Part 9

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— I need na vaunt, But I’ll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! I’m weary sick o’t late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a’ men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan A lady fair; Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme (I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time)— To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

CROWDIE EVER MAIR

O that I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, An’ they cry “crowdie!” ever mair.

Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, Three times crowdie in a day; Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.

Waefu want and hunger fley me, Glowrin’ by the hallen en’; Sair I fecht them at the door, But aye I’m eerie they come ben.

‘BRAW SOBER LESSONS’

(EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND)

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 oh! 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 wave the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing; But oh! 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 Than ever did th’ adviser!

TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye 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 wad 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 o’er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering scornfu’ view On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither’d rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: Thro’ bloody 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’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY

Bannocks o’ bear meal, Bannocks o’ barley; Here’s to the Highlandman’s Bannocks o’ barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley.

Bannocks o’ bear meal, Bannocks o’ barley; Here’s to the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley; Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie? Wha but the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE

Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body; Jenny’s seldom dry; She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye; Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen; Gin a body kiss a body, Need the world ken?

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN

The wind blew hollow frae the hills; By fits the sun’s departing beam Look’d on the fading yellow woods That waved o’er Lugar’s winding stream. Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail’d his lord, Whom death had all untimely taen.

He lean’d him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years; His locks were bleachèd white wi’ time, His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears; And as he touch’d his trembling harp, And as he tun’d his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves, To echo bore the notes alang.

‘Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing, The reliques of the vernal quire! Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds The honours of the agèd year! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me.

‘I am a bending agèd tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hold of earth is gane: Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And others plant them in my room.

‘I’ve seen so many changefu’ years, On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, I bear alane my lade o’ care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a’ that would my sorrows share.

‘And last (the sum of a’ my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay; The flow’r amang our barons bold, His country’s pride, his country’s stay: In weary being now I pine For a’ the life of life is dead, And hope has left my agèd ken, On forward wing for ever fled.

‘Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake, resound thy latest lay, Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune’s mirkest gloom.

‘In poverty’s low barren vale, Thick mists obscure involv’d me round; Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye, No ray of fame was to be found: Thou found’st me, like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.

‘O why has worth so short a date While villains ripen grey with time? Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great, Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime? Why did I live to see that day, A day to me so full of woe? O had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low!

‘The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn, And a’ that thou hast done for me!’

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

O Thou unknown Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly in my breast, Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know’st that Thou hast formèd me With passions wild and strong; And list’ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do thou, All-Good! for such Thou art, In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d, No other plea I have, But Thou art good; and Goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between; Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms! Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or Death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, ‘Forgive my foul offence!’ Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue’s way; Again in folly’s path might go astray; Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter Heavenly mercy’s plan? Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, And still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me Those headlong furious passions to confine, For all unfit I feel my powers to be, To rule their torrent in th’ allowèd line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

A BARD’S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspirèd 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 and 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.

THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, But nature sickened on the e’e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel in beauty’s bloom the whyle, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, ‘Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle!

‘Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel, the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!’

[Illustration:

Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, . . . . . . . . Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle.]

AY WAUKIN, O

Simmer’s a pleasant time, Flow’rs of ev’ry colour; The water rins o’er the heugh, And I long for my true lover.

Ay waukin, O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I’m eerie; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

Lanely night comes on, A’ the lave are sleepin’, I think on my bonnie lad, And I bleer my een wi’ greetin’.

Ay waukin, O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

IN EVIL DAYS

(FROM A LETTER TO GRAHAM OF FINTRY, 1791)

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear! Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust— Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears. Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown, And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!

THE POETIC DAYSPRING

(FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER)

I mind it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh, An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn,— When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon’d was, And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, Wearing the day awa,—

Ev’n then a wish (I mind its power!) A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast; That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake, Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, An’ spar’d the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e’er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o’ sang In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, Wild floated in my brain; Till on that hairst I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous’d the forming strain: I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een, That gart my heart-strings tingle; I firèd, inspirèd, At ev’ry kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I fearèd aye to speak....

SCOTS WHA HAE

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour! See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s King and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? Let him follow me!

By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do or die!

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that; The rank is but the guinea stamp; The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What tho’ on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a’ that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, and a’ that; The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is King o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a’ that: For a’ that, and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a’ that; That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, It’s coming yet, for a’ that, That man to man the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that.

HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa’!

It’s guid to be merry and wise, It’s guid to be honest and true, It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.

May liberty meet wi’ success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug o’ the law!

Here’s freedom to him that wad read, Here’s freedom to him that wad write! There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s Chieftain M’Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd, Tho’ bred among mountains o’ snaw!

DOES HAUGHTY GAUL

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir, There’s wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!

O let us not like snarling tykes In wrangling be divided, Till, slap! come in an unco loon And wi’ a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted!

The kettle o’ the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. Our father’s blude the kettle bought, An’ wha wad dare to spoil it? By heavens! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, Who’d set the mob aboon the throne,— May they be damned together! Who will not sing _God save the King_! Shall hang as high’s the steeple; But while we sing _God save the King_! We’ll not forget the people!

AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min’? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i’ the burn, From morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar’d Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie’s a hand o’ thine; And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught, 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 lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

Longer Poems

THE TWA DOGS

’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle, That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearin’ through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame, Forgather’d ance upon a time.

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for his Honour’s pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His lockèd, letter’d, braw brass collar, Shew’d him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent ane hour caressin’ E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messan: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie, But he wad stand as glad to see him, An’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.

The tither was a ploughman’s collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie; Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland sang, Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke; His honest, sonsie, bawsent face Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his tousie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack and thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit; Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, And worried ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords of the creation.

CAESAR