Part 11

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.^9

Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound;^10 And Irwine, marking out the bound, Enamour’d of the scenes around, Slow runs his race, A name I doubly honour’d found,^11 With knightly grace.

Brydon’s brave ward,^12 I saw him stand, Fame humbly offering her hand, And near, his kinsman’s rustic band,^13 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;^14 A heart too warm, a pulse too hot At times, o’erran: But large in ev’ry feature wrote, Appear’d the Man.

The Rantin’ Dog, The Daddie O’t

Tune—“Whare’ll our guidman lie.”

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.

Here’s His Health In Water

Tune—“The Job of Journey-work.”

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!

Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous

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.

The Inventory^1

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.^2 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.

To John Kennedy, Dumfries House

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.

To Mr. M’Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan

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.

To A Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church

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!

Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s

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.

Song, Composed In Spring

Tune—“Jockey’s Grey Breeks.”

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.

To A Mountain Daisy,

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!

To Ruin

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!

The Lament

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!

Despondency: An Ode

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!

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline,

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.

Versified Reply To An Invitation

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.

Song—Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary?

Tune—“Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.”

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?