Part 12

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!

Song—My Highland Lassie, O

Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy.”

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.

Epistle To A Young Friend

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!

Address Of Beelzebub

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.

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.

A Dream

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; But surely Dreams were ne’er indicted Treason.

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:

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.^1

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^2 at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver: And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,^3 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,^4 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.

A Dedication

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!

Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline

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.

The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton.

Tune—“Guidnight, and joy be wi’ you a’.”

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.

On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies

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!

Song—Farewell To Eliza

Tune—“Gilderoy.”

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!

A Bard’s Epitaph

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.