SELECTED POEMS OF 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
SELECTED POEMS- 
 
 OF 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 ANDREW LANG 
 
 KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO., LTD. 
 
 MDCCCXCVI 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 HPHE text of the Poems in this Selection is in 
 J- accordance with the earliest texts of Kilmar- 
 nock, of Edinburgh, and of the scattered tracts and 
 the additions made by Currie and others. Where 
 Burns originally wrote a coarse line, which he 
 afterwards replaced by another, the second reading 
 is given, as more in harmony with modern taste. 
 The Editor has to thank Mrs. Ogilby, for collating 
 the texts, and Mr. Craibe Angus, for kindly lend- 
 ing examples of early and rare editions. Because 
 these editions are rare, and that the curious may 
 see the text as nearly as possible as the poet saw it, 
 the peculiarities of printing have been preserved. 
 
 100.1 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 POEMS . 
 
 The Twa Dogs (a Tale) x 
 
 V/Scotch Drink n 
 
 The Holy Fair 17 
 
 The Brigs of Ayr 27 
 
 X^ Address 'to the DelD 37 / / 
 
 /The Vision 42 
 
 * Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous . . 52 
 /Halloween 55 
 
 The Jolly Beggars 66 / 
 
 ^JCThr Auld FiirmV-i New- Year Morning Salutation to his 
 
 Auld Mare, Maggie 81 
 
 V The Cotter's Saturday Night 86 
 
 A Prayer, in the Prospect of Death 94 
 
 /A Prayer, under the Pressure of Violent Anguish ... 95 
 
 r To a Mountain Daisy 96 
 
 Epistle to a Young Friend 99 
 
 To a Haggis 103 
 
 To W * * * S * * * 105 
 
 Epistle to John Rankin 113 
 
 .Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . ... ... 117 
 
 ^,,,, ,. , . ... 
 
 -Lhnhe late Captain Grose's Peregrinations thro' Scotlai^i 130 
 
 Verses Written under the Portrait of Fergusson the Poet . 133 
 
 Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig 133 
 
 There's naethin like the Honest Nappy 136 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ind Dearie O 139 
 
 Auld Rob Morris 140 
 
 My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 141 
 
 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo 142 
 
 144 
 
 Wering Willie .""."". .""".'" . . 145 
 
 Logan Braes 146 
 
 Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet ? 148 
 
 Her Answer O tell na me o' wind and rain 149 
 
 Groves o' Sweet Myrtle 150 
 
 L) O C Last May a Braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen . . . 151 
 
 Blythe was she 153 
 
 1 Love my Jean 154 
 
 " 155 
 
 Anderson my Jo* 156 
 
 Guidwife Count the La win 157 
 
 1 What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man .... 158 
 
 O, for Ane and Twenty, Tarn ! 159 
 
 Bess and her Spinning Wheel 160 
 
 The Banks o' Doon 162 
 
 Version printed in the Musical Museum 163 
 
 For the sake o' Somebody 164 
 
 O May, thy Morn 165 
 
 The Lovely Lass of Inverness 166 
 
 .A red, red Rose 167 
 
 Address to a Lady 168 
 
 Up in the Morning Early 169 
 
 My Bonie Mary . ^- T t . j . ^ ... T||i|r - , lLjJ _- 170 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands 171 
 
 There's a Youth in this City 172 
 
 Ac Fond Kiss 173 
 
 ooeo 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SOKGS continued. PAGB 
 
 (John Barleycorj?^ . . 175 / 
 
 The Rigs o' fJarley 178 
 
 Song Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows 180 
 
 Green Grow the Rashes 182 
 
 Y^^anJcs^^ndBraes, and Streams around 184 
 
 ^JTAuld Lang Syne^ 185 
 
 Bruce's Address to his Army at Bannockburn 187 
 
 For a' that and a' that 188 
 
 The Dumfri3 Volunteers 190 
 
 Mary Morison 192 
 
 O Saw ye Bonie Lesley 193 
 
 Women's Minds 194 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 196 
 
 Patriotic Song 197 
 
 Awa Whigs, Awa 199 
 
 Braw Lads of Galla Water 200 
 
 Coming through the Rye 201 ^"^ (* ^ < "r 
 
 *Hey, the Dusty Miller 202 
 
 The Cardin' o't 203 
 
 It was a' for our Rightfu' King 204 
 
 O Kenmure's on and awa Willie 205 
 
 Simmer's a pleasant Time 207 
 
 The Highland Laddie 208 
 
 Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray 209 
 
 Ye Jacobites by name 210 
 
 Whan I sleep I dream 211 
 
 When I think on the Happy Days 212 
 
 GLOSSARY .... . 213 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 BURNS, the poetry of Burns, the life of Burns, 
 are topics which eternally attract the critic. 
 On few literary subjects has more been said, on 
 none, perhaps, is it more difficult to say anything 
 satisfactory. To say anything which shall satisfy 
 all readers is quite out of the question. To 
 English students, Robert Burns is, and must be, a 
 foreign classic. People who decline to read the 
 Waverley novels, because they " detest dialect," 
 must find the author of "Tarn o' Shanter" impos- 
 sible. With the best will in the world it is tedious 
 to look up glossaries a dozen times on each page, or 
 to desert the text for the footnotes, twice or thrice in 
 a line. Even when the conscientious English reader 
 does take this trouble, he finds that a Scotch phrase 
 may mean "excitedly eager" in one passage, and 
 " eagerly fond " in another, while the full force, 
 and it has a great deal, of "fidgin' fain" is only 
 apparent to a Scot. In truth, the Scotch dialogue 
 in the Waverley novels is classical Scotch, the 
 Scotch of Edinburgh and the Border, while Burns 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 delights in provincial Scotch, in Ayrshire words of 
 which even the Scotch sometimes need an explana- 
 tion. What is " muslin kail? " what is a "shangar?" 
 what is a " stimpart ?" One has put these questions 
 to very loyal and unanglicized Scots, and they have 
 been unable to answer. We learn little when we 
 are told that a certain mare was a "noble fittie- 
 lan'," and though "tarrow" rhymes to " Pizarro," 
 the word is so obscure that it escaped even the 
 older minstrel who was so hard set for various 
 rhymes to "Yarrow." A little pains, a little 
 acuteness, and the use of a Scottish dictionary, 
 clear up these difficulties, but many persons are so 
 indolent that they will rather take Burns for 
 granted than busy themselves to understand him. 
 It is extremely probable that, even in Scotland, 
 Burns is more praised than read. In some 
 places the enthusiasm of his Birthday suppers 
 would be chilled if anyone brought in a copy of 
 the poems and asked for a few explanations. The 
 old language is dying out, thanks to newspapers 
 and education, and Burns's language was extra- 
 ordinarily rich in local and technical terms, which 
 make his poems even to an Eastern or Border 
 Scot anything but plain sailing. 
 
 The very wealth of his vocabulary, which often 
 added brilliance to his humour, is beginning to 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 turn against him. His vogue, the national enthu- 
 siasm for him, is perhaps greater than ever, but 
 the time may come when that will be said of Burns 
 which Voltaire said of Dante, "he will always be 
 praised, because he is never read." However, the 
 remark is no longer true of Dante, and a millennium 
 or two must pass before it is true of the Ayrshire 
 ploughman. Still, these mere initial difficulties, 
 trivial in themselves, make it hard to write of Burns 
 so as to satisfy most English readers. To take an 
 obvious example : Caesar, in " The Twa Dogs," 
 talking of the amusements of the rich laird, says 
 that he 
 
 "To Madrid takes the rout, 
 
 To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt." 
 
 There is no note to the word nowt in Mr. Scott 
 Douglas's excellent edition. Probably the ordinary 
 English reader does not even know that nowt are 
 horned cattle in general. He certainly cannot feel 
 the Scot's delight in this amusingly depreciatory 
 phrase for the heroic pastime of Bull-fighting. One 
 must have been born to the language, to understand 
 its delicacies. This is all the harder on Burns as his 
 Scotch poems are, by universal consent, as well as in 
 his own opinion, infinitely his best poems. English 
 prose he could write excellently, but his model, in 
 English verse, was the divine Shenstone, whereas 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in Scotch verse he had Scotch tradition to guide him, 
 and was using his everyday speech. 
 
