare at Yule. + + Cauld blaws the e’enin blast, + When bitter bites the frost, + And, in the mirk and dreary drift, + The hills and glens are lost: + + Ne’er sae murky blew the night + That drifted o’er the hill, + But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay + Gat grist to her mill. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0506"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription At Friars’ Carse Hermitage + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + To the Memory of Robert Riddell. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + To Riddell, much lamented man, + This ivied cot was dear; + Wandr’er, dost value matchless worth? + This ivied cot revere. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0507"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + There Was A Bonie Lass + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There was a bonie lass, and a bonie, bonie lass, + And she lo’ed her bonie laddie dear; + Till War’s loud alarms tore her laddie frae her arms, + Wi’ mony a sigh and tear. + Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly roar, + He still was a stranger to fear; + And nocht could him quail, or his bosom assail, + But the bonie lass he lo’ed sae dear. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0508"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Wee Willie Gray + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Wee Totum Fogg.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet, + Peel a willow wand to be him boots and jacket; + The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet, + The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet, + Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet, + Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and cravat; + Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, + Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0509"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Aye My Wife She Dang Me + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—O aye my wife she dang me, + An’ aft my wife she bang’d me, + If ye gie a woman a’ her will, + Gude faith! she’ll soon o’er-gang ye. + + On peace an’ rest my mind was bent, + And, fool I was! I married; + But never honest man’s intent + Sane cursedly miscarried. + O aye my wife, &c. + + Some sairie comfort at the last, + When a’ thir days are done, man, + My pains o’ hell on earth is past, + I’m sure o’ bliss aboon, man, + O aye my wife, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0510"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Gude Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—O gude ale comes and gude ale goes; + Gude ale gars me sell my hose, + Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon— + Gude ale keeps my heart aboon! + + I had sax owsen in a pleugh, + And they drew a’ weel eneugh: + I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane— + Gude ale keeps the heart aboon! + O gude ale comes, &c. + + Gude ale hauds me bare and busy, + Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie, + Stand i’ the stool when I hae done— + Gude ale keeps the heart aboon! + O gude ale comes, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0511"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Steer Her Up An’ Haud Her Gaun + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O steer her up, an’ haud her gaun, + Her mither’s at the mill, jo; + An’ gin she winna tak a man, + E’en let her tak her will, jo. + First shore her wi’ a gentle kiss, + And ca’ anither gill, jo; + An’ gin she tak the thing amiss, + E’en let her flyte her fill, jo. + + O steer her up, an’ be na blate, + An’ gin she tak it ill, jo, + Then leave the lassie till her fate, + And time nae langer spill, jo: + Ne’er break your heart for ae rebute, + But think upon it still, jo: + That gin the lassie winna do’t, + Ye’ll find anither will, jo. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0512"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lass O’ Ecclefechan + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Jack o’ Latin.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Gat ye me, O gat ye me, + O gat ye me wi’ naething? + Rock an reel, and spinning wheel, + A mickle quarter basin: + Bye attour my Gutcher has + A heich house and a laich ane, + A’ forbye my bonie sel, + The toss o’ Ecclefechan. + + O haud your tongue now, Lucky Lang, + O haud your tongue and jauner + I held the gate till you I met, + Syne I began to wander: + I tint my whistle and my sang, + I tint my peace and pleasure; + But your green graff, now Lucky Lang, + Wad airt me to my treasure. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0513"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Let Me In Thes Ae Night + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O Lassie, are ye sleepin yet, + Or are ye waukin, I wad wit? + For Love has bound me hand an’ fit, + And I would fain be in, jo. + + Chorus—O let me in this ae night, + This ae, ae, ae night; + O let me in this ae night, + I’ll no come back again, jo! + + O hear’st thou not the wind an’ weet? + Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet; + Tak pity on my weary feet, + And shield me frae the rain, jo. + O let me in, &c. + + The bitter blast that round me blaws, + Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s; + The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause + Of a’ my care and pine, jo. + O let me in, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0514"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Her Answer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O tell na me o’ wind an’ rain, + Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain, + Gae back the gate ye cam again, + I winna let ye in, jo. + + Chorus—I tell you now this ae night, + This ae, ae, ae night; + And ance for a’ this ae night, + I winna let ye in, jo. + + The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, + That round the pathless wand’rer pours + Is nocht to what poor she endures, + That’s trusted faithless man, jo. + I tell you now, &c. + + The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead, + Now trodden like the vilest weed— + Let simple maid the lesson read + The weird may be her ain, jo. + I tell you now, &c. + + The bird that charm’d his summer day, + Is now the cruel Fowler’s prey; + Let witless, trusting, Woman say + How aft her fate’s the same, jo! + I tell you now, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0515"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + I’ll Aye Ca’ In By Yon Town + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“I’ll gang nae mair to yon toun.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, + And by yon garden-green again; + I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, + And see my bonie Jean again. + + There’s nane sall ken, there’s nane can guess + What brings me back the gate again, + But she, my fairest faithfu’ lass, + And stownlins we sall meet again. + I’ll aye ca’ in, &c. + + She’ll wander by the aiken tree, + When trystin time draws near again; + And when her lovely form I see, + O haith! she’s doubly dear again. + I’ll aye ca’ in, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0516"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Wat Ye Wha’s In Yon Town + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“I’ll gang nae mair to yon toun.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—O wat ye wha’s in yon town, + Ye see the e’enin sun upon, + The dearest maid’s in yon town, + That e’ening sun is shining on. + + Now haply down yon gay green shaw, + She wanders by yon spreading tree; + How blest ye flowers that round her blaw, + Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e! + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + How blest ye birds that round her sing, + And welcome in the blooming year; + And doubly welcome be the Spring, + The season to my Jeanie dear. + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + The sun blinks blythe on yon town, + Among the broomy braes sae green; + But my delight in yon town, + And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + Without my Fair, not a’ the charms + O’ Paradise could yield me joy; + But give me Jeanie in my arms + And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky! + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + My cave wad be a lover’s bower, + Tho’ raging Winter rent the air; + And she a lovely little flower, + That I wad tent and shelter there. + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + O sweet is she in yon town, + The sinkin, sun’s gane down upon; + A fairer than’s in yon town, + His setting beam ne’er shone upon. + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + If angry Fate is sworn my foe, + And suff’ring I am doom’d to bear; + I careless quit aught else below, + But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear. + O wat ye wha’s, &c. + + For while life’s dearest blood is warm, + Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart, + And she, as fairest is her form, + She has the truest, kindest heart. + O wat ye wha’s, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0517"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Ballads on Mr. Heron’s Election, 1795 + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ballad First + + Whom will you send to London town, + To Parliament and a’ that? + Or wha in a’ the country round + The best deserves to fa’ that? + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Thro’ Galloway and a’ that, + Where is the Laird or belted Knight + The best deserves to fa’ that? + + Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett, + (And wha is’t never saw that?) + Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree met, + And has a doubt of a’ that? + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! + The independent patriot, + The honest man, and a’ that. + + Tho’ wit and worth, in either sex, + Saint Mary’s Isle can shaw that, + Wi’ Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix, + And weel does Selkirk fa’ that. + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! + The independent commoner + Shall be the man for a’ that. + + But why should we to Nobles jouk, + And is’t against the law, that? + For why, a Lord may be a gowk, + Wi’ ribband, star and a’ that, + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! + A Lord may be a lousy loun, + Wi’ ribband, star and a’ that. + + A beardless boy comes o’er the hills, + Wi’ uncle’s purse and a’ that; + But we’ll hae ane frae mang oursels, + A man we ken, and a’ that. + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! + For we’re not to be bought and sold, + Like naigs, and nowt, and a’ that. + + Then let us drink—The Stewartry, + Kerroughtree’s laird, and a’ that, + Our representative to be, + For weel he’s worthy a’ that. + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! + A House of Commons such as he, + They wad be blest that saw that. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Ballad Second—Election Day + + Tune—“Fy, let us a’ to the Bridal.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Fy, let us a’ to Kirkcudbright, + For there will be bickerin’ there; + For Murray’s light horse are to muster, + And O how the heroes will swear! + And there will be Murray, Commander, + And Gordon, the battle to win; + Like brothers they’ll stand by each other, + Sae knit in alliance and kin. + + And there will be black-nebbit Johnie, + The tongue o’ the trump to them a’; + An he get na Hell for his haddin’, + The Deil gets na justice ava. + + And there will be Kempleton’s birkie, + A boy no sae black at the bane; + But as to his fine Nabob fortune, + We’ll e’en let the subject alane. + + And there will be Wigton’s new Sheriff; + Dame Justice fu’ brawly has sped, + She’s gotten the heart of a Bushby, + But, Lord! what’s become o’ the head? + And there will be Cardoness, Esquire, + Sae mighty in Cardoness’ eyes; + A wight that will weather damnation, + The Devil the prey will despise. + + And there will be Douglasses doughty, + New christening towns far and near; + Abjuring their democrat doings, + By kissin’ the-o’ a Peer: + And there will be folk frae Saint Mary’s + A house o’ great merit and note; + The deil ane but honours them highly— + The deil ane will gie them his vote! + + And there will be Kenmure sae gen’rous, + Whose honour is proof to the storm, + To save them from stark reprobation, + He lent them his name in the Firm. + And there will be lads o’ the gospel, + Muirhead wha’s as gude as he’s true; + And there will be Buittle’s Apostle, + Wha’s mair o’ the black than the blue. + + And there will be Logan M’Dowall, + Sculdudd’ry an’ he will be there, + And also the Wild Scot o’ Galloway, + Sogering, gunpowder Blair. + But we winna mention Redcastle, + The body, e’en let him escape! + He’d venture the gallows for siller, + An ’twere na the cost o’ the rape. + + But where is the Doggerbank hero, + That made “Hogan Mogan” to skulk? + Poor Keith’s gane to hell to be fuel, + The auld rotten wreck of a Hulk. + And where is our King’s Lord Lieutenant, + Sae fam’d for his gratefu’ return? + The birkie is gettin’ his Questions + To say in Saint Stephen’s the morn. + + But mark ye! there’s trusty Kerroughtree, + Whose honor was ever his law; + If the Virtues were pack’d in a parcel, + His worth might be sample for a’; + And strang an’ respectfu’s his backing, + The maist o’ the lairds wi’ him stand; + Nae gipsy-like nominal barons, + Wha’s property’s paper—not land. + + And there, frae the Niddisdale borders, + The Maxwells will gather in droves, + Teugh Jockie, staunch Geordie, an’ Wellwood, + That griens for the fishes and loaves; + And there will be Heron, the Major, + Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the Greys; + Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other, + Him, only it’s justice to praise. + + And there will be maiden Kilkerran, + And also Barskimming’s gude Knight, + And there will be roarin Birtwhistle, + Yet luckily roars i’ the right. + And there’ll be Stamp Office Johnie, + (Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!) + And there will be gay Cassencarry, + And there’ll be gleg Colonel Tam. + + And there’ll be wealthy young Richard, + Dame Fortune should hing by the neck, + For prodigal, thriftless bestowing— + His merit had won him respect. + + And there will be rich brother nabobs, + (Tho’ Nabobs, yet men not the worst,) + And there will be Collieston’s whiskers, + And Quintin—a lad o’ the first. + + Then hey! the chaste Interest o’ Broughton + And hey! for the blessin’s ’twill bring; + It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, + In Sodom ’twould make him a king; + And hey! for the sanctified Murray, + Our land wha wi’ chapels has stor’d; + He founder’d his horse among harlots, + But gied the auld naig to the Lord. