Part 13

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!

Epitaph On “Wee Johnie”

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.

The Lass O’ Ballochmyle

Tune—“Ettrick Banks.”

’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.

Lines To An Old Sweetheart

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.

Motto Prefixed To The Author’s First Publication

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.

Lines To Mr. John Kennedy

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!

Lines Written On A Banknote

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.

Stanzas On Naething

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.

The Farewell

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!

Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora.

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!

The Calf

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.”

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!”

Nature’s Law—A Poem

Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

Great Nature spoke: observant man obey’d—Pope.

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!

Song—Willie Chalmers

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:—

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.

Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor

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.

The Brigs Of Ayr

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^1 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^2 had number’d two, and Wallace Tower^2 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^3 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:—

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.”

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,^4 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.”

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,^5 down to the Ratton-key,^6 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!”

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.]

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!”

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.