 Thus a Scotchman, writing of Burns, will in- 
 evitably feel an enthusiasm which may seem over- 
 strained to the general run of English readers. The 
 language which detains and at times defies the 
 Englishman is like his native air to the Scot, in 
 spite of the obsolete and provincial words. It smells 
 of peat and bog myrtle, of heather, haggis and 
 whiskey. Burns was not invariably sincere, he 
 answered too well to Montaigne's description of 
 man as ondoyant et divers, or, if he was invariably 
 sincere, his moods changed so frequently and so 
 rapidly as to give an appearance of insincerity. 
 But on one point his ideas never altered, his ardent 
 love of his land. In some notes from his common- 
 place book (1784?), he mentions that it hurts him 
 to see other regions famous in song, "their rivers, 
 haughs, and woods immortalized, "and expresses his 
 desire to make Irvine, Ayr, and Doon ' ' emulate Tay, 
 Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed." " Abana and Pharpar, 
 rivers of Syria," were, in his eyes, as good as any 
 rivers of Israel. By their banks he listened, as he 
 says, to "The feathered warblers," by their banks 
 he mused, or made love : he had a poet's and an 
 angler's love of running water, and to celebrate his 
 native streams was literally one of his chief poetic im- 
 
INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 pulses. As for the country of Scotland in general, 
 " the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice 
 into my veins, which will boil along there till the 
 floodgate of life shuts in eternal rest." His aim 
 was to do something "for puir auld Scotland'ssake," 
 and it would be less than loyal if Scotchmen did 
 not regard him with the heartiest affection and 
 admiration. Homer was not more truly " The Sun 
 of Hellas," as a writer in the Anthology calls him, 
 than Burns was the Sun of Scotland. The whole 
 life of the people, labour, religion, revelry, tradi- 
 tional customs, he illuminated it all, he showed it 
 in its native colours to the world, and he warms it 
 still. The life of the people, we say especially, for 
 of the life of the nobles he knew little, and in spite 
 of considerable goodwill shown by them, he loved 
 it less. That life, so full in olden days of passion 
 and romance, was left to the genius of Scott, a 
 genius, to my mind, really more human, kindly, 
 and universal, if less intense. Burns's eager love of 
 Independence " I am independent, " he says 
 proudly, when dedicating his poems to the gentle- 
 men of the Caledonian Hunt, was mainly attracted 
 by one aspect of old Scotch history, the War of 
 Independence, the struggle of Wallace and Bruce 
 against the greatest and the weakest of the Planta- 
 genets. It is evident that Burns was under a 
 b 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 delusion said, by our unfriends, to be common in 
 Scotland. He thought that, at Bannockburn, Bruce 
 defeated The Hammer of the Scots. In his letter to 
 Lord Buchan, enclosing " Scots wha hae," he says, 
 " a cruel but able usurper was leading on the finest 
 army in Europe." These words can only apply to 
 Edward I., Malleus Scotorum; the English king 
 at Bannockburn was neither conspicuously cruel 
 nor conspicuously able, and Aylmer de Valence 
 may well have sighed for one hour of the First 
 Edward. 
 
 On the theme of Bruce's wanderings Burns in- 
 tended to write a drama, a piece displaying not only 
 royal adventures, but the humours of the people. 
 The rest of Scotch history, so dear to Sir Walter, 
 and so nobly illustrated by him in all its aspects of 
 passion and romance, was apparently all but 
 indifferent to Burns. Ruined castle, ancient chdteau, 
 fairy knoll, kelpie-haunted loch, do not occupy his 
 Muse : he is only concerned with the grotesque and 
 humorous traits in witchcraft, as in " Tarn o' 
 Shanter," or in the domestic magic of " Hallow- 
 een." He who was so learned in Scotch songs cared 
 comparatively little for Scotch ballads. "The old 
 ballad, ' I wish I were where Helen lies,' " he says, 
 "is silly to contemptibility." This is the beauti- 
 ful ballad of " Helen of Kirkconnell Lee. " Yet he 
 
INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 had once begun a ballad collection, of which a 
 few fragments remain. It is difficult to say why 
 the romance and passion of the ballads moved him 
 so little, why he left them to be collected by Scott. 
 His patriotism, in brief, was not nearly so universal 
 as Sir Walter's. 
 
 Thus Burns revived Scotland, if Scott did far 
 more than Burns to bring all Scotland, and all its 
 past, into the light of history and of general 
 knowledge. Burns was a child of the people, 
 of them only he cared much to sing, as a rule, and 
 when he touched on history, he favoured one 
 of the two periods in which the Scotch take a 
 living interest. These are the War of Independence 
 and the struggles of the Covenanters. In both 
 cases the Scotch were struggling to have their own 
 way, and they succeeded in getting it. The Cove- 
 nanters, for obvious reasons, were seldom hymned 
 by Burns ; it is " Scots wha hae " that made him 
 and keeps him the idol of his race. Now about 
 the Covenanters, Scott was rather critical than ab- 
 solutely sympathetic : he no less than Burns, ap- 
 preciated the merits of Bonnie Dundee. On 
 Wallace, he wrote no novel and no poems ; on 
 Bruce, only the comparatively unsuccessful " Lord 
 of the Isles." Therefore, though Malachi Mala- 
 growther was a sturdy scion of the thistle which 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Burns spared in his weeding, though in the 
 games of Sir Walter's childhood 
 
 " Still the Scottish lion onward bore, 
 
 And still the English leopards fled before " 
 
 yet, Sir Walter has never been Burns's rival in 
 popular esteem. He was as frank and genial in 
 private life, he " spoke to every man as if he 
 were his blood relation," he dined and drank 
 with all the yeomen of the Border, but " even 
 when he was fou, he was aye the gentleman." 
 He could not but be of gentle blood, and well 
 aware of it ; so Scott has never equalled, never 
 will equal Burns in the general esteem of Scotch- 
 men. We are a people of one idol, and even Mr. 
 Gladstone will never convince his Glasgow cor- 
 respondent that "the grandeur and power" of 
 Scott's genius "raise him to such an elevation as 
 to leave no room for an adverse claim. " 
 
 While the Scotch, then, worship Burns as with- 
 out an assessor on the throne of their national 
 poetry, it is not very easy for a Scot who does not 
 go so far, who is jealous for the other great Scottish 
 poet, to satisfy his brethren. This little nation, so 
 rich in minor warblers, in charming songs and 
 ballads, has but a pair of great poets, and, to my 
 own mind, makes too little of one, if not in cer- 
 tain ways too much of the other. We cannot think 
 
INTRODUCTION. xix 
 
 too highly of Burns a lyrist unapproached for some *-* 
 great qualities, for passion, for pathos, for energy, \ 
 for simplicity, and as a humourist and Fescennine 
 satirist also without a peer in his own domain. 
 We cannot praise him too much, but, as Mr. 
 Arnold said about Homer, we can praise him 
 *' too like barbarians." If I may employ a Scotch 
 expression, we may "blether" too much about 
 him. There used to be an old debauched hanger- 
 on at one of Burns's haunts, who was wont to 
 introduce himself thus to pious pilgrims, "I'm 
 him that Robbie Burns ca'd a blethering bitch." 
 Many orators, many after-dinner speakers, many 
 writers of letters to the newspapers, resemble this 
 unabashed person. They thrust Burns down our 
 throats, in season and out of season. He is no 
 provincial poet, but they are provincial in an ad- 
 miration which, one suspects, is sometimes affected, 
 and based more on tradition than on a knowledge 
 of the poet's works. These Scots we cannot hope 
 to satisfy ; it is enough if we prevent them from 
 making us dissatisfied with Burns. About that 
 divinity, too, as of old about theology, we are a 
 people each with a rigid orthodoxy of our own. 
 We are as exclusive and tenacious as David Deans 
 in our belief that we, and we alone, are without 
 right-hand backslidings and left-hand fallings-off 
 
xx INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in our devotion to the poet. No critic can 
 hope to satisfy so many sects, all orthodox. For 
 example, there was Mr. Scott Douglas, a recent and 
 most industrious editor of Burns. He was dis- 
 satisfied with M. Taine. It is a truth, though not 
 an important truth, about the poet, that he oc- 
 casionally followed bad and affected models in his 
 English composition. M. Taine ventured to say 
 so ; to say that Burns " laboured to attain a great 
 epistolary style .... he wrote to his lady-loves 
 with choice phrases, full of periods as pedantic as 
 Dr. Johnson's." Then M. Taine quotes : 
 
 " O Clarinda, shall we not meet in a state 
 some yet unknown state of being, where the lavish 
 hand of Plenty shall minister to the highest wish 
 of Benevolence, and where the chill north-wind 
 of Prudence shall never blow over the flowery 
 field of Enjoyment." This is the passage about 
 which Mr. Stevenson remarks, that the sentiments 
 may be those of an Old Hawk (to which Burns 
 compared himself), but the style is the style of a 
 Bird of Paradise. Yet Mr. Scott Douglas was 
 angry with that "very volatile Frenchman," M. 
 Taine, who certainly had a perfect right to criticise 
 the language of the letters to Clarinda. 
 