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Ballad Third + + John Bushby’s Lamentation. + + Tune—“Babes in the Wood.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + ’Twas in the seventeen hunder year + O’ grace, and ninety-five, + That year I was the wae’est man + Of ony man alive. + + In March the three-an’-twentieth morn, + The sun raise clear an’ bright; + But oh! I was a waefu’ man, + Ere to-fa’ o’ the night. + + Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land, + Wi’ equal right and fame, + And thereto was his kinsmen join’d, + The Murray’s noble name. + + Yerl Galloway’s man o’ men was I, + And chief o’ Broughton’s host; + So twa blind beggars, on a string, + The faithfu’ tyke will trust. + + But now Yerl Galloway’s sceptre’s broke, + And Broughton’s wi’ the slain, + And I my ancient craft may try, + Sin’ honesty is gane. + + ’Twas by the banks o’ bonie Dee, + Beside Kirkcudbright’s towers, + The Stewart and the Murray there, + Did muster a’ their powers. + + Then Murray on the auld grey yaud, + Wi’ winged spurs did ride, + That auld grey yaud a’ Nidsdale rade, + He staw upon Nidside. + + And there had na been the Yerl himsel, + O there had been nae play; + But Garlies was to London gane, + And sae the kye might stray. + + And there was Balmaghie, I ween, + In front rank he wad shine; + But Balmaghie had better been + Drinkin’ Madeira wine. + + And frae Glenkens cam to our aid + A chief o’ doughty deed; + In case that worth should wanted be, + O’ Kenmure we had need. + + And by our banners march’d Muirhead, + And Buittle was na slack; + Whase haly priesthood nane could stain, + For wha could dye the black? + + And there was grave squire Cardoness, + Look’d on till a’ was done; + Sae in the tower o’ Cardoness + A howlet sits at noon. + + And there led I the Bushby clan, + My gamesome billie, Will, + And my son Maitland, wise as brave, + My footsteps follow’d still. + + The Douglas and the Heron’s name, + We set nought to their score; + The Douglas and the Heron’s name, + Had felt our weight before. + + But Douglasses o’ weight had we, + The pair o’ lusty lairds, + For building cot-houses sae fam’d, + And christenin’ kail-yards. + + And there Redcastle drew his sword, + That ne’er was stain’d wi’ gore, + Save on a wand’rer lame and blind, + To drive him frae his door. + + And last cam creepin’ Collieston, + Was mair in fear than wrath; + Ae knave was constant in his mind— + To keep that knave frae scaith. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0518"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription For An Altar Of Independence + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + At Kerroughtree, the Seat of Mr. Heron. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Thou of an independent mind, + With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d; + Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave, + Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; + Virtue alone who dost revere, + Thy own reproach alone dost fear— + Approach this shrine, and worship here. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0519"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Cardin O’t, The Spinnin O’t + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’, + To mak a wab to Johnie o’t; + For Johnie is my only jo, + I loe him best of onie yet. + + Chorus—The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, + The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; + When ilka ell cost me a groat, + The tailor staw the lynin’ o’t. + + For tho’ his locks be lyart grey, + And tho’ his brow be beld aboon, + Yet I hae seen him on a day, + The pride of a’ the parishen. + The cardin o’t, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0520"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Cooper O’ Cuddy + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Bab at the bowster.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—We’ll hide the Cooper behint the door, + Behint the door, behint the door, + We’ll hide the Cooper behint the door, + And cover him under a mawn, O. + + The Cooper o’ Cuddy came here awa, + He ca’d the girrs out o’er us a’; + An’ our gudewife has gotten a ca’, + That’s anger’d the silly gudeman O. + We’ll hide the Cooper, &c. + + He sought them out, he sought them in, + Wi’ deil hae her! an’, deil hae him! + But the body he was sae doited and blin’, + He wist na where he was gaun O. + We’ll hide the Cooper, &c. + + They cooper’d at e’en, they cooper’d at morn, + Till our gudeman has gotten the scorn; + On ilka brow she’s planted a horn, + And swears that there they sall stan’ O. + We’ll hide the Cooper, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0521"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Lass That Made The Bed To Me + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + When Januar’ wind was blawing cauld, + As to the north I took my way, + The mirksome night did me enfauld, + I knew na where to lodge till day: + + By my gude luck a maid I met, + Just in the middle o’ my care, + And kindly she did me invite + To walk into a chamber fair. + + I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid, + And thank’d her for her courtesie; + I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid, + An’ bade her make a bed to me; + + She made the bed baith large and wide, + Wi’ twa white hands she spread it doun; + She put the cup to her rosy lips, + And drank—“Young man, now sleep ye soun’.” + + Chorus—The bonie lass made the bed to me, + The braw lass made the bed to me, + I’ll ne’er forget till the day I die, + The lass that made the bed to me. + + She snatch’d the candle in her hand, + And frae my chamber went wi’ speed; + But I call’d her quickly back again, + To lay some mair below my head: + + A cod she laid below my head, + And served me with due respect, + And, to salute her wi’ a kiss, + I put my arms about her neck. + The bonie lass, &c. + + “Haud aff your hands, young man!” she said, + “And dinna sae uncivil be; + Gif ye hae ony luve for me, + O wrang na my virginitie.” + Her hair was like the links o’ gowd, + Her teeth were like the ivorie, + Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, + The lass that made the bed to me: + The bonie lass, &c. + + Her bosom was the driven snaw, + Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; + Her limbs the polish’d marble stane, + The lass that made the bed to me. + I kiss’d her o’er and o’er again, + And aye she wist na what to say: + I laid her ’tween me and the wa’; + The lassie thocht na lang till day. + The bonie lass, &c. + + Upon the morrow when we raise, + I thank’d her for her courtesie; + But aye she blush’d and aye she sigh’d, + And said, “Alas, ye’ve ruin’d me.” + I claps’d her waist, and kiss’d her syne, + While the tear stood twinkling in her e’e; + I said, my lassie, dinna cry. + For ye aye shall make the bed to me. + The bonie lass, &c. + + She took her mither’s holland sheets, + An’ made them a’ in sarks to me; + Blythe and merry may she be, + The lass that made the bed to me. + + Chorus—The bonie lass made the bed to me, + The braw lass made the bed to me. + I’ll ne’er forget till the day I die, + The lass that made the bed to me. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0522"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Had I The Wyte? She Bade Me + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, + Had I the wyte? she bade me; + She watch’d me by the hie-gate side, + And up the loan she shaw’d me. + + And when I wadna venture in, + A coward loon she ca’d me: + Had Kirk an’ State been in the gate, + I’d lighted when she bade me. + + Sae craftilie she took me ben, + And bade me mak nae clatter; + “For our ramgunshoch, glum gudeman + Is o’er ayont the water.” + + Whae’er shall say I wanted grace, + When I did kiss and dawte her, + Let him be planted in my place, + Syne say, I was the fautor. + + Could I for shame, could I for shame, + Could I for shame refus’d her; + And wadna manhood been to blame, + Had I unkindly used her! + + He claw’d her wi’ the ripplin-kame, + And blae and bluidy bruis’d her; + When sic a husband was frae hame, + What wife but wad excus’d her! + + I dighted aye her e’en sae blue, + An’ bann’d the cruel randy, + And weel I wat, her willin’ mou + Was sweet as sugar-candie. + + At gloamin-shot, it was I wot, + I lighted on the Monday; + But I cam thro’ the Tyseday’s dew, + To wanton Willie’s brandy. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0523"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat? + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Push about the Jorum.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? + Then let the louns beware, Sir; + There’s wooden walls upon our seas, + And volunteers on shore, Sir: + The Nith shall run to Corsincon, + And Criffel sink in Solway, + Ere we permit a Foreign Foe + On British ground to rally! + We’ll ne’er permit a Foreign Foe + On British ground to rally! + + O let us not, like snarling curs, + In wrangling be divided, + Till, slap! come in an unco loun, + And wi’ a rung decide it! + Be Britain still to Britain true, + Amang ourselves united; + For never but by British hands + Maun British wrangs be righted! + No! never but by British hands + Shall British wrangs be righted! + + The Kettle o’ the Kirk and State, + Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; + But deil a foreign tinkler loun + Shall ever ca’a nail in’t. + Our father’s blude the Kettle bought, + And wha wad dare to spoil it; + By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog + Shall fuel be to boil it! + By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog + Shall fuel be to boil it! + + The wretch that would a tyrant own, + And the wretch, his true-born brother, + Who would set the Mob aboon the Throne, + May they be damn’d together! + Who will not sing “God save the King,” + Shall hang as high’s the steeple; + But while we sing “God save the King,” + We’ll ne’er forget The People! + But while we sing “God save the King,” + We’ll ne’er forget The People! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0524"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Address To The Woodlark + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Loch Erroch Side.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, + Nor quit for me the trembling spray, + A hapless lover courts thy lay, + Thy soothing, fond complaining. + Again, again that tender part, + That I may catch thy melting art; + For surely that wad touch her heart + Wha kills me wi’ disdaining. + Say, was thy little mate unkind, + And heard thee as the careless wind? + Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join’d, + Sic notes o’ woe could wauken! + Thou tells o’ never-ending care; + O’speechless grief, and dark despair: + For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair! + Or my poor heart is broken. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0525"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song.—On Chloris Being Ill + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Aye wauken O.