Part 18

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.

Song.—The Day Returns

Tune—“Seventh of November.”

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!

Song.—O, Were I On Parnassus Hill

Tune—“My love is lost to me.”

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!

A Mother’s Lament

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!

The Fall Of The Leaf

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.

I Reign In Jeanie’s Bosom

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.

Auld Lang Syne

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.

My Bonie Mary

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!

The Parting Kiss

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!

Written In Friar’s-Carse Hermitage

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.

The Poet’s Progress

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!

Elegy On The Year 1788

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.

The Henpecked Husband

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.

Versicles On Sign-Posts

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.

1789

Robin Shure In Hairst

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.

Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive

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?

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!

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.

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.

Pegasus At Wanlockhead

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.

Sappho Redivivus—A Fragment

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!

Song—She’s Fair And Fause

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.

Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell

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!

Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig

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.

Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell

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.

Caledonia—A Ballad

Tune—“Caledonian Hunts’ Delight” of Mr. Gow.

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.