 Even the Scotch are much divided in their 
 opinions about the character and influence of 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 Burns. His character, his career, are themes 
 from which one is tempted to shrink in terror, so 
 perilous are they. Once I ventured to say 
 Principal Shairp had said it before that I wished 
 we knew no more of Burns's life than of Shake- 
 speare's. It was a vain thing to wish ; we cannot 
 keep his poetry, with its frequent confessions, and 
 be ignorant of his life. But I meant no more than 
 a natural desire to be spared sermons, scandal, 
 tattle about a poet. I care no more to grope after 
 the last gossip about Jean Armour, than to listen 
 to the last " chatter about Harriet." But a critic 
 in " Blackwood's Magazine " assailed me at once. 
 He alleged that I attacked Burns's moral character 
 because I wrote Scotch verses, and knew in my 
 heart that they were not as good as Burns's, and 
 therefore tried to blacken his reputation, as I 
 could not be equalled with him in renown. Having 
 written but two ballades in the Lowland dialect, 
 I can honestly say that these motives of envy and 
 jealousy had escaped my own observation. Mr. 
 Robert Louis Stevenson, who has spoken his 
 mind with perfect candour about Burns's life, was 
 handed over to the tormentors in the same sen- 
 tence as myself. After this amusing example, 
 who can deny that to write about Ranting Roving 
 Robin is a delicate and dangerous affair 1 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It seems to me that Burns's " moral character " 
 was not very complicated, nor difficult to under- 
 stand. The son of a peasant, upright, strict, 
 according to some accounts irascible, Burns was 
 born with passions of extraordinary force into a 
 land as Puritan in principle as the ideal Israel of 
 the Prophets, and as lax in practice as the ideal 
 Florence of Boccaccio. The stool of repentance 
 and the midnight tryst among the rigs of barley 
 were complementary institutions. Burns sometimes 
 found himself occupying the former, sometimes 
 dallying amidst the latter. We see him now 
 "praying under the pressure of violent anguish," 
 now " Amang the rigs wi' Annie." There was 
 nothing extraordinary or perplexing in this con- 
 duct. Man was made to enjoy and to repent. 
 The only extraordinary thing was the unmatched 
 energy of Burns in these exercises, and in his 
 expression of emotions which he shared with the 
 other swains and nymphs of Mauchline or of 
 Lochlea. Sometimes Scotch principle was up- 
 permost in his mind, sometimes Scotch practice. 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night was now passed in 
 devotion, now in revelry. Mr. Shairp has won- 
 dered that he who wrote " The Cotter's Satur- 
 day Night " should also have written " Holy 
 Willy's Prayer "and "The Jolly Beggars." This is 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 merely to marvel at the nature of men, especially 
 of poets. As a matter of historical fact, the 
 manners of rural Scotland were no more strict in 
 some ways than the manners of classic Sicily. The 
 religion, the stern Puritanism, was merely a reac- 
 tion, a violent reaction, in the opposite direction. 
 Discourses from the big Ha' Bible would influence 
 Burns when his pleasure was past ; the lessons of 
 the dancing school, the harvest field, the oppor- 
 tunities of Halloween would be with him at 
 other hours. His beauty, the glow of eyes such 
 as Scott "never saw in any other head," his 
 wonderful magic in conversation, which, as the 
 Duchess of Gordon said, " carried her off her feet," 
 his fame as a poet, his power of conferring immor- 
 tality, gave Burns in his world the same chances as 
 Byron enjoyed in his own. The results were 
 naturally not dissimilar, though Burns's heart was, 
 apparently, far kinder and gentler and more loyal 
 than Byron's ; therefore was his career on the 
 whole less tragical. All was lost but honour, and 
 even the white shield of honour was not all 
 unstained. Till he was twenty-three, Burns says, 
 "Vive f amour et vive la bagatelle were my sole 
 principles of action." We need not describe him 
 more harshly than he described himself. His 
 heart, in the amatory sense, was the merest tinder, 
 
xxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 any pair of eyes were bright enough to set it in a 
 flame. In 1787 he was twenty-eight, and went 
 on a tour in the Border, of which he made a few 
 notes. They are as full of amourettes as the diary 
 of Mr. Samuel Pepys. Every day he meets and 
 describes a pretty girl, sometimes three or four of 
 them. "May 10. Not a bene, the Poet within a 
 point and a half of being damnably in love." 
 There is a bruit about him and a Miss Lindsay. 
 He presents her with "a proof print of my Nob, 
 which she accepted with something more tender 
 than gratitude." Next day, Lady Don is "a divine 
 lady." Three days later, "my Hardship's heart 
 got a brush from Miss Betsey Grieve. " Immediately 
 after he calls on " Heavenly powers, who know 
 the weakness of human hearts," to support his 
 against Miss Ainslie. At Carlisle he makes a 
 tryst with yet another young woman, and gives her 
 a bottle of cider : " she sheers off." All this lime 
 he was entangled with, and though he did not 
 know it, seems to have been married to Miss 
 Armour. His heart, too, had been recently broken 
 by the death of his Highland Mary, to whom 
 he had been solemnly betrothed. What is there 
 to be said of so general and wayward a lover? 
 We can only say that, in these affairs, his character 
 and conduct were perfectly consistent, now with 
 
INTRODUCTION. xx* 
 
 his passions, now with his principles. Most of 
 us may throw the first stone at so egregious a 
 sinner, may set the collies after so incorrigibly 
 wandering a sheep. But most of us have scarcely an 
 idea of Burns's opportunities and temptations, which 
 were quite as rare as his conduct. It is equally 
 easy, and, to different natures, equally tempting, to 
 applaud this genius, or to condemn him : another 
 thing should not be more difficult, namely, to 
 understand him. 
 
 His relations with women, no doubt, are com- 
 plex enough. Though his heart was tinder, it 
 was not cruel ; it got the better of his Don 
 Juanism, and he married Jean Armour, No one, 
 probably, had suffered more than she for his sake, 
 and he made up his mind to endure matrimony, 
 and to make the best of it, for hers. It is rather 
 a dismal business, making the best of it. His wife,, 
 he says, is a "clean-limbed, handsome, bewitch- 
 ing young hussey." 
 
 " Bode a robe and wear it, 
 Bode a poke, and bear it." 
 
 He bore the poke as well as he might. " I car* 
 easily fancy a more agreeable partner for my 
 journey of life ; but, upon my honour, I have never 
 seen the individual instance." Jean had " a 
 native wood note wild," and " a sacred enthusiasm 
 
xxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of affection " for him. He argued that he never 
 could have won an educated woman, who would 
 have " relished his favourite authors," yet would not 
 have plagued him with " blessed boarding-school 
 acquirements. '' ' ' The females of the upper ranks " 
 were out of his reach, " the misses of the would-be 
 gentry " were not to his mind. Had he been free, 
 and had she been free, he might have married 
 Clarinda, who did not find his behaviour satis- 
 factory. But 
 
 " His honour rooted in dishonour stood, 
 And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true." 
 
 His life, he told Clarinda, "damns me with a 
 choice only of different species of error and mis- 
 conduct." 
 
 He felt that he had partly frittered away the 
 power of knowing what married love is, the love 
 of which Odysseus says that 
 
 " There is nothing nobler nor more of might." 
 
 It is not easy for us to say, he could scarcely have 
 said himself, what he felt for Clarinda, what he 
 had felt for Highland Mary. Certainly what he 
 felt for both was not what Jean Armour would 
 have liked him to feel. To him, as perhaps to all 
 but the best and happiest, the Ideal had always to 
 be the Unattained. Meanwhile, in the economy 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxvif 
 
 of the universe, so strangely contrary to our mo- 
 ralities, the end of all his amours was a charm of 
 beautiful songs. Heroes died in war of old, " that 
 there might be a song in the ears of men to come." 
 Women have died in love, too, or have lived in 
 sorrow to this same result, that there might be a 
 song in the ears of folk unborn. For a song 
 Burns sold his life ; all ends in song. This alone 
 lives ! The poet is dead, and dead are the fair 
 ladies and the pretty wenches Miss Lindsay, Miss 
 Ainslie, Miss Grieve, and the girl who drank 
 the bottle of cider, and many another lass, named 
 or unnamed in the chronicle of his heart. The cider 
 is drunk out, the lips that kissed, the hearts that 
 broke, are dust ; only the songs survive : 
 
 " Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake, 
 For Death takes everything away, but these he cannot 
 take." 
 
 It is not for us to condemn Burns, nor to ab- 
 solve his arts as " seeming genial venial faults." 
 He who wrote 
 
 " Is there in human form that bears a heart, 
 A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
 
 That can with studied, sly, unsparing art 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 
 Curse on his perjured arts, dissembling smooth ! 
 Are human virtue, conscience, all exiled t 
 
xxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
 Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild " 
 
 was a man eminent for his intrigues. Mr. 
 Armour's " distraction wild " was proved by his 
 fainting when he heard of the "ruin" of his 
 daughter Jean. The " old hawk," as Burns called 
 himself, was also the denouncer of "studied, sly, 
 unsparing art." He was running after Jean exactly 
 at the time when he was writing about the 
 "Cotter's Saturday Night," its rural virtues and 
 pious exercises. Not by us, but by Burns himself, 
 is he to be judged, and the nature of things con- 
 demned him. About all light love he says 
 
 " But oh ! it hardens a' within 
 And petrifies the feeling." 
 