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—Long, long the night, + Heavy comes the morrow + While my soul’s delight + Is on her bed of sorrow. + + Can I cease to care? + Can I cease to languish, + While my darling Fair + Is on the couch of anguish? + Long, long, &c. + + Ev’ry hope is fled, + Ev’ry fear is terror, + Slumber ev’n I dread, + Ev’ry dream is horror. + Long, long, &c. + + Hear me, Powers Divine! + Oh, in pity, hear me! + Take aught else of mine, + But my Chloris spare me! + Long, long, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0526"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + How Cruel Are The Parents + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Altered from an old English song. + Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + How cruel are the parents + Who riches only prize, + And to the wealthy booby + Poor Woman sacrifice! + Meanwhile, the hapless Daughter + Has but a choice of strife; + To shun a tyrant Father’s hate— + Become a wretched Wife. + + The ravening hawk pursuing, + The trembling dove thus flies, + To shun impelling ruin, + Awhile her pinions tries; + Till, of escape despairing, + No shelter or retreat, + She trusts the ruthless Falconer, + And drops beneath his feet. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0527"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Mark Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“Deil tak the wars.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion + Round the wealthy, titled bride: + But when compar’d with real passion, + Poor is all that princely pride. + Mark yonder, &c. (four lines repeated). + + What are the showy treasures, + What are the noisy pleasures? + The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art: + The polish’d jewels’ blaze + May draw the wond’ring gaze; + And courtly grandeur bright + The fancy may delight, + But never, never can come near the heart. + + But did you see my dearest Chloris, + In simplicity’s array; + Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, + Shrinking from the gaze of day, + But did you see, &c. + + O then, the heart alarming, + And all resistless charming, + In Love’s delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! + Ambition would disown + The world’s imperial crown, + Ev’n Avarice would deny, + His worshipp’d deity, + And feel thro’ every vein Love’s raptures roll. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0528"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + ’Twas Na Her Bonie Blue E’e + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Laddie, lie near me.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + ’Twas na her bonie blue e’e was my ruin, + Fair tho’ she be, that was ne’er my undoin’; + ’Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind us, + ’Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kindness: + ’Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kindness. + + Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, + Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me, + But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever, + Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever: + Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. + + Chloris, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest, + And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest! + And thou’rt the angel that never can alter, + Sooner the sun in his motion would falter: + Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0529"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Humours of Glen.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon, + Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; + Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, + Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom. + Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers + Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen; + For there, lightly tripping, among the wild flowers, + A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. + + Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny valleys, + And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave; + Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, + What are they?—the haunt of the Tyrant and Slave. + The Slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, + The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain; + He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, + Save Love’s willing fetters—the chains of his Jean. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0530"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“Let me in this ae night.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Forlorn, my Love, no comfort near, + Far, far from thee, I wander here; + Far, far from thee, the fate severe, + At which I most repine, Love. + + Chorus—O wert thou, Love, but near me! + But near, near, near me, + How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, + And mingle sighs with mine, Love. + + Around me scowls a wintry sky, + Blasting each bud of hope and joy; + And shelter, shade, nor home have I; + Save in these arms of thine, Love. + O wert thou, &c. + + Cold, alter’d friendship’s cruel part, + To poison Fortune’s ruthless dart— + Let me not break thy faithful heart, + And say that fate is mine, Love. + O wert thou, &c. + + But, dreary tho’ the moments fleet, + O let me think we yet shall meet; + That only ray of solace sweet, + Can on thy Chloris shine, Love! + O wert thou, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0531"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment,—Why, Why Tell The Lover + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Caledonian Hunt’s delight.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Why, why tell thy lover + Bliss he never must enjoy? + Why, why undeceive him, + And give all his hopes the lie? + O why, while fancy, raptur’d slumbers, + Chloris, Chloris all the theme, + Why, why would’st thou, cruel— + Wake thy lover from his dream? +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0532"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Braw Wooer + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“The Lothian Lassie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Last May, a braw wooer cam doun the lang glen, + And sair wi’ his love he did deave me; + I said, there was naething I hated like men— + The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me, believe me; + The deuce gae wi’m to believe me. + + He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black e’en, + And vow’d for my love he was diein, + I said, he might die when he liked for Jean— + The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein; + The Lord forgie me for liein! + + A weel-stocked mailen, himsel’ for the laird, + And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers; + I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d; + But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers; + But thought I might hae waur offers. + + But what wad ye think?—in a fortnight or less— + The deil tak his taste to gae near her! + He up the Gate-slack to my black cousin, Bess— + Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her; + Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. + + But a’ the niest week, as I petted wi’ care, + I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; + But wha but my fine fickle wooer was there, + I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock, + I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. + + But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, + Lest neibours might say I was saucy; + My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, + And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, + And vow’d I was his dear lassie. + + I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, + Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, + And how her new shoon fit her auld schachl’t feet, + But heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, + But heavens! how he fell a swearin. + + He begged, for gudesake, I wad be his wife, + Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow; + So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow; + I think I maun wed him to-morrow. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0533"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + This Is No My Ain Lassie + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“This is no my house.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—This is no my ain lassie, + Fair tho, the lassie be; + Weel ken I my ain lassie, + Kind love is in her e’re. + + I see a form, I see a face, + Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place; + It wants, to me, the witching grace, + The kind love that’s in her e’e. + This is no my ain, &c. + + She’s bonie, blooming, straight, and tall, + And lang has had my heart in thrall; + And aye it charms my very saul, + The kind love that’s in her e’e. + This is no my ain, &c. + + A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, + To steal a blink, by a’ unseen; + But gleg as light are lover’s een, + When kind love is in her e’e. + This is no my ain, &c. + + It may escape the courtly sparks, + It may escape the learned clerks; + But well the watching lover marks + The kind love that’s in her eye. + This is no my ain, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0534"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O bonie was yon rosy brier, + That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man; + And bonie she, and ah, how dear! + It shaded frae the e’enin sun. + + Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, + How pure, amang the leaves sae green; + But purer was the lover’s vow + They witness’d in their shade yestreen. + + All in its rude and prickly bower, + That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; + But love is far a sweeter flower, + Amid life’s thorny path o’ care. + + The pathless, wild and wimpling burn, + Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; + And I the warld nor wish nor scorn, + Its joys and griefs alike resign. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0535"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Now spring has clad the grove in green, + And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers; + The furrow’d, waving corn is seen + Rejoice in fostering showers. + While ilka thing in nature join + Their sorrows to forego, + O why thus all alone are mine + The weary steps o’ woe! + + The trout in yonder wimpling burn + That glides, a silver dart, + And, safe beneath the shady thorn, + Defies the angler’s art— + My life was ance that careless stream, + That wanton trout was I; + But Love, wi’ unrelenting beam, + Has scorch’d my fountains dry. + + That little floweret’s peaceful lot, + In yonder cliff that grows, + Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot, + Nae ruder visit knows, + Was mine, till Love has o’er me past, + And blighted a’ my bloom; + And now, beneath the withering blast, + My youth and joy consume. + + The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs, + And climbs the early sky, + Winnowing blythe his dewy wings + In morning’s rosy eye; + As little reck’d I sorrow’s power, + Until the flowery snare + O’witching Love, in luckless hour, + Made me the thrall o’ care. + + O had my fate been Greenland snows, + Or Afric’s burning zone, + Wi’man and nature leagued my foes, + So Peggy ne’er I’d known! + The wretch whose doom is “Hope nae mair” + What tongue his woes can tell; + Within whase bosom, save Despair, + Nae kinder spirits dwell. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0536"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O That’s The Lassie O’ My Heart + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Morag.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + O wat ye wha that lo’es me + And has my heart a-keeping? + O sweet is she that lo’es me, + As dews o’ summer weeping, + In tears the rosebuds steeping! + + Chorus—O that’s the lassie o’ my heart, + My lassie ever dearer; + O she’s the queen o’ womankind, + And ne’er a ane to peer her. + + If thou shalt meet a lassie, + In grace and beauty charming, + That e’en thy chosen lassie, + Erewhile thy breast sae warming, + Had ne’er sic powers alarming; + O that’s the lassie, &c. + + If thou hadst heard her talking, + And thy attention’s plighted, + That ilka body talking, + But her, by thee is slighted, + And thou art all delighted; + O that’s the lassie, &c. + + If thou hast met this Fair One, + When frae her thou hast parted, + If every other Fair One + But her, thou hast deserted, + And thou art broken-hearted, + O that’s the lassie o’ my heart, + My lassie ever dearer; + O that’s the queen o’ womankind, + And ne’er a ane to peer her. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0537"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription + </h2></div> + <p> + Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, + presented to the Lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but + with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung + under the name of—“Chloris.”<sup>1</sup> + </p> +<div class='pre'> + ’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair Friend, + Nor thou the gift refuse, + Nor with unwilling ear attend + The moralising Muse. + + Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, + Must bid the world adieu, + (A world ’gainst Peace in constant arms) + To join the Friendly Few. + + Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast, + Chill came the tempest’s lour; + (And ne’er Misfortune’s eastern blast + Did nip a fairer flower.) + + Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more, + Still much is left behind, + Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— + The comforts of the mind! + + Thine is the self-approving glow, + Of conscious Honour’s part; + And (dearest gift of Heaven below) + Thine Friendship’s truest heart. + + The joys refin’d of Sense and Taste, + With every Muse to rove: + And doubly were the Poet blest, + These joys could he improve. + R.B. + + [Footnote 1: Miss Lorimer.