Part 14

O had M’Lauchlan,^7 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;^8 Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair;^9 Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:^10 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.

Fragment Of Song

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’.”

Epigram On Rough Roads

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.]

Prayer—O Thou Dread Power

Lying at a reverend friend’s house one night, the author left the following verses in the room where he slept:—

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!

Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr

Tune—“Roslin Castle.”

“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.

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!

Address To The Toothache

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!

Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1

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.

Masonic Song

Tune—“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”

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!

Tam Samson’s Elegy

An honest man’s the noblest work of God—Pope.

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.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2 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!

The Epitaph

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.

Per Contra

Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie;^3 Tell ev’ry social honest billie To cease his grievin’; For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. Tam Samson’s leevin’!

Epistle To Major Logan

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.

Fragment On Sensibility

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.

A Winter Night

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.

Song—Yon Wild Mossy Mountains

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!

Address To Edinburgh

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.

Address To A Haggis

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.