 Fortunately against his form of a poet's love we 
 can set the immortal passion of Scott, his heart 
 which was two years broken, and then "hand- 
 somely mended," but which, thirty years after all 
 was done, could still be stirred by the memory of the 
 name that he had once carved, in Runic letters, 
 on the turf by the ruined castle-gate in St. 
 Andrews. The heart of Burns, after Highland 
 Mary's death, was, as we have seen, much more 
 rapidly repaired. But, to Scott, his one love was 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxix 
 
 too sacred to be versified upon. In his longer 
 poems and his novels alone that memory moves 
 enchanted and disguised. In " To Mary in 
 Heaven," Burns, after a sleepless night on the 
 banks of the Nith, gave voice to what we may 
 presume to have been his purest and most unalter- 
 able affection. Mary's memory, at least is " like a 
 star," " the lingering star with lessening ray that 
 loves to greet the early morn " and " dwells 
 apart." 
 
 The other feature in Burns's character concerning 
 which there has been dispute and moralizing, is, of 
 course, his attachment to Scottish drink. Little 
 need be said about it. The age was devoted to 
 hard drinking. Burns often complains of the local 
 whiskey, the execrable whiskey of Dumfriesshire. 
 He complains of "the savage hospitality" that 
 knocks a man down with ardent liquors. He 
 satirizes the orgies in his own house after the sale 
 of his year's harvest. Probably he was far from 
 being an intemperate man in the judgment of his 
 age, till many disappointments, failures, sorrows, 
 wore him down. " Even in the hour of social 
 mirth," he writes to Aiken as early as 1786, " my 
 gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal 
 under the hands of the executioner." He wrote 
 Bacchanalian ditties many, as he wrote other ditties, 
 
xxx INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in " The Merry Muses." These were concessions 
 to the taste of his companions. In his last years, 
 perhaps, he may have sought to forget his many 
 miseries in an artificial Paradise. His mistake was 
 the common mistake of his period and country : 
 nothing would have been heard of it had he 
 not been great. 
 
 The indulgence of these passions, or their absence, 
 or the mastery of them, is not the whole of morality. 
 Burns had in the highest measure the masculine 
 virtues. He was kind ; there was nothing he hated 
 like unkindness. Lockhart mentions an old Gallo- 
 way laird and magistrate who was indifferent to 
 poetry, but loved the goodness of heart which 
 Burns showed in his official reports as an excise- 
 man. He was honest, and upright, and generous. 
 If he had been "rich as the sun," he says, he 
 would have been "generous as the day." He 
 lent his brother Gilbert a large proportion of the 
 four or five hundred pounds he made by his 
 poems. For his songs in Thomson's collection 
 he absolutely refused to take money. In song, 
 like that Theocritean Cyclops, he "found more 
 happiness than could be bought by gold," and he 
 would not allow gold to be brought into the 
 sacred place of the Muses. We may regret the 
 scruple, but we must respect it. He honestly 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxi 
 
 laboured to support his family by the work of his 
 hands. Farming was not successful with him, 
 partly for want of capital perhaps, partly because 
 he reasoned, "if miry ridges and dirty dunghills 
 are to engross the better functions of a soul im- 
 mortal, I had better have been a rook or magpie 
 at once." When he took the resolution to become 
 an exciseman, he may not have calculated pru- 
 dently, but he displayed a noble courage in dis- 
 regarding cheap satire and the paper bullets of the 
 brain. The idea of gaining some secure income 
 for his family, 
 
 " To make a happy fireside clime 
 For weans and wife," 
 
 by duties in no way dishonourable, mastered all 
 fear of dependence and all dread of ridicule. 
 
 What should Burns have done? what should 
 have been done for Burns? These are questions 
 often asked, but in practice not to be answered. 
 Probably he would not have allowed anyone to 
 give him a farm free of rent, as the Duke of 
 Buccleuch did to James Hogg. In the copious 
 patronage of the time we cannot but think that a 
 higher office than that of a gauger might have been 
 found for him, had he chanced to be on the domi- 
 nant side in politics. No such post was found. The 
 
xxxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 profession of literature, as we understand it now, as 
 even Hogg found it not unremunerative, scarcely ex- 
 isted, at least in Scotland. Burns could not have 
 been a journalist, or an editor ; probably he never 
 dreamed of being a novelist, or of living by the 
 theatre. To succeed in any of those fields he must 
 have dwelt in England, which he would have found 
 impossible. Burns in London is inconceivable, 
 though London, if he could have endured it, 
 might have proved less fatal to him than 
 Dumfries. 
 
 A/ The religion of Burns was rather a religion of 
 hope than of belief. Brought up among peasant 
 Puritans, and ardently admiring what was beauti- 
 ful in the old Scotch faith, Burns early made the 
 acquaintance of *' The Moderates," the refined, 
 philosophical, and more or less easy-going ministers 
 of his day. The Moderates are often accused of 
 having injured his character by critics who per- 
 haps know very little about their writings and 
 nothing but some traditional stories about their 
 lives. Burns was unfortunate enough to see the 
 Holy Willies of his district, to behold the orgies 
 of their revival meetings and holy fairs. As 
 nothing was more sternly solemn than the one 
 annual sacrament of the Scottish Church, so 
 nothing can have been more deserving of satire 
 
INTROD UCTION. xxxiii 
 
 than the corruptions which Burns describes, if he 
 describes them truly. That was probably what his 
 victims denied. For all we know, Mr. Moodie, 
 who " cleared the points o' faith," may have been 
 as excellent a man as Smith of the "cauld 
 harangues." But Burns was on the other side. 
 The clergy of the straiter sect, the evangelical 
 clergy, had subjected him to ecclesiastical censure 
 a discipline perhaps always inefficient outside of the 
 Church of Rome, and by Burns's time half obsolete 
 and wholly ludicrous. For himself, as he told 
 Mrs. Dunlop, religion was "his dearest enjoy- 
 ment .... an irreligious poet is a monster." 
 He was usually prepared to admit his belief in 
 God and immortality, to grant that Jesus Christ 
 was "from God." 
 
 "A Power from the Unknown God, 
 A Promethean conqueror came." 
 
 As for immortality, in a moment of depression he 
 cries, " Would to God that I as firmly believed it 
 as I ardently wish it ! " In a more flippant humour 
 he observes, " If there be any truth in the orthodox 
 faith of these churches, I am damned past redemp- 
 tion " (which surely is not " the orthodox faith of 
 these churches") .... so I shall e'en turn 
 Arminian, and trust to ' sincere though imperfect 
 
xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 obedience. ' " He had widened the already wide 
 and more or less Arminian creed of his excel- 
 lent father. He believed that religion was neces- 
 sary for goodness and for happiness, and he in- 
 structed his children and the boys about his farm 
 in its doctrines. In brief, he had as much religion 
 as was possible to a man of his genius, passions, 
 ; and circumstances, in the intellectual tempest of 
 his age. 
 
 In religion, as in politics, Burns is well fitted by 
 the motto chosen for him from George Buchanan 
 by his recent editor, Mr. Scott Douglas : 
 
 " Salve, vetustae vitae imago 
 Et specimen venientis ^Evi." 
 
 Much of the old Covenanting Scotland, much of 
 the old Scotland of song, of love, of revel, was in 
 him, much also of Democracy, both in its pride 
 of independent labour and in its unfriendliness to 
 the rich and well-born. " He had always," says 
 his brother Gilbert, "a particular jealousy of 
 people who were richer than himself, or who had 
 more consequence in life." He rails, in a fragment 
 of a diary, against persons who drive in carriages, 
 and splash the Edinburgh mud on him, Robert 
 Burns. They were born to wealth, he was born to 
 genius ; really the one accident is not more unfair 
 
INTRODUCTION'. xxxv 
 
 than the other. But he thought the chance of birth 
 unfair ; he thought that his merit was neglected, 
 being perfectly, though far from inordinately, 
 conscious of his merit. Yet it may be said that 
 Burns received infinitely more kindness from 
 dukes and earls, Glencairns, Athols, and Gordons 
 (as did James Hogg too), from the proud and 
 secure noblesse of his day, than genius like his would 
 now obtain from the very insecure noblesse of our 
 age. 
 