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0538"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment.—Leezie Lindsay + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, + Will ye go to the Hielands wi’ me? + Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, + My pride and my darling to be. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0539"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fragment.—The Wren’s Nest + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Robin to the Wren’s nest + Cam keekin’ in, cam keekin’ in; + O weel’s me on your auld pow, + Wad ye be in, wad ye be in? + Thou’s ne’er get leave to lie without, + And I within, and I within, + Sae lang’s I hae an auld clout + To rowe ye in, to rowe ye in. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0540"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + News, Lassies, News + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + There’s news, lassies, news, + Gude news I’ve to tell! + There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads + Come to our town to sell. + + Chorus—The wean wants a cradle, + And the cradle wants a cod: + I’ll no gang to my bed, + Until I get a nod. + + Father, quo’ she, Mither, quo she, + Do what you can, + I’ll no gang to my bed, + Until I get a man. + The wean, &c. + + I hae as gude a craft rig + As made o’yird and stane; + And waly fa’ the ley-crap, + For I maun till’d again. + The wean, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0541"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Crowdie Ever Mair + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O that I had ne’er been married, + I wad never had nae care, + Now I’ve gotten wife an’ weans, + An’ they cry “Crowdie” evermair. + + Chorus—Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, + Three times crowdie in a day + Gin ye crowdie ony mair, + Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away. + + Waefu’ Want and Hunger fley me, + Glowrin’ by the hallan en’; + Sair I fecht them at the door, + But aye I’m eerie they come ben. + Ance crowdie, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0542"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, + Mally’s modest and discreet; + Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, + Mally’s every way complete. + + As I was walking up the street, + A barefit maid I chanc’d to meet; + But O the road was very hard + For that fair maiden’s tender feet. + Mally’s meek, &c. + + It were mair meet that those fine feet + Were weel laced up in silken shoon; + An’ ’twere more fit that she should sit + Within yon chariot gilt aboon, + Mally’s meek, &c. + + Her yellow hair, beyond compare, + Comes trinklin down her swan-like neck, + And her two eyes, like stars in skies, + Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck, + Mally’s meek, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0543"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Jockey’s Taen The Parting Kiss + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Air—“Bonie lass tak a man.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Jockey’s taen the parting kiss, + O’er the mountains he is gane, + And with him is a’ my bliss, + Nought but griefs with me remain, + Spare my Love, ye winds that blaw, + Plashy sleets and beating rain! + Spare my Love, thou feath’ry snaw, + Drifting o’er the frozen plain! + + When the shades of evening creep + O’er the day’s fair, gladsome e’e, + Sound and safely may he sleep, + Sweetly blythe his waukening be. + He will think on her he loves, + Fondly he’ll repeat her name; + For where’er he distant roves, + Jockey’s heart is still the same. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0544"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Verses To Collector Mitchell + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, + Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; + Alake, alake, the meikle deil + Wi’ a’ his witches + Are at it skelpin jig and reel, + In my poor pouches? + + I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it, + That One—pound—one, I sairly want it; + If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it, + It would be kind; + And while my heart wi’ life-blood dunted, + I’d bear’t in mind. + + So may the Auld year gang out moanin’ + To see the New come laden, groanin’, + Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin’, + To thee and thine: + Domestic peace and comforts crownin’ + The hale design. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0545"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Postscript + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been lickit, + And by fell Death was nearly nickit; + Grim loon! he got me by the fecket, + And sair me sheuk; + But by gude luck I lap a wicket, + And turn’d a neuk. + + But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t, + But by that life, I’m promis’d mair o’t, + My hale and wee, I’ll tak a care o’t, + A tentier way; + Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t, + For ance and aye! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0546"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + 1796 + </h2></div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0547"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + The Dean Of Faculty + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A New Ballad + Tune—“The Dragon of Wantley.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, + That Scot to Scot did carry; + And dire the discord Langside saw + For beauteous, hapless Mary: + But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot, + Or were more in fury seen, Sir, + Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job, + Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir. + + This Hal for genius, wit and lore, + Among the first was number’d; + But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store, + Commandment the tenth remember’d: + Yet simple Bob the victory got, + And wan his heart’s desire, + Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, + Tho’ the devil piss in the fire. + + Squire Hal, besides, had in this case + Pretensions rather brassy; + For talents, to deserve a place, + Are qualifications saucy. + So their worships of the Faculty, + Quite sick of merit’s rudeness, + Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see, + To their gratis grace and goodness. + + As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight + Of a son of Circumcision, + So may be, on this Pisgah height, + Bob’s purblind mental vision— + Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be opened yet, + Till for eloquence you hail him, + And swear that he has the angel met + That met the ass of Balaam. + + In your heretic sins may you live and die, + Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty! + But accept, ye sublime Majority, + My congratulations hearty. + With your honours, as with a certain king, + In your servants this is striking, + The more incapacity they bring, + The more they’re to your liking. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0548"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Epistle To Colonel De Peyster + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + My honor’d Colonel, deep I feel + Your interest in the Poet’s weal; + Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel + The steep Parnassus, + Surrounded thus by bolus pill, + And potion glasses. + + O what a canty world were it, + Would pain and care and sickness spare it; + And Fortune favour worth and merit + As they deserve; + And aye rowth o’ roast-beef and claret, + Syne, wha wad starve? + + Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her, + And in paste gems and frippery deck her; + Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker + I’ve found her still, + Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, + ’Tween good and ill. + + Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, + Watches like baudrons by a ratton + Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on, + Wi’felon ire; + Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on, + He’s aff like fire. + + Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, + First showing us the tempting ware, + Bright wines, and bonie lasses rare, + To put us daft + Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare + O hell’s damned waft. + + Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by, + And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh, + Thy damn’d auld elbow yeuks wi’joy + And hellish pleasure! + Already in thy fancy’s eye, + Thy sicker treasure. + + Soon, heels o’er gowdie, in he gangs, + And, like a sheep-head on a tangs, + Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs, + And murdering wrestle, + As, dangling in the wind, he hangs, + A gibbet’s tassel. + + But lest you think I am uncivil + To plague you with this draunting drivel, + Abjuring a’ intentions evil, + I quat my pen, + The Lord preserve us frae the devil! + Amen! Amen! +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0549"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Lass Wi’ A Tocher + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Ballinamona Ora.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ Beauty’s alarms, + The slender bit Beauty you grasp in your arms, + O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms, + O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms. + + Chorus—Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, + Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher; + Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher; + The nice yellow guineas for me. + + Your Beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows, + And withers the faster, the faster it grows: + But the rapturous charm o’ the bonie green knowes, + Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonie white yowes. + Then hey, for a lass, &c. + + And e’en when this Beauty your bosom hath blest + The brightest o’ Beauty may cloy when possess’d; + But the sweet, yellow darlings wi’ Geordie impress’d, + The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re carest. + Then hey, for a lass, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0550"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Heron Election Ballad, No. IV. + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Trogger. + Tune—“Buy Broom Besoms.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Wha will buy my troggin, fine election ware, + Broken trade o’ Broughton, a’ in high repair? + + Chorus—Buy braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee; + Wha wants troggin let him come to me. + + There’s a noble Earl’s fame and high renown, + For an auld sang—it’s thought the gudes were stown— + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s the worth o’ Broughton in a needle’s e’e; + Here’s a reputation tint by Balmaghie. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s its stuff and lining, Cardoness’ head, + Fine for a soger, a’ the wale o’ lead. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s a little wadset, Buittle’s scrap o’ truth, + Pawn’d in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s an honest conscience might a prince adorn; + Frae the downs o’ Tinwald, so was never worn. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s armorial bearings frae the manse o’ Urr; + The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast; + By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here is Satan’s picture, like a bizzard gled, + Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin’ like a taed. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here’s the font where Douglas stane and mortar names; + Lately used at Caily christening Murray’s crimes. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Here is Murray’s fragments o’ the ten commands; + Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands. + Buy braw troggin, &c. + + Saw ye e’er sic troggin? if to buy ye’re slack, + Hornie’s turnin chapman—he’ll buy a’ the pack. + Buy braw troggin, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0551"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + The Toast + + Fill me with the rosy wine, + Call a toast, a toast divine: + Giveth me Poet’s darling flame, + Lovely Jessie be her name; + Then thou mayest freely boast, + Thou hast given a peerless toast. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + The Menagerie + + Talk not to me of savages, + From Afric’s burning sun; + No savage e’er could rend my heart, + As Jessie, thou hast done: + But Jessie’s lovely hand in mine, + A mutual faith to plight, + Not even to view the heavenly choir, + Would be so blest a sight. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + Jessie’s illness + + Say, sages, what’s the charm on earth + Can turn Death’s dart aside! + It is not purity and worth, + Else Jessie had not died. +</div> +<div class='pre'> + On Her Recovery + + But rarely seen since Nature’s birth, + The natives of the sky; + Yet still one seraph’s left on earth, + For Jessie did not die. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0552"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—O lay thy loof in mine, lass, + In mine, lass, in mine, lass; + And swear on thy white hand, lass, + That thou wilt be my ain. + + A slave to Love’s unbounded sway, + He aft has wrought me meikle wae; + But now he is my deadly fae, + Unless thou be my ain. + O lay thy loof, &c. + + There’s mony a lass has broke my rest, + That for a blink I hae lo’ed best; + But thou art Queen within my breast, + For ever to remain. + O lay thy loof, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0553"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + A Health To Ane I Loe Dear + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—Here’s a health to ane I loe dear, + Here’s a health to ane I loe dear; + Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, + And soft as their parting tear—Jessy. + + Altho’ thou maun never be mine, + Altho’ even hope is denied; + ’Tis sweeter for thee despairing, + Than ought in the world beside—Jessy. + Here’s a health, &c. + + I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day, + As hopeless I muse on thy charms; + But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber, + For then I am lockt in thine arms—Jessy. + Here’s a health, &c. + + I guess by the dear angel smile, + I guess by the love-rolling e’e; + But why urge the tender confession, + ’Gainst Fortune’s fell, cruel decree?—Jessy. + Here’s a health, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0554"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + O wert thou in the cauld blast, + On yonder lea, on yonder lea, + My plaidie to the angry airt, + I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee; + Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms + Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, + Thy bield should be my bosom, + To share it a’, to share it a’. + + Or were I in the wildest waste, + Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, + The desert were a Paradise, + If thou wert there, if thou wert there; + Or were I Monarch o’ the globe, + Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign, + The brightest jewel in my Crown + Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0555"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars + </h2></div> + <p> + On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes, presented to her + by Burns. <sup>1</sup> + </p> +<div class='pre'> + Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, + And with them take the Poet’s prayer, + That Fate may, in her fairest page, + With ev’ry kindliest, best presage + Of future bliss, enroll thy name: + With native worth and spotless fame, + And wakeful caution, still aware + Of ill—but chief, Man’s felon snare; + + All blameless joys on earth we find, + And all the treasures of the mind— + These be thy guardian and reward; + So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. + + Dumfries, June 26, 1769. + + [Footnote 1: Written for music played by Miss Lewars, who + nursed him in his last illness.] +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_4_0556"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Fairest Maid On Devon Banks + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + Tune—“Rothiemurchie.” + </div> +<div class='pre'> + Chorus—Fairest maid on Devon banks, + Crystal Devon, winding Devon, + Wilt thou lay that frown aside, + And smile as thou wert wont to do? + + Full well thou know’st I love thee dear, + Couldst thou to malice lend an ear! + O did not Love exclaim: “Forbear, + Nor use a faithful lover so.” + Fairest maid, &c. + + Then come, thou fairest of the fair, + Those wonted smiles, O let me share; + And by thy beauteous self I swear, + No love but thine my heart shall know. + Fairest maid, &c. +</div> + <p> + <a id="link2H_GLOS"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br><br><br><br> + </div> + <div class='chapter'><h2> + Glossary + </h2></div> +<div class='pre'> + A’, all. + A-back, behind, away. + Abiegh, aloof, off. + Ablins, v. aiblins. + Aboon, above up. + Abread, abroad. + Abreed, in breadth. + Ae, one. + Aff, off. + Aff-hand, at once. + Aff-loof, offhand. + A-fiel, afield. + Afore, before. + Aft, oft. + Aften, often. + Agley, awry. + Ahin, behind. + Aiblins, perhaps. + Aidle, foul water. + Aik, oak. + Aiken, oaken. + Ain, own. + Air, early. + Airle, earnest money. + Airn, iron. + Airt, direction. + Airt, to direct. + Aith, oath. + Aits, oats. + Aiver, an old horse. + Aizle, a cinder. + A-jee, ajar; to one side. + Alake, alas. + Alane, alone. + Alang, along. + Amaist, almost. + Amang, among. + An, if. + An’, and. + Ance, once. + Ane, one. + Aneath, beneath. + Anes, ones. + Anither, another. + Aqua-fontis, spring water. + Aqua-vitae, whiskey. + Arle, v. airle. + Ase, ashes. + Asklent, askew, askance. + Aspar, aspread. + Asteer, astir. + A’thegither, altogether. + Athort, athwart. + Atweel, in truth. + Atween, between. + Aught, eight. + Aught, possessed of. + Aughten, eighteen. + Aughtlins, at all. + Auld, old. + Auldfarran, auldfarrant, shrewd, old-fashioned, sagacious. + Auld Reekie, Edinburgh. + Auld-warld, old-world. + Aumous, alms. + Ava, at all. + Awa, away. + Awald, backways and doubled up. + Awauk, awake. + Awauken, awaken. + Awe, owe. + Awkart, awkward. + Awnie, bearded. + Ayont, beyond. + + Ba’, a ball. + Backet, bucket, box. + Backit, backed. + Backlins-comin, coming back. + Back-yett, gate at the back. + Bade, endured. + Bade, asked. + Baggie, stomach. + Baig’nets, bayonets. + Baillie, magistrate of a Scots burgh. + Bainie, bony. + Bairn, child. + Bairntime, brood. + Baith, both. + Bakes, biscuits. + Ballats, ballads. + Balou, lullaby. + Ban, swear. + Ban’, band (of the Presbyterian clergyman). + Bane, bone. + Bang, an effort; a blow; a large number. + Bang, to thump. + Banie, v. bainie. + Bannet, bonnet. + Bannock, bonnock, a thick oatmeal cake. + Bardie, dim. of bard. + Barefit, barefooted. + Barket, barked. + Barley-brie, or bree, barley-brew-ale or whiskey. + Barm, yeast. + Barmie, yeasty. + Barn-yard, stackyard. + Bartie, the Devil. + Bashing, abashing. + Batch, a number. + Batts, the botts; the colic. + Bauckie-bird, the bat. + Baudrons, Baudrans, the cat. + Bauk, cross-beam. + Bauk, v. bawk. + Bauk-en’, beam-end. + Bauld, bold. + Bauldest, boldest. + Bauldly, boldly. + Baumy, balmy. + Bawbee, a half-penny. + Bawdrons, v. baudrons. + Bawk, a field path. + Baws’nt, white-streaked. + Bear, barley. + Beas’, beasts, vermin. + Beastie, dim. of beast. + Beck, a curtsy. + Beet, feed, kindle. + Beild, v. biel. + Belang, belong. + Beld, bald. + Bellum, assault. + Bellys, bellows. + Belyve, by and by. + Ben, a parlor (i.e., the inner apartment); into the parlor. + Benmost, inmost. + Be-north, to the northward of. + Be-south, to the southward of. + Bethankit, grace after meat. + Beuk, a book: devil’s pictur’d beuks-playing-cards. + Bicker, a wooden cup. + Bicker, a short run. + Bicker, to flow swiftly and with a slight noise. + Bickerin, noisy contention. + Bickering, hurrying. + Bid, to ask, to wish, to offer. + Bide, abide, endure. + Biel, bield, a shelter; a sheltered spot. + Biel, comfortable. + Bien, comfortable. + Bien, bienly, comfortably. + Big, to build. + Biggin, building. + Bike, v. byke. + Bill, the bull. + Billie, fellow, comrade, brother. + Bings, heaps. + Birdie, dim. of bird; also maidens. + Birk, the birch. + Birken, birchen. + Birkie, a fellow. + Birr, force, vigor. + Birring, whirring. + Birses, bristles. + Birth, berth. + Bit, small (e.g., bit lassie). + Bit, nick of time. + Bitch-fou, completely drunk. + Bizz, a flurry. + Bizz, buzz. + Bizzard, the buzzard. + Bizzie, busy. + Black-bonnet, the Presbyterian elder. + Black-nebbit, black-beaked. + Blad, v. blaud. + Blae, blue, livid. + Blastet, blastit, blasted. + Blastie, a blasted (i.e., damned) creature; a little wretch. + Blate, modest, bashful. + Blather, bladder. + Blaud, a large quantity. + Blaud, to slap, pelt. + Blaw, blow. + Blaw, to brag. + Blawing, blowing. + Blawn, blown. + Bleer, to blear. + Bleer’t, bleared. + Bleeze, blaze. + Blellum, a babbler; a railer; a blusterer. + Blether, blethers, nonsense. + Blether, to talk nonsense. + Bletherin’, talking nonsense. + Blin’, blind. + Blink, a glance, a moment. + Blink, to glance, to shine. + Blinkers, spies, oglers. + Blinkin, smirking, leering. + Blin’t, blinded. + Blitter, the snipe. + Blue-gown, the livery of the licensed beggar. + Bluid, blood. + Bluidy, bloody. + Blume, to bloom. + Bluntie, a stupid. + Blypes, shreds. + Bobbed, curtsied. + Bocked, vomited. + Boddle, a farthing. + Bode, look for. + Bodkin, tailor’s needle. + Body, bodie, a person. + Boggie, dim. of bog. + Bogle, a bogie, a hobgoblin. + Bole, a hole, or small recess in the wall. + Bonie, bonnie, pretty, beautiful. + Bonilie, prettily. + Bonnock, v. Bannock. + ’Boon, above. + Boord, board, surface. + Boord-en’, board-end. + Boortress, elders. + Boost, must needs. + Boot, payment to the bargain. + Bore, a chink, recess. + Botch, an angry tumor. + Bouk, a human trunk; bulk. + Bountith, bounty. + ’Bout, about. + Bow-hough’d, bandy-thighed. + Bow-kail, cabbage. + Bow’t, bent. + Brachens, ferns. + Brae, the slope of a hill. + Braid, broad. + Broad-claith, broad-cloth. + Braik, a harrow. + Braing’t, plunged. + Brak, broke. + Brak’s, broke his. + Brankie, gay, fine. + Branks, a wooden curb, a bridle. + Bran’y, brandy. + Brash, short attack. + Brats, small pieces, rags. + Brats, small children. + Brattle, a scamper. + Brattle, noisy onset. + Braw, handsome, fine, gaily dressed. + Brawlie, finely, perfectly, heartily. + Braxies, sheep that have died of braxie (a disease). + Breastie, dim. of breast. + Breastit, sprang forward. + Brechan, ferns. + Breeks, breeches. + Breer, brier. + Brent, brand. + Brent, straight, steep (i.e., not sloping from baldness). + Brie, v. barley-brie. + Brief, writ. + Brier, briar. + Brig, bridge. + Brisket, breast. + Brither, brother. + Brock, a badger. + Brogue, a trick. + Broo, soup, broth, water; liquid in which anything is cooked. + Brooses, wedding races from the church to the home of the bride. + Brose, a thick mixture of meal and warm water; also a synonym for + porridge. + Browster wives, ale wives. + Brugh, a burgh. + Brulzie, brulyie, a brawl. + Brunstane, brimstone. + Brunt, burned. + Brust, burst. + Buckie, dim. of buck; a smart younker. + Buckle, a curl. + Buckskin, Virginian: the buckskin kye, negroes. + Budget, tinker’s bag of tools. + Buff, to bang, to thump. + Bughtin, folding. + Buirdly, stalwart. + Bum, the buttocks. + Bum, to hum. + Bum-clock, beetle, cockchafer, Junebug. + Bummle, a drone, a useless fellow. + Bunker, a seat. + Bunters, harlots. + Burdies, dim. of bird or burd (a lady); maidens. + Bure, bore. + Burn, a rivulet. + Burnewin, the blacksmith (i.e., burn the wind). + Burnie, dim. of burn, a rivulet. + Burr-thistle, spear-thistle. + Busk, to dress; to garb; to dress up; to adorn. + Buss, a bush. + Bussle, bustle. + But, without. + But, butt, in the kitchen (i.e., the outer apartment). + By, past, aside. + By, beside. + By himsel, beside himself. + Bye attour (i.e., by and attour), beside and at a distance. + Byke, a bees’ nest; a hive; a swarm; a crowd. + Byre, a cow-house. + + Ca’, call, knock, drive. + Cadger, a hawker (especially of fish). + Cadie, caddie, a fellow. + Caff, chaff. + Caird, a tinker. + Calf-ward, grazing plot for calves (i.e., churchyard). + Callan, callant, a stripling. + Caller, cool, refreshing. + Callet, a trull. + Cam, came. + Canie, cannie, gentle, tractable, quiet, prudent, careful. + Cankrie, crabbed. + Canna, can not. + Canniest, quietest. + Cannilie, cannily, quietly, prudently, cautiously. + Cantie, cheerful, lively, jolly, merry. + Cantraip, magic, witching. + Cants, merry stories, canters or sprees or merry doings. + Cape-stanc, copestone. + Capon-castrate. + Care na by, do not care. + Carl, carle, a man, an old man. + Carl-hemp, male-hemp. + Carlie, a manikin. + Carlin, carline a middle-aged, or old, woman; a beldam, a witch. + Carmagnole, a violent Jacobin. + Cartes, playing-cards. + Cartie, dim. of cart. + Catch-the-plack, the hunt for money. + Caudron, a caldron. + Cauf, calf. + Cauf-leather, calf-leather. + Cauk, chalk. + Cauld, cold. + Cauldron, caldron. + Caup, a wooden drinking vessel. + Causey-cleaners, causeway-cleaners. + Cavie, a hen-coop. + Chamer, chaumer, chamber. + Change-house, tavern. + Chanter, bagpipes; the pipe of the bag-pipes which produces the + melody; song. + Chap, a fellow, a young fellow. + Chap, to strike. + Chapman, a pedler. + Chaup, chap, a stroke, a blow. + Chear, cheer. + Chearfu’, cheerful. + Chearless, cheerless. + Cheary, cheery. + Cheek-for-chow, cheek-by-jowl (i.e. close beside). + Cheep, peep, squeak. + Chiel, chield (i. e., child), a fellow, a young fellow. + Chimla, chimney. + Chittering, shivering. + Chows, chews. + Chuck, a hen, a dear. + Chuckie, dim. of chuck, but usually signifies mother hen, an old dear. + Chuffie, fat-faced. + Chuse, to choose. + Cit, the civet. + Cit, a citizen, a merchant. + Clachan, a small village about a church. + Claeding, clothing. + Claes, claise, clothes. + Claith, cloth. + Claithing, clothing. + Clankie, a severe knock. + Clap, the clapper of a mill. + Clark, a clerk. + Clark, clerkly, scholarly. + Clarkit, clerked, wrote. + Clarty, dirty. + Clash, an idle tale; gossip. + Clash, to tattle. + Clatter, noise, tattle, talk, disputation, babble. + Clatter, to make a noise by striking; to babble; to prattle. + Claught, clutched, seized. + Claughtin, clutching, grasping. + Claut, a clutch, a handful. + Claut, to scrape. + Claver, clover. + Clavers, gossip, nonsense. + Claw, a scratch, a blow. + Claw, to scratch, to strike. + Clay-cauld, clay-cold. + Claymore, a two-handed Highland sword. + Cleckin, a brood. + Cleed, to clothe. + Cleek, to snatch. + Cleekit, linked arms. + Cleg, gadfly. + Clink, a sharp stroke; jingle. + Clink, money, coin. + Clink, to chink. + Clink, to rhyme. + Clinkin, with a smart motion. + Clinkum, clinkumbell, the beadle, the bellman. + Clips, shears. + Clish-ma-claver, gossip, taletelling; non-sense. + Clockin-time, clucking- (i. e., hatching-) time. + Cloot, the hoof. + Clootie, cloots, hoofie, hoofs (a nickname of the Devil). + Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. + Clout, a cloth, a patch. + Clout, to patch. + Clud, a cloud. + Clunk, to make a hollow sound. + Coble, a broad and flat boat. + Cock, the mark (in curling). + Cockie, dim. of cock (applied to an old man). + Cocks, fellows, good fellows. + Cod, a pillow. + Coft, bought. + Cog, a wooden drinking vessel, a porridge dish, a corn measure for + horses. + Coggie, dim. of cog, a little dish. + Coil, Coila, Kyle (one of the ancient districts of Ayrshire). + Collieshangie, a squabble. + Cood, cud. + Coof, v. cuif. + Cookit, hid. + Coor, cover. + Cooser, a courser, a stallion. + Coost (i. e., cast), looped, threw off, tossed, chucked. + Cootie, a small pail. + Cootie, leg-plumed. + Corbies, ravens, crows. + Core, corps. + Corn mou, corn heap. + Corn’t, fed with corn. + Corse, corpse. + Corss, cross. + Cou’dna, couldna, couldn’t. + Countra, country. + Coup, to capsize. + Couthie, couthy, loving, affable, cosy, comfortable. + Cowe, to scare, to daunt. + Cowe, to lop. + Crack, tale; a chat; talk. + Crack, to chat, to talk. + Craft, croft. + Craft-rig, croft-ridge. + Craig, the throat. + Craig, a crag. + Craigie, dim. of craig, the throat. + Craigy, craggy. + Craik, the corn-crake, the land-rail. + Crambo-clink, rhyme. + Crambo-jingle, rhyming. + Cran, the support for a pot or kettle. + Crankous, fretful. + Cranks, creakings. + Cranreuch, hoar-frost. + Crap, crop, top. + Craw, crow. + Creel, an osier basket. + Creepie-chair, stool of repentance. + Creeshie, greasy. + Crocks, old ewes. + Cronie, intimate friend. + Crooded, cooed. + Croods, coos. + Croon, moan, low. + Croon, to toll. + Crooning, humming. + Croose, crouse, cocksure, set, proud, cheerful. + Crouchie, hunchbacked. + Crousely, confidently. + Crowdie, meal and cold water, meal and milk, porridge. + Crowdie-time, porridge-time (i. e., breakfast-time). + Crowlin, crawling. + Crummie, a horned cow. + Crummock, cummock, a cudgel, a crooked staff. + Crump, crisp. + Crunt, a blow. + Cuddle, to fondle. + Cuif, coof, a dolt, a ninny; a dastard. + Cummock, v. crummock. + Curch, a kerchief for the head. + Curchie, a curtsy. + Curler, one who plays at curling. + Curmurring, commotion. + Curpin, the crupper of a horse. + Curple, the crupper (i. e., buttocks). + Cushat, the wood pigeon. + Custock, the pith of the colewort. + Cutes, feet, ankles. + Cutty, short. + Cutty-stools, stools of repentance. + + Dad, daddie, father. + Daez’t, dazed. + Daffin, larking, fun. + Daft, mad, foolish. + Dails, planks. + Daimen icker, an odd ear of corn. + Dam, pent-up water, urine. + Damie, dim. of dame. + Dang, pret. of ding. + Danton, v. daunton. + Darena, dare not. + Darg, labor, task, a day’s work. + Darklins, in the dark. + Daud, a large piece. + Daud, to pelt. + Daunder, saunter. + Daunton, to daunt. + Daur, dare. + Daurna, dare not. + Daur’t, dared. + Daut, dawte, to fondle. + Daviely, spiritless. + Daw, to dawn. + Dawds, lumps. + Dawtingly, prettily, caressingly. + Dead, death. + Dead-sweer, extremely reluctant. + Deave, to deafen. + Deil, devil. + Deil-haet, nothing (Devil have it). + Deil-ma-care, Devil may care. + Deleeret, delirious, mad. + Delvin, digging. + Dern’d, hid. + Descrive, to describe. + Deuk, duck. + Devel, a stunning blow. + Diddle, to move quickly. + Dight, to wipe. + Dight, winnowed, sifted. + Din, dun, muddy of complexion. + Ding, to beat, to surpass. + Dink, trim. + Dinna, do not. + Dirl, to vibrate, to ring. + Diz’n, dizzen, dozen. + Dochter, daughter. + Doited, muddled, doting; stupid, bewildered. + Donsie, vicious, bad-tempered; restive; testy. + Dool, wo, sorrow. + Doolfu’, doleful, woful. + Dorty, pettish. + Douce, douse, sedate, sober, prudent. + Douce, doucely, dousely, sedately, prudently. + Doudl’d, dandled. + Dought (pret. of dow), could. + Douked, ducked. + Doup, the bottom. + Doup-skelper, bottom-smacker. + Dour-doure, stubborn, obstinate; cutting. + Dow, dowe, am (is or are) able, can. + Dow, a dove. + Dowf, dowff, dull. + Dowie, drooping, mournful. + Dowilie, drooping. + Downa, can not. + Downa-do (can not do), lack of power. + Doylt, stupid, stupefied. + Doytin, doddering., + Dozen’d, torpid. + Dozin, torpid. + Draigl’t, draggled. + Drant, prosing. + Drap, drop. + Draunting, tedious. + Dree, endure, suffer. + Dreigh, v. dreight. + Dribble, drizzle. + Driddle, to toddle. + Dreigh, tedious, dull. + Droddum, the breech. + Drone, part of the bagpipe. + Droop-rumpl’t, short-rumped. + Drouk, to wet, to drench. + Droukit, wetted. + Drouth, thirst. + Drouthy, thirsty. + Druken, drucken, drunken. + Drumlie, muddy, turbid. + Drummock, raw meal and cold water. + Drunt, the huff. + Dry, thirsty. + Dub, puddle, slush. + Duddie, ragged. + Duddies, dim. of duds, rags. + Duds, rags, clothes. + Dung, v. dang. + Dunted, throbbed, beat. + Dunts, blows. + Durk, dirk. + Dusht, pushed or thrown down violently. + Dwalling, dwelling. + Dwalt, dwelt. + Dyke, a fence (of stone or turf), a wall. + Dyvor, a bankrupt. + + Ear’, early. + Earn, eagle. + Eastlin, eastern. + E’e, eye. + E’ebrie, eyebrow. + Een, eyes. + E’en, even. + E’en, evening. + E’enin’, evening. + E’er, ever. + Eerie, apprehensive; inspiring ghostly fear. + Eild, eld. + Eke, also. + Elbuck, elbow. + Eldritch, unearthly, haunted, fearsome. + Elekit, elected. + Ell (Scots), thirty-seven inches. + Eller, elder. + En’, end. + Eneugh, enough. + Enfauld, infold. + Enow, enough. + Erse, Gaelic. + Ether-stane, adder-stone. + Ettle, aim. + Evermair, evermore. + Ev’n down, downright, positive. + Eydent, diligent. + + Fa’, fall. + Fa’, lot, portion. + Fa’, to get; suit; claim. + Faddom’d, fathomed. + Fae, foe. + Faem, foam. + Faiket, let off, excused. + Fain, fond, glad. + Fainness, fondness. + Fair fa’, good befall! welcome. + Fairin., a present from a fair. + Fallow, fellow. + Fa’n, fallen. + Fand, found. + Far-aff, far-off. + Farls, oat-cakes. + Fash, annoyance. + Fash, to trouble; worry. + Fash’d, fash’t, bothered; irked. + Fashious, troublesome. + Fasten-e’en, Fasten’s Even (the evening before Lent). + Faught, a fight. + Fauld, the sheep-fold. + Fauld, folded. + Faulding, sheep-folding. + Faun, fallen. + Fause, false. + Fause-house, hole in a cornstack. + Faut, fault. + Fautor, transgressor. + Fawsont, seemly, well-doing; good-looking. + Feat, spruce. + Fecht, fight. + Feck, the bulk, the most part. + Feck, value, return. + Fecket, waistcoat; sleeve waistcoat (used by farm-servants as both + vest and jacket). + Feckless, weak, pithless, feeble. + Feckly, mostly. + Feg, a fig. + Fegs, faith! + Feide, feud. + Feint, v. fient. + Feirrie, lusty. + Fell, keen, cruel, dreadful, deadly; pungent. + Fell, the cuticle under the skin. + Felly, relentless. + Fen’, a shift. + Fen’, fend, to look after; to care for; keep off. + Fenceless, defenseless. + Ferlie, ferly, a wonder. + Ferlie, to marvel. + Fetches, catches, gurgles. + Fetch’t, stopped suddenly. + Fey, fated to death. + Fidge, to fidget, to wriggle. + Fidgin-fain, tingling-wild. + Fiel, well. + Fient, fiend, a petty oath. + Fient a, not a, devil a. + Fient haet, nothing (fiend have it). + Fient haet o’, not one of. + Fient-ma-care, the fiend may care (I don’t!). + Fier, fiere, companion. + Fier, sound, active. + Fin’, to find. + Fissle, tingle, fidget with delight. + Fit, foot. + Fittie-lan’, the near horse of the hind-most pair in the plough. + Flae, a flea. + Flaffin, flapping. + Flainin, flannen, flannel. + Flang, flung. + Flee, to fly. + Fleech, wheedle. + Fleesh, fleece. + Fleg, scare, blow, jerk. + Fleth’rin, flattering. + Flewit, a sharp lash. + Fley, to scare. + Flichterin, fluttering. + Flinders, shreds, broken pieces. + Flinging, kicking out in dancing; capering. + Flingin-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of partition between two + horses + in a stable; a flail. + Fliskit, fretted, capered. + Flit, to shift. + Flittering, fluttering. + Flyte, scold. + Fock, focks, folk. + Fodgel, dumpy. + Foor, fared (i. e., went). + Foorsday, Thursday. + Forbears, forebears, forefathers. + Forby, forbye, besides. + Forfairn, worn out; forlorn. + Forfoughten, exhausted. + Forgather, to meet with. + Forgie, to forgive. + Forjesket, jaded. + Forrit, forward. + Fother, fodder. + Fou, fow, full (i. e., drunk). + Foughten, troubled. + Foumart, a polecat. + Foursome, a quartet. + Fouth, fulness, abundance. + Fow, v. fou. + Fow, a bushel. + Frae, from. + Freath, to froth, + Fremit, estranged, hostile. + Fu’, full. + Fu’-han’t, full-handed. + Fud, a short tail (of a rabbit or hare). + Fuff’t, puffed. + Fur, furr, a furrow. + Fur-ahin, the hindmost plough-horse in the furrow. + Furder, success. + Furder, to succeed. + Furm, a wooden form. + Fusionless, pithless, sapless, tasteless, + Fyke, fret. + Fyke, to fuss; fidget. + Fyle, to defile, to foul. + + Gab, the mouth. + Gab, to talk. + Gabs, talk. + Gae, gave. + Gae, to go. + Gaed, went. + Gaen, gone. + Gaets, ways, manners. + Gairs, gores. + Gane, gone. + Gang, to go. + Gangrel, vagrant. + Gar, to cause, to make, to compel. + Garcock, the moorcock. + Garten, garter. + Gash, wise; self-complacent (implying prudence and prosperity); + talkative. + Gashing, talking, gabbing. + Gat, got. + Gate, way-road, manner. + Gatty, enervated. + Gaucie, v. Gawsie. + Gaud, a. goad. + Gaudsman, goadsman, driver of the plough-team. + Gau’n. gavin. + Gaun, going. + Gaunted, gaped, yawned. + Gawky, a foolish woman or lad. + Gawky, foolish. + Gawsie, buxom; jolly. + Gaylies, gaily, rather. + Gear, money, wealth; goods; stuff. + Geck, to sport; toss the head. + Ged. a pike. + Gentles, gentry. + Genty, trim and elegant. + Geordie, dim. of George, a guinea. + Get, issue, offspring, breed. + Ghaist, ghost. + Gie, to give. + Gied, gave. + Gien, given. + Gif, if. + Giftie, dim. of gift. + Giglets, giggling youngsters or maids. + Gillie, dim. of gill (glass of whiskey). + Gilpey, young girl. + Gimmer, a young ewe. + Gin, if, should, whether; by. + Girdle, plate of metal for firing cakes, bannocks. + Girn, to grin, to twist the face (but from pain or rage, not joy); + gapes; + snarls. + Gizz, wig. + Glaikit, foolish, thoughtless, giddy. + Glaizie, glossy, shiny. + Glaum’d, grasped. + Gled, a hawk, a kite. + Gleede, a glowing coal. + Gleg, nimble, sharp, keen-witted. + Gleg, smartly. + Glieb, a portion of land. + Glib-gabbet, smooth-tongued. + Glint, sparkle. + Gloamin, twilight; gloamin-shot, sunset. + Glow’r, stare. + Glunch, frown, growl. + Goavin, looking dazedlyl; mooning. + Gotten, got. + Gowan, the wild, or mountain, daisy. + Gowany, covered with wild daisies. + Gowd, gold. + Gowdie, the head. + Gowff’d, struck, as in the game of golf. + Gowk, the cuckoo, a dolt. + Gowling, lamenting (as a dog in grief). + Graff, a grave, a vault. + Grain’d, groaned. + Graip, a dung-fork. + Graith, implements, gear; furniture; attire. + Graithing, gearing, vestments. + Grane, groan. + Grannie, graunie, grandmother. + Grape, grope. + Grat, wept. + Gree, the prize (degree). + Gree, to agree. + Greet, to weep. + Groanin maut, groaning malt, brewed for a lying-in. + Grozet, a gooseberry. + Grumphie, the pig. + Grun’, the ground. + Gruntle, the face. + Gruntle, dim. of grunt. + Grunzie, growing. + Grutten, wept. + Gude, God. + Guid, gude, good. + Guid-e’en, good evening. + Guid-father, father-in-law. + Guid-man, husband. + Guid-wife. mistress of the house. + Guid-willie, hearty, full of good-will. + Gullie, gully, a large knife. + Gulravage, riotous play. + Gumlie, muddy. + Gumption, wisdom. + Gusty, tasty. + Gutcher, goodsire, grandfather. + + Ha’, hall. + Ha’ folk, the servants. + Haddin, holding, inheritance. + Hae, have. + Haet, a thing. + Haffet, hauffet, the temple, the side of the head. + Haffets, side-locks. + Hafflins, half, partly. + Hag, a moss, a broken bog. + Haggis, a special Scots pudding, made of sheep’s lungs, liver and + heart, + onions and oatmeal, boiled in a sheep’s stomach. + Hain, to spare, to save. + Hairst, har’st, harvest. + Haith, faith (an oath). + Haivers, v. havers. + Hal’, hald, holding, possession. + Hale, hail, the