 It is universally acknowledged that among the 
 great, and even among the learned and critical, 
 Burns bore himself with perfect ease and equa- 
 nimity. Probably it was his relations with the 
 local gentry, which began in jollity and ended in 
 strife, that made him so detest their order. In later 
 years, as in the case of Mrs. Riddell, he behaved 
 ill, recanted, behaved worse, and made himself 
 for a time impossible as a guest and intimate. The 
 extreme toils of his laborious boyhood, the spec- 
 tacle of a factor's cruel insolence, and of his father's 
 poverty and sorrow, were much more legitimate 
 causes than any minor social troubles, of his 
 bitterness. Who would not have been em- 
 bittered ? It may be that the doing of a man's 
 work when he was a boy of fifteen injured the 
 health of Burns quite as much as did the excesses of 
 
xxxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 1 his later life. Certainly his democratic mood, his 
 / conviction that " a man's a man for a' that," has 
 ; endeared him as much as any other quality of his, 
 as much as his music, pathos, romance, to the 
 Scotch people. He is their champion, their 
 spokesman, their ideal. It is said to be incon- 
 sistent with his democratic ideas that he was not 
 out of sympathy with Jacobitism, any more than 
 he was out of sympathy with the French Revolu- 
 tion. In truth he was no partisan. " I am not 
 man enough to have any political attachments," 
 he writes, and remarks that he has friends in both 
 parties. He was a poet, and so forlorn causes 
 were dear to him. As to the Stuarts, he saw, and 
 said, that in their time a struggle between prince 
 and people was inevitable. "The Stuarts only 
 contended for prerogatives which they knew their 
 predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their 
 contemporaries enjoying." This is to speak not 
 only in a sober historical spirit, but, as Professor 
 Blackie might say, " like a gentleman." " Let 
 every man who has a tear for the many miseries 
 incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as 
 any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic 
 precedent ; and let every Briton (and particularly 
 every Scotsman) who ever looked on the dotage of 
 a parent cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxvii 
 
 kings of his forefathers." In this letter to the 
 editor of the "Star," Burns is no Jacobite; even 
 his touching and stirring Jacobite songs are not 
 political, unless Macaulay is stamped a Jacobite by 
 the most tender and melancholy of his poems. 
 
 The Muses are maidens, and therefore they 
 lament the dear ruined cause, as they wailed over 
 the pyre of Achilles. 
 
 " Victrix causa deis placuit, sed victa puellis." 
 
 As to his partisanship of the French Revolution, 
 Burns was probably sooner disgusted with that 
 orgie than Wordsworth. In 1792, in a letter 
 to Mrs. Dunlop, he speaks of France as " con- 
 vulsed with every horror that can harrow the 
 human feelings," and when we were threatened 
 with war he wrote the most stirring patriotic 
 songs. In truth, he was not too little, but too\ 
 much of a man to be a party politician. He was 
 on the side of the unhappy, whether they were 
 kings or cotters. To be short, as a man he was 
 passionate indeed, reckless at times, repentant 
 often, a victim of revel and remorse, but he was 
 also kindly, brave, witty, brilliant, upright, gene- 
 rous, pitiful ; and as a friend so tolerant and loyal, 
 that he endured without a sign of ill-temper the 
 jealous envy of the detestable William Nichol. 
 
xxxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 though, in later years, he could not accept the 
 reproofs of that sot and bully. 
 
 In the poetry of Burns, the chief impulses are 
 J love, music, patriotism, satire, pity, and enjoy- 
 ment of nature. His earliest piece, written at 
 about the age of fifteen, begins, " O once I lov'd a 
 bonnie lass," a bonnie lass among whose charming 
 qualities he mentions that "she sang sweetly . . . 
 and it was her favourite reel to which I attempted 
 giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme." As he 
 began, so he went on, and so he ended. The 
 poetic work of his later years was almost entirely 
 song- writing. He was kindled by the eyes of 
 Chloris, or by the golden locks of Anna ; he then 
 mused on an old Scotch tune, perhaps he borrowed 
 a line or a verse of an old Scotch song, and so he 
 beat his music out. His were true lyrics ; they all 
 came singing to him, they were all meant to be 
 sung rather than to be read. Before Burns's day 
 Allan Ramsay had greatly tampered with the words 
 of ancient Scotch popular lyrics tampered with 
 them and substituted his own phrases so much that 
 these songs of old centuries have almost perished. 
 Enough remain to show that the words were 
 often silly and often coarse, yet their disappearance 
 is a thing to be bitterly regretted by students 
 of popular literature It is a mere truism to 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxix 
 
 say that Burns purified his national ditties, and 
 gave us golden words for words of very doubtful 
 metal. Still, the spirit of the antiquarian hankers 
 after even "the veniable part of things lost," in 
 spite of the splendid substitute. It were super- 
 fluous to praise the songs of Burns, the verses with 
 which he began and concluded his poetical career. 
 They fly about the world on the wings of music, 
 and are chanted wherever Scotchmen meet, that 
 is, wherever man can live. Everyone has his own 
 peculiar favourites : the delicate pathos of " Mary 
 Morison," like the natural speech of a heart which . 
 is tender and true ; the more reckless rapture of 
 "The Rigs o' Barley;" the glad and sportive 
 autumnal cadence of "Now westlin' winds and 
 slaught'ring guns ; " the domestic charm of ' ' My 
 Nannie, O." This is a delightful picture of Theo- 
 critean wooing, with the contrast between the 
 dark outward night, 
 
 " where Stinchar flows, 
 'Mang moors and mosses many, O " 
 
 and the warm cottage fireside where the singer 
 goes to meet his love. Mr. Matthew Arnold has 
 remarked that " Burns's world of Scotch drink, 
 Scotch religion, and Scotch manners is often a 
 hard, a sordid, a repulsive world." Yet we may 
 compare this winter love-scene in Ayrshire with 
 
xl INTRODUCTION. 
 
 another in Sicily, and not find the contrast too 
 extreme. 
 
 It is true enough that "this world of Scotch 
 drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners is 
 against a poet." We are certainly not "in Sicily 
 to-day," the religion, the climate, the vin du pay? 
 are very different, but as to the manners, the 
 contrast is rather in favour of the Northern people. 
 At all events, limited as Burns undoubtedly is by 
 his Caledonian circumstances, he has versatility 
 and variety enough. Song can scarcely be gayer 
 than in " Green grow the Rashes, O," nor 
 " pawkier " than in "Indeed will I, quo' Findlay." 
 " Macpherson's Farewell," in an utterly different 
 strain, is worthy of the bold outlaw ; above all, if 
 Burns, and not tradition, produced the chorus : 
 
 " Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
 
 Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
 He played a spring and danced it round, 
 
 Below the gallow's tree." 
 
 Then there is the charming set of songs written 
 to Mrs. Burns after Burns had married her. It 
 really seemed as if he could make the best of it, 
 when he composed for his own wedded wife (a 
 character rarely the subject of a poet's song), 
 
 " O' a' the airts the winds can blaw, 
 I dearly like the west. " 
 
INTRODUCTION. xli 
 
 Tradition gave him the lines which have been com- 
 pared for direct and intense energy to the lyrics of 
 Catullus, 
 
 " Go, fetch to me a pint o* wine, 
 And fill it in a silver tassie " 
 
 but Burns, in his continuation of the piece, scarcely 
 fell below his model. " The Banks o' Boon," in 
 any of its variants, is a little masterpiece, though 
 we may prefer the second version to the trailing 
 redundancies which music was supposed to demand 
 in the third. The " Parting Song to Clarinda " 
 contains perhaps the most passionate verse even in 
 Burns 's poetry, "the essence of a thousand love- 
 tales," said Scott : 
 
 " Had we never loved sac kindly, 
 Had we never loved sac blindly, 
 Never met or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 There is a gallant and chivalrous accent in 
 
 " O saw ye bonnie Leslie, 
 As she gaed o'er the Border ? " 
 
 and while Scotland stands, Scotch sentiment will 
 never forget 
 
 "Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 The Castle o' Montgomery ; " 
 
 a piece so much akin to the antique manner that 
 it relies on assonance, not on rhyme. Probably to 
 
xlii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Burns, not to tradition, we owe the lines so highly 
 praised by Mr. Carlyle : 
 
 "The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
 And Time is setting with me, O," 
 
 though about the real authorship there is no cer- 
 tainty. The famous "Scots wha hae" has cer- 
 tainly not wanted its meed of applause ; perhaps 
 it is difficult quite to estimate words so excessively 
 familiar to the ear of every Scot. Burns's mis- 
 apprehension about Edward I. has already been 
 remarked on. It does not seem absolutely certain 
 that Burns wrote the words which Scott repeated 
 among the ruins of Italy, 
 
 "It's up yon heathery mountain, 
 
 An' down yon rocky glen, 
 We daur na gang a-milking 
 
 For Charlie and his men." 
 
 But Mr. Scott Douglas has made out an almost 
 perfect plea for Burns's authorship of that most 
 beautiful Jacobite lay, 
 
 "It was a* for our rightfu' king, 
 We left fair Scotland's strand." 
 
 It was a great favourite of Sir Walter's, who liked 
 to hear it sung from the pages of Johnson, to whom 
 Burns sent it. The gallant lines which Sir Walter 
 introduced into " Rokeby," 
 
 " He turned him right and round about, 
 Upon the Irish shore," 
 
INTRODUCTION. xliii 
 
 occur in a stall-ballad, clearly an interpolation 
 there. Sir Walter thought they were old ; Mr. 
 Scott Douglas "has no doubt that the broadside 
 referred to was printed after 1796." But the 
 grounds of his confidence are not given, and I 
 myself venture to agree with Sir Walter. It is a 
 matter of conjecture, but to me that verse does not 
 read like Burns's work. 
 
 These are but gems, noted for one dominant 
 quality or another, in the great treasure of Burns's 
 lyrics. There are also plenty of frivolous and un- 
 important songs, hastily turned out to fit the tune, 
 but these do not diminish the pathos of "John 
 Anderson," nor the quiet fun of "Duncan Gray 
 cam' here to woo," nor the rather fatuous gaiety of 
 "Ye Mauchline Belles." Perhaps, in the world, 
 and in the poetry of all peoples, there is nothing, 
 unless it be the somewhat analogous poetry of 
 Beranger, to match with the songs of Burns. Both 
 are absolutely of the people and for the people, 
 both show a patriotism which some may deem 
 exuberant. But even an exuberant patriotism is 
 better than a rooted belief that love of native land, 
 and pride in it, are identical with the worship of^ 
 the great god Jingo. It is of little service to com- 
 pare Burns to Horace ; two lyrists could hardly be 
 more dissimilar. Burns has passion ; Horace had 
 
xliv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 or displayed none. Horace followed Greek models ; 
 Burns went in the path of the old Scotch Cas- 
 menae. Horace was a courtier, and the most 
 t gracefully artificial of artists ; Burns was pre- 
 , eminently a rustic, and his art was of the sort that 
 1 conceals itself, being utterly spontaneous, simple, 
 direct, though not disdainful of labour, and guided 
 by a natural excellence of taste. Among classical " 
 authors, Burns resembles Catullus in amorous 
 passion, in shame, repentance, in satiric indigna- 
 tion, in love of home and the beautiful countiy 
 where he was born. His rural pictures, "Tarn 
 o' Shanter " and " Halloween," may be compared 
 to the best idylls of Theocritus in everything but 
 that perfect beauty only attainable by a Greek, 
 only possible in the light and air of classical land- 
 scape. Burns probably knew Theocritus, or divined 
 him, as he knew Homer and Virgil, through trans- 
 lations. But it was not to the Syracusan example 
 that he owed his habit of drawing rural life as it 
 really was ; his exemplars, as he always acknow- 
 ledged, were Fergusson and Allan Ramsay. His 
 generous devotion to the memory and fair renown 
 of the short-lived and unfortunate Fergusson is al- 
 ways breaking out in his verse, as in his erection of 
 a monument over the poet's grave. He, the master, 
 regarded himself as the disciple, and it is no doubt 
 
INTRODUCTION. xlv 
 
 true that his favourite measure was borrowed from 
 Ramsay and Fergusson, while Fergusson's picture 
 of a cottage home, his sketches of Edinburgh life* 
 may have suggested to Burns his first essays in 
 similar fields. The young St. Andrews student, 
 who died, sane as it seems, in a madhouse, had 
 humour, had a singular veracity in description, but 
 of Burns's passion, of his ardour, of his intimate 
 sense of nature, Fergusson had scarcely a trace. 
 There are no love poems in his only valuable verses, 
 those written in Scotch. His English imitations 
 are beneath notice, and immeasurably beneath the 
 least successful efforts of Burns in the Southern 
 tongue. There was a Scotch quality which Burns 
 did not possess. He knew his worth, but he was 
 as devoid of conceit as of literary jealousy. Scott, 
 who when a boy saw him once, says, "I thought 
 his acquaintance with English poetry was rather 
 limited, and also that, having twenty times the 
 abilities of Allan Ramsay and of Fergusson, he 
 talked of them with too much humility as his 
 models. There was, doubtless, national predilection 
 in his estimate." 
 
 They were his models, in a way ; the idea of 
 designing such pictures as "Halloween," "The 
 Cotter's Saturday Night," and "Tarn o' Shanter," 
 the idea of a dialogue between " The Brigs o' Ayr,*' 
 
xlvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was derived from Fergusson. But, with all respect 
 for the memory of Fergusson, he gave the example 
 and the impulse, but little more. Fergusson's 
 "Farmer's Ingle," indeed, may perhaps even be 
 preferred, for veracity and absence of self-con- 
 sciousness, to the more famous " Cotter's Saturday 
 Night," which has eclipsed without excelling it. 
 Fergusson was but twenty-four when he died ; 
 what he might have achieved is unknown. But 
 he gave little promise of equalling Burns's extra- 
 ordinary vigour, his wealth of invention and im- 
 agination, his kindliness, his humour, his energy 
 of satire. It is superfluous to dwell on these 
 merits : on the unequalled daring and prodigal 
 genius of " The Jolly Beggars ; " the wisdom and 
 wit of the "Twa Dogs," and of the "Epistle to 
 Davie ;" on "Tarn o' Shanter," the brief epic of 
 Scotch diablerie ; on Burns's many examples of all 
 that one admires in Cuddie Headrigg, Edie Ochil- 
 tree, and all Scott's throng of peasant characters. 
 Inimitable, and unimitated, are the humorous pity 
 and kindness of the " Farmer's Good Year to his 
 Auld Mare," and the verses on the Mouse and the 
 Daisy. Burns is, beyond all possibility of rivalry, 
 the greatest of all truly popular poets. 
 
 Other nations, like the Irish, have lost much, if 
 not all of their popular poetry, through modern 
 
INTRODUCTION. xlvii 
 
 education, schools, the clergy, and the newspapers. 
 Burns, appearing at the nick of time, preserved all 
 that was best of the popular poetry except the 
 ballads, in forms which are at once truly popular 
 and immortal as literature. As Lockhart observes, 
 he revived the Scottish nationality, which was 
 falling asleep in the graves of the Stuarts. The 
 rest was done by Scott. 
 
 I had written this, trusting rather heedlessly to 
 Lockhart's authority, when I was warned that, after 
 all, Scotch nationality was by no means extinct in 
 Burns's time, that the embers were still aglow. 
 "Strange as it may now appear," writes an excellent 
 authority, " I am inclined to think that the publi- 
 cation of Ossian, immediately before Burns, did 
 more to exalt the national feeling of Scotland, and 
 to diffuse its fame, than Burns's Poems, though 
 Ossian has vanished like a comet, and Burns is an 
 everlasting star." And, on reflection, this is obvi- 
 ously true. The pious three-quarters fraud of 
 Macpherson did really revive, or was the occasion 
 for a revival of Scotch national pride. Ossian 
 carried the name and fame of Scotland abroad to 
 France ; we know that Napoleon liked " Ocean," 
 as he spelled the word ; we do not know that he 
 ever heard of Burns. A glance at Boswell's " Life 
 of Dr. Johnson" is enough to show how Ossian 
 d 
 
xlviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 stirred Scotch pride and sentiment : how the learned 
 Scots stood up to the Doctor in favour of Coila's 
 bard, and the "Tour in Scotland " is full of examples 
 both of national spirit and of national conceit. 
 Young Fergusson, in particular, wrote an amusing 
 poem, in which he describes the appallingly national 
 dinner which he would have ordered for Dr. Johnson 
 at St. Andrews. " There is," my critic, or rather 
 Lockhart's critic, goes on, "as much genuine 
 national feeling in * Humphrey Clinker,' and in 
 Smollett's 'Tears of Scotland,' as in Burns. 
 And there was a more genuine love of Scotch 
 melody and scotch songs between the ages of 
 Ramsay and Burns, than there has ever been since, 
 much more than there is now. " One has only to 
 mention Mrs. Cockburn's " Flowers o' the Forest " 
 to prove this, and Fergusson need not have cried, 
 
 " O Scotland, that could yence afford 
 To bang the pith of Roman sword, 
 Winna your sons, wi' joint accord 
 
 To battle speed ? 
 And fight till Music be restored 
 
 Which now lies dead." 
 
 Scotch music was lively enough, and, even without 
 Burns, Thomson would have published the Scotch 
 songs. My critic continues, "I read a beautiful 
 anecdote somewhere, (I cannot remember the 
 place), which I may have mentioned to you. A 
 
INTRODUCTION. xlix 
 
 Whig gentleman who had gone to Rome shortly 
 after 1715 went to sup with some Jacobite exiles. 
 After supper, a lady was asked to sing a Scots 
 song ; she sang "The Broom of Cowden Knowes," 
 and when the Whig gentleman looked up and 
 round, he saw that all the company were in tears." 
 
 No doubt Scotch sentiment was not dead, in any 
 rank, nor dying. We must qualify Lockhart's 
 remarks, and say that Burns did not revive it from 
 the tomb, but merely gave it new force, especially 
 among the people who knew not Ossian, neither 
 regarded Smollett. But the purely popular writings 
 of Fergusson, though they never attained the circu- 
 lation which they deserved, prove that the people, 
 too, was patriotic. 
 
 The profession of the critic is plied in constant 
 disregard of the warning, "judge not, that ye be 
 not judged." And, when all is said, little remains 
 but a sense of injustice in all judgments passed on 
 Burns. We wish him to have been this, and not 
 that, to have been himself, and not himself. In 
 the mystery of character and genius, in the double 
 operation of the one flame which glows in a man's 
 poetry, and in his personal existence, one cannot 
 seriously pretend to divide and discern, to demand 
 of the fire that it shall burn where it listeth here, 
 and not there. Wordsworth says of Bums, * * It is 
 
1 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 probable that he would have proved a still greater 
 poet, if, by strength of reason, he could have con- 
 trolled the propensities which his sensibilities en- 
 gendered ; but he would have been a poet of a 
 different class ; and certain it is, had that desirable 
 restraint been early established, many peculiar 
 beauties which enrich his verses could never have 
 existed, and many necessary influences, which 
 contribute greatly to their effect, would have been 
 wanting." In this temperate wisdom, we really 
 have the last word on the character and genius of 
 Burns. 
 