whole. + Hale, health. + Hale, hail, whole, healthy. + Halesome, wholesome. + Hallan, a partition wall, a porch, outer door. + Halloween, All Saints’ Eve (31st of October). + Hallowmas, All Saints’ Day (1st of November). + Haly, holy. + Hame, home, + Han’, haun, hand. + Han-darg, v. darg. + Hand-wal’d, hand-picked (i.e., choicest). + Hangie, hangman (nickname of the Devil). + Hansel, the first gift; earnest. + Hap, a wrap, a covering against cold. + Hap, to shelter. + Hap, to hop. + Happer, hopper (of a mill). + Hap-step-an’-lowp. hop-step-and-jump. + Harkit, hearkened. + Harn, coarse cloth. + Hash, an oaf. + Haslock woo, the wool on the neck of a sheep. + Haud, to hold, to keep. + Hauf, half. + Haughs, low-lying rich lands by a river. + Haun, v. han’, + Haurl, to trail. + Hause, cuddle, embrace. + Haveril, hav’rel, one who talks nonsense. + Havers, nonsense. + Havins, manners, conduct. + Hawkie, a white-faced cow; a cow. + Heal, v. hale. + Healsome, v. halesome. + Hecht, to promise; threaten. + Heckle, a flax-comb. + Heels-o’er-gowdie, v. gowdie. + Heeze, to hoist. + Heich, heigh, high. + Hem-shin’d, crooked-shin’d. + Herd, a herd-boy. + Here awa, hereabout. + Herry, to harry. + Herryment, spoliation. + Hersel, herself. + Het, hot. + Heugh, a hollow or pit; a crag, a steep bank. + Heuk, a hook. + Hilch, to hobble. + Hiltie-skiltie, helter-skelter. + Himsel, himselfk + Hiney, hinny, honey. + Hing, to hang. + Hirple, to move unevenly; to limp. + Hissels, so many cattle as one person can attend (R. B.). + Histie, bare. + Hizzie, a hussy, a wench. + Hoast, cough. + Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman riding on a cart-horse + (R. B.). + Hoddin-grey, coarse gray woolen. + Hoggie, dim. of hog; a lamb. + Hog-score, a line on the curling rink. + Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play by jostling with the shoulder; + to jostle. + Hoodie-craw, the hooded crow, the carrion crow. + Hoodock, grasping, vulturish. + Hooked, caught. + Hool, the outer case, the sheath. + Hoolie, softly. + Hoord, hoard. + Hoordet, hoarded. + Horn, a horn spoon; a comb of horn. + Hornie, the Devil. + Host, v. hoast. + Hotch’d, jerked. + Houghmagandie, fornication. + Houlet, v. howlet. + Houpe, hope. + Hove, swell. + Howdie, howdy, a midwife. + Howe, hollow. + Howk, to dig. + Howlet, the owl. + Hoyse, a hoist. + Hoy’t, urged (R. B.). + Hoyte, to amble crazily (R. B.). + Hughoc, dim. of Hugh. + Hullions, slovens. + Hunder, a hundred. + Hunkers, hams. + Hurcheon, the hedgehog. + Hurchin, urchin. + Hurdies, the loins, the crupper (R. B.) (i. e., the buttocks). + Hurl, to trundle. + Hushion, a footless stocking. + Hyte, furious. + + I’, in. + Icker, an ear of corn. + Ier-oe, a great-grandchild. + Ilk, ilka, each, every. + Ill o’t, bad at it. + Ill-taen, ill-taken. + Ill-thief. the Devil. + Ill-willie, ill-natured, niggardly. + Indentin, indenturing. + Ingine, genius, ingenuity; wit. + Ingle, the fire, the fireside. + Ingle-cheek, fireside (properly the jamb of the fireplace). + Ingle-lowe, ingle-low, flame of the fire. + I’se, I shall, or will. + Itsel’, itself. + Ither, other, another. + + Jad, a jade. + Janwar, January. + Jauk, to trifle, to dally. + Jauner, gabber. + Jauntie, dim. of jaunt. + Jaup, splash. + Jaw, talk, impudence. + Jaw, to throw, to dash. + Jeeg, to jog. + Jillet, a jilt. + Jimp, small, slender. + Jimply, neatly. + Jimps, stays. + Jink, the slip. + Jink, to frisk, to sport, to dodge. + Jinker, dodger (coquette); a jinker noble; a noble goer. + Jirkinet, bodice. + Jirt, a jerk. + Jiz, a wig. + Jo, a sweetheart. + Jocteleg, a clasp-knife. + Jouk, to duck, to cover, to dodge. + Jow, to jow, a verb which included both the swinging motion and + pealing + sound of a large bell (R. B.). + Jumpet, jumpit, jumped. + Jundie, to jostle. + Jurr, a servant wench. + + Kae, a jackdaw. + Kail, kale, the colewort; cabbage; Scots’ broth. + Kail-blade, the leaf of the colewort. + Kail-gullie, a cabbage knife. + Kail-runt, the stem of the colewort. + Kail-whittle, a cabbage knife. + Kail-yard, a kitchen garden. + Kain, kane, rents in kind. + Kame, a comb. + Kebars, rafters. + Kebbuck, a cheese; a kebbuck heel = the last crust of a cheese. + Keckle, to cackle, to giggle. + Keek, look, glance. + Keekin-glass, the looking-glass. + Keel, red chalk. + Kelpies, river demons. + Ken, to know. + Kenna, know not. + Kennin, a very little (merely as much as can be perceived). + Kep, to catch. + Ket, the fleece on a sheep’s body. + Key, quay. + Kiaugh, anxiety. + Kilt, to tuck up. + Kimmer, a wench, a gossip; a wife. + Kin’, kind. + King’s-hood, the 2d stomach in a ruminant (equivocal for the scrotum). + Kintra, country. + Kirk, church. + Kirn, a churn. + Kirn, harvest home. + Kirsen, to christen. + Kist, chest, counter. + Kitchen, to relish. + Kittle, difficult, ticklish, delicate, fickle. + Kittle, to tickle. + Kittlin, kitten. + Kiutlin, cuddling. + Knaggie, knobby. + Knappin-hammers, hammers for breaking stones. + Knowe, knoll. + Knurl, knurlin, dwarf. + Kye, cows. + Kytes, bellies. + Kythe, to show. + + Laddie, dim. of lad. + Lade, a load. + Lag, backward. + Laggen, the bottom angle of a wooden dish. + Laigh, low. + Laik, lack. + Lair, lore, learning. + Laird, landowner. + Lairing, sticking or sinking in moss or mud. + Laith, loath. + Laithfu’, loathful, sheepish. + Lallan, lowland. + Lallans, Scots Lowland vernacular. + Lammie, dim. of lamb. + Lan’, land. + Lan’-afore, the foremost horse on the unplowed land side. + Lan’-ahin, the hindmost horse on the unplowed land side. + Lane, lone. + Lang, long. + Lang syne, long since, long ago. + Lap, leapt. + Lave, the rest. + Laverock, lav’rock, the lark. + Lawin, the reckoning. + Lea, grass, untilled land. + Lear, lore, learning. + Leddy, lady. + Lee-lang, live-long. + Leesome, lawful. + Leeze me on, dear is to me; blessings on; commend me to. + Leister, a fish-spear. + Len’, to lend. + Leugh, laugh’d. + Leuk, look. + Ley-crap, lea-crop. + Libbet, castrated. + Licks, a beating. + Lien, lain. + Lieve, lief. + Lift, the sky. + Lift, a load. + Lightly, to disparage, to scorn. + Lilt, to sing. + Limmer, to jade; mistress. + Lin, v. linn. + Linn, a waterfall. + Lint, flax. + Lint-white, flax-colored. + Lintwhite, the linnet. + Lippen’d, trusted. + Lippie, dim. of lip. + Loan, a lane, + Loanin, the private road leading to a farm. + Lo’ed, loved. + Lon’on, London. + Loof (pl. looves), the palm of the hand. + Loon, loun, lown, a fellow, a varlet. + Loosome, lovable. + Loot, let. + Loove, love. + Looves, v. loof. + Losh, a minced oath. + Lough, a pond, a lake. + Loup, lowp, to leap. + Low, lowe, a flame. + Lowin, lowing, flaming, burning. + Lown, v. loon. + Lowp, v. loup. + Lowse, louse, to untie, let loose. + Lucky, a grandmother, an old woman; an ale wife. + Lug, the ear. + Lugget, having ears. + Luggie, a porringer. + Lum, the chimney. + Lume, a loom. + Lunardi, a balloon bonnet. + Lunches, full portions. + Lunt, a column of smoke or steam. + Luntin, smoking. + Luve, love. + Lyart, gray in general; discolored by decay or old age. + Lynin, lining. + + Mae, more. + Mailen, mailin, a farm. + Mailie, Molly. + Mair, more. + Maist. most. + Maist, almost. + Mak, make. + Mak o’, make o’, to pet, to fondle. + Mall, Mally. + Manteele, a mantle. + Mark, merk, an old Scots coin (13 1-3d. sterling). + Mashlum, of mixed meal. + Maskin-pat, the teapot. + Maukin, a hare. + Maun, must. + Maunna, mustn’t. + Maut, malt. + Mavis, the thrush. + Mawin, mowing. + Mawn, mown. + Mawn, a large basket. + Mear, a mare. + Meikle, mickle, muckle, much, great. + Melder, a grinding corn. + Mell, to meddle. + Melvie, to powder with meal-dust. + Men’, mend. + Mense, tact, discretion, politeness. + Menseless, unmannerly. + Merle, the blackbird. + Merran, Marian. + Mess John, Mass John, the parish priest, the minister. + Messin, a cur, a mongrel. + Midden, a dunghill. + Midden-creels, manure-baskets. + Midden dub, midden puddle. + Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of the dunghill. + Milking shiel, the milking shed. + Mim, prim, affectedly meek. + Mim-mou’d, prim-lipped. + Min’, mind, remembrance. + Mind, to remember, to bear in mind. + Minnie, mother. + Mirk, dark. + Misca’, to miscall, to abuse. + Mishanter, mishap. + Mislear’d, mischievous, unmannerly. + Mistak, mistake. + Misteuk, mistook. + Mither, mother. + Mixtie-maxtie, confused. + Monie, many. + Mools, crumbling earth, grave. + Moop, to nibble, to keep close company, to meddle. + Mottie, dusty. + Mou’, the mouth. + Moudieworts, moles. + Muckle, v. meikle. + Muslin-kail, beefless broth. + Mutchkin, an English pint. + + Na, nae, no, not. + Naething, naithing, nothing. + Naig, a nag. + Nane, none, + Nappy, ale, liquor. + Natch, a notching implement; abuse. + Neebor, neibor, neighbor. + Needna, needn’t. + Neist, next. + Neuk, newk, a nook, a corner. + New-ca’d, newly driven. + Nick (Auld), Nickie-ben, a name of the Devil. + Nick, to sever; to slit; to nail, to seize away. + Nickie-ben, v. Nick. + Nick-nackets, curiosities. + Nicks, cuts; the rings on a cow’s horns. + Nieve, the fist. + Nieve-fu’, fistful. + Niffer, exchange. + Nit, a nut. + No, not. + Nocht, nothing. + Norland, northern. + Nowt, nowte, cattle. + + O’, of. + O’erword, the refrain; catchword. + Onie, any. + Or, ere, before. + Orra, extra. + O’t, of it. + Ought, aught. + Oughtlins, aughtlins, aught in the least; at all. + Ourie, shivering, drooping. + Outler, unhoused. + Owre, over, too. + Owsen, oxen. + Owthor, author. + Oxter’d, held up under the arms. + + Pack an’ thick, confidential. + Paidle, to paddle, to wade; to walk with a weak action. + Paidle, nail-bag. + Painch, the paunch. + Paitrick, a partridge; used equivocally of a wanton girl. + Pang, to cram. + Parishen, the parish. + Parritch, porridge. + Parritch-pats, porridge-pots. + Pat, pot. + Pat, put. + Pattle, pettle, a plow-staff. + Paughty, haughty. + Paukie, pauky, pawkie, artful, sly. + Pechan, the stomach. + Pechin, panting, blowing. + Penny-fee, wage in money. + Penny-wheep, small beer. + Pettle, v. pattle. + Philibeg, the Highlander’s kilt. + Phraisin, flattering, wheedling. + Phrase, to flatter, to wheedle. + Pickle, a few, a little. + Pint (Scots), three imperial pints. + Pit, put. + Placads, proclamations. + Plack, four pennies (Scots). + Plackless, penniless. + Plaiden, coarse woolen cloth. + Plaister, plaster. + Plenish’d, stocked. + Pleugh, plew, a plow. + Pliskie, a trick. + Pliver, a plover. + Pock, a poke, a bag, a wallet. + Poind, to seize, to distrain, to impound. + Poortith, poverty. + Pou, to pull. + Pouch, pocket. + Pouk, to poke. + Poupit, pulpit. + Pouse, a push. + Poussie, a hare (also a cat). + Pouther, powther, powder. + Pouts, chicks. + Pow, the poll, the head. + Pownie, a pony. + Pow’t, pulled. + Pree’d, pried (proved), tasted. + Preen, a pin. + Prent, print. + Prie, to taste. + Prief, proof. + Priggin, haggling. + Primsie, dim. of prim, precise. + Proveses, provosts. + Pu’, to pull. + Puddock-stools, toadstools, mushrooms. + Puir, poor. + Pun’, pund, pound. + Pursie, dim. of purse. + Pussie, a hare. + Pyet, a magpie. + Pyke, to pick. + Pyles, grains. + + Quat, quit, quitted. + Quean, a young woman, a lass. + Queir, choir. + Quey, a young cow. + Quietlin-wise, quietly. + Quo’, quod, quoth. + + Rab, rob. + Rade, rode. + Raep, a rope. + Ragweed, ragwort. + Raibles, recites by rote. + Rair, to roar. + Rairin, roaring. + Rair’t, roared. + Raise, rase, rose. + Raize, to excite, anger. + Ramfeezl’d, exhausted. + Ramgunshoch, surly. + Ram-stam, headlong. + Randie, lawless, obstreperous. + Randie, randy, a scoundrel, a rascal. + Rant, to rollick, to roister. + Rants, merry meetings; rows. + Rape, v. raep. + Raploch, homespun. + Rash, a rush. + Rash-buss, a clump of rushes. + Rashy, rushy. + Rattan, rattoon, a rat. + Ratton-key, the rat-quay. + Raucle, rough, bitter, sturdy. + Raught, reached. + Raw, a row. + Rax, to stretch, to extend. + Ream, cream, foam. + Ream, to cream, to foam. + Reave, to rob. + Rebute, rebuff. + Red, advised, afraid. + Red, rede, to advise, to counsel. + Red-wat-shod, red-wet-shod. + Red-wud, stark mad. + Reek, smoke. + Reekie, reeky, smoky. + Reestit, scorched. + Reestit, refused to go. + Reif, theiving. + Remead, remedy. + Rickles, small stacks of corn in the fields. + Rief, plunder. + Rig, a ridge. + Riggin, the roof-tree, the roof. + Rigwoodie, lean. + Rin, to run. + Ripp, a handful of corn from the sheaf. + Ripplin-kame, the wool or flax comb. + Riskit, cracked. + Rive, to split, to tear, to tug, to burst. + Rock, a distaff. + Rockin, a social meeting. + Roon, round, shred. + Roose, to praise, to flatter. + Roose, reputation. + Roosty, rusty. + Rottan, a rat. + Roun’, round. + Roupet, exhausted in voice. + Routh, v. rowth. + Routhie, well-stocked. + Row, rowe, to roll; to flow, as a river; to wrap. + Rowte, to low, to bellow. + Rowth, plenty, a store. + Rozet, resin. + Run-deils, downright devils. + Rung, a cudgel. + Runkl’d, wrinkled. + Runt, a cabbage or colewort stalk. + Ryke, to reach. + + Sab, to sob. + Sae, so. + Saft, soft. + Sair, sore, hard, severe, strong. + Sair, to serve. + Sair, sairly, sorely. + Sairie, sorrowful, sorry. + Sall, shall. + Sandy, Sannack, dim. of Alexander. + Sark, a shirt. + Saugh, the willow. + Saul, soul. + Saumont, sawmont, the