POEMS. 
 THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
 That bears the name o' auld king COIL, 
 Upon a bonie day in June, 
 When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
 Two, dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 
 Forgather'd ance upon a time. 
 
 The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ccssar> 
 Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure : 
 His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
 Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
 But whalpet some place far abroad, 
 Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod. 
 
 His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
 Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
 But tho' he was o' high degree, 
 The fient a pride nae pride had he ; 
 
 6 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 But wad hae spent an hour caressan, 
 Ev'n wi' a Tinkler-gipsey's messan. 
 At Kirk or Market, Mill or Smiddie, 
 Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
 But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
 An' stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 
 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
 A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
 Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 
 An' 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 dike. 
 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
 Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 
 His breast was white, his towzie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
 Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
 An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
 Wi' social nose whyles snuff d and snowket ; 
 Whyles mice and moudewurts they howket ; 
 Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
 An 1 worry'd ither in diversion ; 
 [Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Upon a knowe they sat them down,] 
 An' there began a lang digression 
 About the lords o* the creation. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
 What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
 An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
 What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 
 
 Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
 His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents : 
 He rises when he likes himsel ; 
 His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
 He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ; 
 He draws a bonie, silken purse 
 As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks, 
 The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 
 
 Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling , 
 An' tho' the gentry first are steghan, 
 Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan, 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie, 
 That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
 Our Whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
 Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
 Better than ony Tenant man 
 His Honor has in a' the Ian : 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 An' what poor Cot-folk pit their painch in, 
 I own it's past my comprehension. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh : 
 A cotter howkan in a sheugh, 
 Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
 Baran a quarry, and sic like, 
 Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A smytrie o' wee, duddie weans, 
 An' nought but his han' durk, to keep 
 Them right an' tight in thack an' raep. 
 
 An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
 Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
 An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger 
 But, how it comes, I never kend yet, 
 They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
 An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 CLESAR. 
 
 But then, to see how ye're neglekit, 
 Plow hufFd, an' cufFd, an' disrespekit ! 
 Lord, man, our gentry care as little 
 For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
 As I wad by a stinkan brock. 
 
 I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
 An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
 Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
 How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
 He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
 He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
 While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
 An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 
 
 I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
 But surely poor-folk maun be wretches. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They're no sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
 Tho' constantly on poortith's brink, 
 They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
 The view o't gies them little fright. 
 
 Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
 They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
 An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 
 
 The deadest comfort o' their lives, 
 Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The prattling things are just their pride, 
 That sweetens a' their fireside. 
 
 An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappy 
 Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
 They lay aside their private cares, 
 To mind the Kirk and State affairs ; 
 They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, 
 Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts, 
 Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
 An' ferlie at the folk in LON'ON. 
 
 As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
 They get the jovial, rantan kirns, 
 When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
 Unite in common recreation ; 
 Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
 Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 
 
 That merry day the year begins, 
 They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
 The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
 An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
 The luntan pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
 The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse, 
 The young anes ranting thro' the house, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
 That I for joy hae barket wi' them. 
 
 Still its owre true that ye hae said, 
 Sic game is now owre aften play'd ; 
 There's monie a creditable stock 
 O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
 Are riven out baith root an' branch, 
 Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
 In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
 Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin, 
 For Britain's guid his saul indentin 
 
 CAESAR. 
 
 Haith lad ye little ken about it ; 
 For Britain 's guid! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
 Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him, 
 An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
 At Operas an' Plays parading, 
 Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
 Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
 To HAGUE or CALAIS taks a waft. 
 To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
 To learn bon ton an' see the worl'. 
 
 There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
 He rives his father's auld entails ; 
 
8 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Or by MADRID he taks the rout, 
 
 To thrum guittars, an' fecht wi' nowt ; 
 
 Or down Italian vista startles, 
 
 Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles : 
 
 Then bouses drumly German-water, 
 
 To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
 
 [An 5 clear the consequential sorrows, 
 
 Love gifts of carnival signoras.] 
 
 For Britain's guid! for her destruction ! 
 
 Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction ' 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
 They waste sae mony a braw estate ? 
 Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
 For gear to gang that gate at last ? 
 
 O would they stay aback frae courts, 
 An' please themsels wi' countra sports, 
 It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
 The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter I 
 For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies, 
 Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
 Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
 Or speaking lightly o' their Limmer, 
 Or shootin o' a hare, or moorcock, 
 The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But will ye tell me, Master Casar, 
 Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
 Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
 The vera thought o't need na fear them. 
 
 CAESAR. 
 
 Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am, 
 The gentles ye wad neer envy 'em. 
 
 It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
 Thro' Winter's cauld, or Simmer's heat ; 
 They've nae sair-wark to craze their banes : 
 An' fill auld-age wi' grips an' granes : 
 But human-bodies are sic fools, 
 For a' their colledges and schools, 
 That when nae real ills perplex them, 
 They mak enow themsels to vex them ; 
 An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
 In like proportion, less will hurt them. 
 
 A country fellow at the pleugh, 
 His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
 A country girl at her wheel, 
 Her dizzerfs done, she's unco weel : 
 But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
 Wi' ev'n down want c? wark are curst. 
 They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
 Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
 
io SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless, 
 Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
 
 An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, 
 Their galloping thro' public places, 
 There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art, 
 The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
 
 The men cast out in party-matches, 
 Then sowther a' in deep debauches. 
 Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
 Niest day their life is past enduring. 
 The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
 As great an' gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
 They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
 Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, 
 They sip the scandal- potion pretty ; 
 Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbet leuks, 
 Pore ower the devil's pictured beuks ; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, 
 An' cheat like ony unhang 1 d blackguard. 
 
 There's some exceptions, man an' woman , 
 But this is Gentry's life in common. 
 
 By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
 An' darker gloamin brought the night : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. II 
 
 The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
 The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
 When up they gat, an' shook their lugs, 
 Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
 An 5 each took aff his several way, 
 Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 
 
 SCOTCH DRINK. 
 
 Gie hint strong drink, until he wink, 
 
 That's sinking in despair; 
 An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 
 
 That's prest tut grief an' care; 
 There let hint bouse, ari deep carouse, 
 
 Wf bumpers flowing o'er, 
 Till he forgets his loves or debts, 
 
 An' minds his grief s no more. 
 
 SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6, 7. 
 
 LET other Poets raise a fracas 
 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' druken Bacchus, 
 An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 
 
 An' grate our lug, 
 
 I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, 
 In glass or jug. 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 O thou, my MUSE ! guid, auld SCOTCH DRINK, 
 Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, 
 Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 
 
 In glorious faem, 
 Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, 
 
 To sing thy name ! 
 
 Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, 
 An' Aits set up their awnie horn, 
 An' Pease an' Beans, et een or morn, 
 
 Perfume the plain, 
 Leeze me on \htQjohn Barley 'corn, 
 
 Thou king o' grain ! 
 
 On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
 In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
 Or tumblin in the boiling flood ! 
 
 Wi' kail an' beef ; 
 But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 
 
 There thou shines chief. 
 
 Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
 Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
 When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin ; 
 
 But oil'd by thee, 
 The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 
 
 Wi' rattlin glee. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 13 
 
 Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
 Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care ; 
 Thou strings the nerves o' Labor-sair, 
 
 At 's weary toil ; 
 Thou even brightens dark Despair 
 
 Wi' gloomy smile. 
 
 Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
 Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
 Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 
 
 The poor man's wine, 
 His wee drap pirratch, or his bread, 
 
 Thou kitchens fine. 
 
 Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
 
 But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
 
 Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 
 
 By thee inspir'd, 
 When gaping they besiege the tents, 
 
 Are doubly fir'd. 
 
 That merry night we get the corn in ! 
 O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in ! 
 Or reekan on a New-Year-mornin 
 
 In cog or bicker, 
 An' just a wee drap spiritual burn in, 
 
 An' gusty sucker ! 
 
I 4 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 When Vulcan gies his bellys breath, 
 An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
 O rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 
 
 I' th' lugget caup ! 
 Then Burnewin comes on like Death 
 
 At ev'ry chap. 
 
 Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
 The brawnie, banie, ploughman-chiel, 
 Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 
 
 The strong forehammer, 
 Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 
 
 Wi' dinsome clamour. 
 
 When skirlin weanies see the light, 
 Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
 How fumblin' coofs their dearies slight, 
 
 Wae worth them for't ! 
 While healths gae round to him wha, tight, 
 
 Gies famous sport. 
 
 When neebors anger at a plea, 
 An' just as wud as wud can be, 
 How easy can the barky-brie 
 
 Cement the quarrel ! 
 It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee, 
 
 To taste the barrel. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 15 
 
 Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
 To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
 But monie daily weet their weason 
 
 Wi' liquors nice, 
 An' hardly, in a winter's season, 
 
 E'er spier her price. 
 