salmon. + Saunt, saint. + Saut, salt. + Saut-backets, v. backets. + Saw, to sow. + Sawney, v. sandy. + Sax, six. + Scar, to scare. + Scar, v. scaur. + Scathe, scaith, damage; v. skaith. + Scaud, to scald. + Scaul, scold. + Scauld, to scold. + Scaur, afraid; apt to be scared. + Scaur, a jutting rock or bank of earth. + Scho, she. + Scone, a soft flour cake. + Sconner, disgust. + Sconner, sicken. + Scraichin, calling hoarsely. + Screed, a rip, a rent. + Screed, to repeat rapidly, to rattle. + Scriechin, screeching. + Scriegh, skriegh, v. skriegh. + Scrievin, careering. + Scrimpit, scanty. + Scroggie, scroggy, scrubby. + Sculdudd’ry, bawdry. + See’d, saw. + Seisins, freehold possessions. + Sel, sel’, sell, self. + Sell’d, sell’t, sold. + Semple, simple. + Sen’, send. + Set, to set off; to start. + Set, sat. + Sets, becomes. + Shachl’d, shapeless. + Shaird, shred, shard. + Shanagan, a cleft stick. + Shanna, shall not. + Shaul, shallow. + Shaver, a funny fellow. + Shavie, trick. + Shaw, a wood. + Shaw, to show. + Shearer, a reaper. + Sheep-shank, a sheep’s trotter; nae sheep-shank bane = a person of + no small importance. + Sheerly, wholly. + Sheers, scissors. + Sherra-moor, sheriffmuir. + Sheugh, a ditch, a furrow; gutter. + Sheuk, shook. + Shiel, a shed, cottage. + Shill, shrill. + Shog, a shake. + Shool, a shovel. + Shoon, shoes. + Shore, to offer, to threaten. + Short syne, a little while ago. + Shouldna, should not. + Shouther, showther, shoulder. + Shure, shore (did shear). + Sic, such. + Siccan, such a. + Sicker, steady, certain; sicker score = strict conditions. + Sidelins, sideways. + Siller, silver; money in general. + Simmer, summer. + Sin, son. + Sin’, since. + Sindry, sundry. + Singet, singed, shriveled. + Sinn, the sun. + Sinny, sunny. + Skaith, damage. + Skeigh, skiegh, skittish. + Skellum, a good-for-nothing. + Skelp, a slap, a smack. + Skelp, to spank; skelpin at it = driving at it. + Skelpie-limmer’s-face, a technical term in female scolding (R. B.). + Skelvy, shelvy. + Skiegh, v. skeigh. + Skinking, watery. + Skinklin, glittering. + Skirl, to cry or sound shrilly. + Sklent, a slant, a turn. + Sklent, to slant, to squint, to cheat. + Skouth, scope. + Skriech, a scream. + Skriegh, to scream, to whinny. + Skyrin, flaring. + Skyte, squirt, lash. + Slade, slid. + Slae, the sloe. + Slap, a breach in a fence; a gate. + Slaw, slow. + Slee, sly, ingenious. + Sleekit, sleek, crafty. + Slidd’ry, slippery. + Sloken, to slake. + Slypet, slipped. + Sma’, small. + Smeddum, a powder. + Smeek, smoke. + Smiddy, smithy. + Smoor’d, smothered. + Smoutie, smutty. + Smytrie, a small collection; a litter. + Snakin, sneering. + Snap smart. + Snapper, to stumble. + Snash, abuse. + Snaw, snow. + Snaw-broo, snow-brew (melted snow). + Sned, to lop, to prune. + Sneeshin mill, a snuff-box. + Snell, bitter, biting. + Snick, a latch; snick-drawing = scheming; he weel a snick can draw = + he is good at cheating. + Snirtle, to snigger. + Snoods, fillets worn by maids. + Snool, to cringe, to snub. + Snoove, to go slowly. + Snowkit, snuffed. + Sodger, soger, a soldier. + Sonsie, sonsy, pleasant, good-natured, jolly. + Soom, to swim. + Soor, sour. + Sough, v. sugh. + Souk, suck. + Soupe, sup, liquid. + Souple, supple. + Souter, cobbler. + Sowens, porridge of oat flour. + Sowps, sups. + Sowth, to hum or whistle in a low tune. + Sowther, to solder. + Spae, to foretell. + Spails, chips. + Spairge, to splash; to spatter. + Spak, spoke. + Spates, floods. + Spavie, the spavin. + Spavit, spavined. + Spean, to wean. + Speat, a flood. + Speel, to climb. + Speer, spier, to ask. + Speet, to spit. + Spence, the parlor. + Spier. v. speer. + Spleuchan, pouch. + Splore, a frolic; a carousal. + Sprachl’d, clambered. + Sprattle, scramble. + Spreckled, speckled. + Spring, a quick tune; a dance. + Sprittie, full of roots or sprouts (a kind of rush). + Sprush, spruce. + Spunk, a match; a spark; fire, spirit. + Spunkie, full of spirit. + Spunkie, liquor, spirits. + Spunkies, jack-o’-lanterns, will-o’-wisps. + Spurtle-blade, the pot-stick. + Squatter, to flap. + Squattle, to squat; to settle. + Stacher, to totter. + Staggie, dim. of staig. + Staig, a young horse. + Stan’, stand. + Stane, stone. + Stan’t, stood. + Stang, sting. + Stank, a moat; a pond. + Stap, to stop. + Stapple, a stopper. + Stark, strong. + Starnies, dim. of starn, star. + Starns, stars. + Startle, to course. + Staumrel, half-witted. + Staw, a stall. + Staw, to surfeit; to sicken. + Staw, stole. + Stechin, cramming. + Steek, a stitch. + Steek, to shut; to close. + Steek, to shut; to touch, meddle with. + Steeve, compact. + Stell, a still. + Sten, a leap; a spring. + Sten’t, sprang. + Stented, erected; set on high. + Stents, assessments, dues. + Steyest, steepest. + Stibble, stubble. + Stibble-rig, chief reaper. + Stick-an-stowe, completely. + Stilt, limp (with the aid of stilts). + Stimpart, a quarter peck. + Stirk, a young bullock. + Stock, a plant of cabbage; colewort. + Stoited, stumbled. + Stoiter’d, staggered. + Stoor, harsh, stern. + Stoun’, pang, throb. + Stoure, dust. + Stourie, dusty. + Stown, stolen. + Stownlins, by stealth. + Stoyte, to stagger. + Strae death, death in bed. (i. e., on straw). + Staik, to stroke. + Strak, struck. + Strang, strong. + Straught, straight. + Straught, to stretch. + Streekit, stretched. + Striddle, to straddle. + Stron’t, lanted. + Strunt, liquor. + Strunt, to swagger. + Studdie, an anvil. + Stumpie, dim. of stump; a worn quill. + Sturt, worry, trouble. + Sturt, to fret; to vex. + Sturtin, frighted, staggered. + Styme, the faintest trace. + Sucker, sugar. + Sud, should. + Sugh, sough, sigh, moan, wail, swish. + Sumph, churl. + Sune, soon. + Suthron, southern. + Swaird, sward. + Swall’d, swelled. + Swank, limber. + Swankies, strapping fellows. + Swap, exchange. + Swapped, swopped, exchanged. + Swarf, to swoon. + Swat, sweated. + Swatch, sample. + Swats, new ale. + Sweer, v. dead-sweer. + Swirl, curl. + Swirlie, twisted, knaggy. + Swith, haste; off and away. + Swither, doubt, hesitation. + Swoom, swim. + Swoor, swore. + Sybow, a young union. + Syne, since, then. + + Tack, possession, lease. + Tacket, shoe-nail. + Tae, to. + Tae, toe. + Tae’d, toed. + Taed, toad. + Taen, taken. + Taet, small quantity. + Tairge, to target. + Tak, take. + Tald, told. + Tane, one in contrast to other. + Tangs, tongs. + Tap, top. + Tapetless, senseless. + Tapmost, topmost. + Tappet-hen, a crested hen-shaped bottle holding three quarts of + claret. + Tap-pickle, the grain at the top of the stalk. + Topsalteerie, topsy-turvy. + Targe, to examine. + Tarrow, to tarry; to be reluctant, to murmur; to weary. + Tassie, a goblet. + Tauk, talk. + Tauld, told. + Tawie, tractable. + Tawpie, a foolish woman. + Tawted, matted. + Teats, small quantities. + Teen, vexation. + Tell’d, told. + Temper-pin, a fiddle-peg; the regulating pin of the spinning-wheel. + Tent, heed. + Tent, to tend; to heed; to observe. + Tentie, watchful, careful, heedful. + Tentier, more watchful. + Tentless, careless. + Tester, an old silver coin about sixpence in value. + Teugh, tough. + Teuk, took. + Thack, thatch; thack and rape = the covering of a house, and so, home + necessities. + Thae, those. + Thairm, small guts; catgut (a fiddle-string). + Theckit, thatched. + Thegither, together. + Thick, v. pack an’ thick. + Thieveless, forbidding, spiteful. + Thiggin, begging. + Thir, these. + Thirl’d, thrilled. + Thole, to endure; to suffer. + Thou’se, thou shalt. + Thowe, thaw. + Thowless, lazy, useless. + Thrang, busy; thronging in crowds. + Thrang, a throng. + Thrapple, the windpipe. + Thrave, twenty-four sheaves of corn. + Thraw, a twist. + Thraw, to twist; to turn; to thwart. + Thraws, throes. + Threap, maintain, argue. + Threesome, trio. + Thretteen, thirteen. + Thretty, thirty. + Thrissle, thistle. + Thristed, thirsted. + Through, mak to through = make good. + Throu’ther (through other), pell-mell. + Thummart, polecat. + Thy lane, alone. + Tight, girt, prepared. + Till, to. + Till’t, to it. + Timmer, timber, material. + Tine, to lose; to be lost. + Tinkler, tinker. + Tint, lost + Tippence, twopence. + Tip, v. toop. + Tirl, to strip. + Tirl, to knock for entrance. + Tither, the other. + Tittlin, whispering. + Tocher, dowry. + Tocher, to give a dowry. + Tocher-gude, marriage portion. + Tod, the fox. + To-fa’, the fall. + Toom, empty. + Toop, tup, ram. + Toss, the toast. + Toun, town; farm steading. + Tousie, shaggy. + Tout, blast. + Tow, flax, a rope. + Towmond, towmont, a twelvemonth. + Towsing, rumpling (equivocal). + Toyte, to totter. + Tozie, flushed with drink. + Trams, shafts. + Transmogrify, change. + Trashtrie, small trash. + Trews, trousers. + Trig, neat, trim. + Trinklin, flowing. + Trin’le, the wheel of a barrow. + Trogger, packman. + Troggin, wares. + Troke, to barter. + Trouse, trousers. + Trowth, in truth. + Trump, a jew’s harp. + Tryste, a fair; a cattle-market. + Trysted, appointed. + Trysting, meeting. + Tulyie, tulzie, a squabble; a tussle. + Twa, two. + Twafauld, twofold, double. + Twal, twelve; the twal = twelve at night. + Twalpennie worth, a penny worth (English money). + Twang, twinge. + Twa-three, two or three. + Tway, two. + Twin, twine, to rob; to deprive; bereave. + Twistle, a twist; a sprain. + Tyke, a dog. + Tyne, v. tine. + Tysday, Tuesday. + + Ulzie, oil. + Unchancy, dangerous. + Unco, remarkably, uncommonly, excessively. + Unco, remarkable, uncommon, terrible (sarcastic). + Uncos, news, strange things, wonders. + Unkend, unknown. + Unsicker, uncertain. + Unskaithed, unhurt. + Usquabae, usquebae, whisky. + + Vauntie, proud. + Vera, very. + Virls, rings. + Vittle, victual, grain, food. + Vogie, vain. + + Wa’, waw, a wall. + Wab, a web. + Wabster, a weaver. + Wad, to wager. + Wad, to wed. + Wad, would, would have. + Wad’a, would have. + Wadna, would not. + Wadset, a mortgage. + Wae, woful, sorrowful. + Wae, wo; wae’s me = wo is to me. + Waesucks, alas! + Wae worth, wo befall. + Wair, v. ware. + Wale, to choose. + Wale, choice. + Walie, wawlie, choice, ample, large. + Wallop, to kick; to dangle; to gallop; to dance. + Waly fa’, ill befall! + Wame, the belly. + Wamefou, bellyful. + Wan, won. + Wanchancie, dangerous. + Wanrestfu’, restless. + Ware, wair, to spend; bestow. + Ware, worn. + Wark, work. + Wark-lume, tool. + Warl’, warld, world. + Warlock, a wizard + Warl’y, warldly, worldly. + Warran, warrant. + Warse, worse. + Warsle, warstle, wrestle. + Wast, west. + Wastrie, waste. + Wat, wet. + Wat, wot, know. + Water-fit, water-foot (the river’s mouth). + Water-kelpies, v. kelpies. + Wauble, to wobble. + Waught, a draft. + Wauk, to awake. + Wauken, to awaken. + Waukin, awake. + Waukit (with toil), horny. + Waukrife, wakeful. + Waulie, jolly. + Waur, worse. + Waur, to worst. + Waur’t, worsted, beat. + Wean (wee one), a child. + Weanies, babies. + Weason, weasand. + Wecht, a measure for corn. + Wee, a little; a wee = a short space or time. + Wee things, children. + Weel, well. + Weel-faured, well-favored. + Weel-gaun, well-going. + Weel-hain’d, well-saved. + Weepers, mournings (on the steeve or hat). + Werena, were not. + We’se, we shall. + Westlin, western. + Wha, who. + Whaizle, wheeze. + Whalpet, whelped. + Wham, whom. + Whan, when. + Whang, a shive. + Whang, flog. + Whar, whare, where. + Wha’s whose. + Wha’s, who is. + Whase, whose. + What for, whatfore, wherefore. + Whatna, what. + What reck, what matter; nevertheless. + Whatt, whittled. + Whaup, the curlew. + Whaur, where. + Wheep, v. penny-wheep. + Wheep, jerk. + Whid, a fib. + Whiddin, scudding. + Whids, gambols. + Whigmeleeries, crotches. + Whingin, whining. + Whins, furze. + Whirlygigums, flourishes. + Whist, silence. + Whissle, whistle. + Whitter, a draft. + Whittle, a knife. + Wi’, with. + Wick a bore, hit a curling-stone obliquely and send it through an + opening. + Wi’s, with his. + Wi’t, with it. + Widdifu’, gallows-worthy. + Widdle, wriggle. + Wiel, eddy. + Wight, strong, stout. + Wighter, more influential. + Willcat wildcat. + Willyart, disordered. + Wimple, to meander. + Win, won. + Winn, to winnow. + Winna, will not. + Winnin, winding. + Winnock, window. + Winnock-bunker, v. bunker. + Win’t, did wind. + Wintle, a somersault. + Wintle, to stagger; to swing; to wriggle. + Winze, a curse. + Wiss, wish. + Won, to dwell. + Wonner, a wonder. + Woo’, wool. + Woodie, woody, a rope (originally of withes); a gallows rope. + Woodies, twigs, withes. + Wooer-babs, love-knots. + Wordy, worthy. + Worset, worsted. + Worth, v. wae worth. + Wraith, ghost. + Wrang, wrong. + Wud, wild, mad. + Wumble, wimble. + Wyliecoat, undervest. + Wyte (weight), blame. + Wyte, to blame; to reproach. + + Yard, a garden; a stackyard. + Yaud, an old mare. + Yealings, coevals. + Yell, dry (milkless). + Yerd, earth. + Yerkit, jerked. + Yerl, earl. + Ye’se, ye shall. + Yestreen, last night. + Yett, a gate. + Yeuk, to itch. + Yill, ale. + Yill-Caup, ale-stoup. + Yird, yearth, earth. + Yokin, yoking; a spell; a day’s work. + Yon, yonder. + ’Yont, beyond. + Yowe, ewe. + Yowie, dim. of ewe; a pet ewe. + Yule, Christmas. +</div> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1279 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/1279-h/images/cover.jpg b/1279-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b1779c --- /dev/null +++ b/1279-h/images/cover.jpg |