 Wae worth that Brandy, burnan trash ! 
 Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
 Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, 
 
 O' half his days ; 
 An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
 
 To her warst faes. 
 
 Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
 Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
 Poor plackless devils like mysel 
 
 It sets you ill, 
 Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 
 
 Or foreign gill. 
 
 May Gravels round his blather wrench, 
 An' Gouts torment him, inch by inch, 
 Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 
 
 O' sour disdain, 
 Out owre a glass o' Whisky-punch 
 
 Wi' honest men ! 
 
16 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
 Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
 When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
 
 Are my poor Verses ! 
 Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 
 
 At ither's arses ! 
 
 Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
 Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! 
 Now collie-grips, an barkin hoast, 
 
 May kill us a' ; 
 For loyal Forbes' Chartered boast 
 
 Is ta'en awa ! 
 
 Thac curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
 Wha mak the Whisky stells their prize ! 
 Haud up thy han' Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 
 
 There, seize the blinkers ! 
 An' bake them up in brunstane pies 
 
 For poor damn'd drinkers. 
 
 Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
 Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, 
 An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 
 
 Tak' a' the rest, 
 An' deal't about as thy blind skill 
 
 Directs thee best. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 17 
 
 THE HOLY FAIR. 
 
 UPON a simmer Sunday morn, 
 When Nature's face is fair, 
 I walked forth to view the corn, 
 
 An' snuff the callor air. 
 The risin' sun, owre GALSTON Muirs, 
 
 Wi' glorious light was glintan ; 
 The hares were hirplan down the furrs, 
 The lav'rocks they were chantan 
 
 Fu' sweet that day. 
 
 As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 
 
 To see a scene sae gay, 
 Three hizzies, early at the road, 
 
 Cam skelpan up the way. 
 Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 
 
 But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
 The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 
 
 Was in the fashion shining 
 
 Fu' gay that day. 
 
 The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 
 In feature, form, an' claes ; 
 C 
 
1 8 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, 
 
 An' sour as ony slaes : 
 The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 
 
 As light as ony lambie, 
 An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 
 
 As soon as e'er she saw me, 
 
 Fu' kind that day. 
 
 Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, 
 
 I think ye seem to ken me ; 
 I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, 
 
 But yet I canna name ye." 
 Quo' she, an' laughan as she spak, 
 
 An' taks me by the han's, 
 " Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 
 
 Of a' the ten commands 
 
 A screed some day. 
 
 " My name is FUN your cronie dear, 
 
 The nearest friend ye hae ; 
 An' this is SUPERSTITION here, 
 
 An' that's HYPOCRISY. 
 I'm gaun to * * * holy fair, 
 
 To spend an hour in daffin : 
 Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 
 
 We will get famous laughin 
 
 At them this day." 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 19 
 
 Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 
 
 I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
 An' meet you on the holy spot ; 
 
 Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin ! " 
 Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 
 
 An' soon I made me ready ; 
 For roads were clad, frae side to side, 
 
 Wi' monie a wearie bodie, 
 
 In droves that day. 
 
 Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith, 
 
 Gaed hoddan by their cotters ; 
 There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 
 
 Are springan owre the gutters. 
 The lasses, skelpan barefit, thrang, 
 
 In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
 Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 
 
 Au'farls, bak'd wi' butter, 
 
 Fu' crump that day. 
 
 When by the plate we set our nose, 
 
 Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
 A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, 
 
 An' we maun draw our tippence. 
 Then in we go to see the show, 
 
 On ev'ry side they're gath'ran, 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Some carryin dails, some chairs an* stools, 
 An' some are busy bleth'rin 
 
 Right loud that day. 
 
 Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 
 
 An' screen our countra Gentry ; 
 There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 
 
 Are blinkin at the entry. 
 Here- sits a raw o' tittlin jads, 
 
 Wi' heaving breasts an' bare neck, 
 An' there, a batch o' Wabster lads, 
 
 Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
 
 For fun this any. 
 
 Here, some are thinkan on their sins, 
 
 An' some upo' their claes ; 
 Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 
 
 Anither sighs an' prays : 
 On this hand sits an Elect swatch, 
 
 Wi' screw'd-up, grace-proud faces ; 
 On that, a set o' chaps, at watch, 
 
 Thrang winkan on the lasses 
 
 To chairs that day. 
 
 O happy is that man, an' blest ! 
 
 Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
 Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 
 
 Comes clinkan down beside him ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 21 
 
 Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 
 
 He sweetly does compose him ; 
 Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 
 
 An's loof upon her bosom 
 
 Unkend that day. 
 
 Now a' the congregation o'er 
 
 In silent expectation ; 
 For M * * * speels the holy door, 
 
 Wi' tidings o' salvation. 
 Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 
 
 'Mang sons o' G present him, 
 The vera sight o' M * * * face, 
 
 To's ain het hame had sent him 
 
 Wi' fright that day. 
 
 Hear how he clears the points o' Faith 
 
 Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
 Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 
 
 He's stampan an' he's jumpan ! 
 His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, 
 
 His eldritch squeel an' gestures, 
 O how they fire the heart devout, 
 
 Like cantharidian plasters, 
 
 On sic a day ! 
 
 But, hark ! the tent has chang'd it's voice ; 
 There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 For a' the real judges rise, 
 
 They canna sit for anger, 
 * * * opens out his cauld harangues, 
 
 On practice and on morals ; 
 An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 
 
 To gie the jars an' barrels 
 
 A lift that day. 
 
 What signifies his barren shine 
 
 Of moral powers an' reason ? 
 His English style, an' gesture fine, 
 
 Are a' clean out o' season. 
 Like SOCRATES or ANTONINE, 
 
 Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
 The moral man he does define, 
 
 But ne'er a word o' faith in 
 
 That's right that day. 
 
 In guid time comes an antidote 
 
 Against sic pooson'd nostrum ; 
 For * * * , frae the water-fit, 
 
 Ascends the holy rostrum : 
 See, up he's got the word o' God 
 
 An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
 While COMMON-SENSE has ta'en the road, 
 
 An' aff, an' up the Cowgate 
 
 Fast, fast, that day. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 23 
 
 Wee * * * , neist, the Guard relieves, 
 
 An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
 Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 
 
 An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
 But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 
 
 So, cannilie he hums them ; 
 Altho' his carnal Wit an' Sense 
 
 Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him 
 
 At times that day. 
 
 Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 
 
 Wi' yill-caup Commentators : 
 Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, 
 
 An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; 
 While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 
 
 Wi' Logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
 They raise a din, that in the end 
 
 Is like to breed a rupture 
 
 O' wrath that day. 
 
 Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 
 Than either School or College : 
 
 It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, 
 It pangs us fou o' Knowledge. 
 
 Be't whisky-gill, or penny-wheep^ 
 Or ony stronger potion, 
 
24 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 It never fails, on drinkin' deep, 
 To kittle up our notion 
 
 By night or day. 
 
 The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 
 
 To mind baith saul an' body, 
 Sit round the table, weel content, 
 
 An' steer about the toddy. 
 On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leul 
 
 They're makin' observations ; 
 While some are cozie i' the neuk, 
 
 An' formin assignations 
 
 To meet some day. 
 
 But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 
 
 Till a' the hills are rairan, 
 An' echoes back return the shouts ; 
 
 Black * * * is na spairan : 
 His piercing words, like Highlan swords. 
 
 Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
 His talk of Hell, whare devils dwell, 
 
 Our vera " Sauls does harrow" 
 
 Wi' fright that day ! 
 
 A vast, unbottom'd boundless Pit, 
 Fill'd fou of lowan brunstane, 
 
 Whase ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, 
 Wad melt the hardest whun-stane, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 25 
 
 The half-asleep start up wi' fear, 
 
 An' think they hear it roaran, 
 When presently it does appear, 
 
 'Twas but some neebor snoran 
 
 Asleep that day. 
 
 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 
 
 How monie stones past, 
 An' how they crowded to the yill, 
 
 When they were a' dismist : 
 How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 
 
 Amang the furms and benches ; 
 An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 
 
 Was dealt about in lunches, 
 
 An' dawds that day. 
 
 In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 
 
 An' sits down by the fire, 
 Syne draws her keblwck an' her knife ; 
 
 The lasses they are shyer. 
 The auld Guidmen t about the grace, 
 
 Frae side to side they bother, 
 Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 
 
 An' pies them't like a tether, 
 
 Fu' lang that day. 
 
 Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 
 Or lasses that hae naething ! 
 
26 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Sma' need has he to say a grace, 
 Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
 
 O Wives , be mindfu', ance yoursel 
 How bonie lads ye wanted, 
 
 An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 
 Let lasses be affronted 
 
 On sic a day ! 
 
 Now Ciinkumbell, wi' rattlan tow, 
 
 Begins to jow an' croon ; 
 Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 
 
 Some wait the afternoon. 
 At slaps the billies halt a blink, 
 
 Till lasses strip their shoon : 
 W faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 
 
 They're a' in famous tune 
 
 For crack that day. 
 
 How monie hearts this day converts 
 
 O' sinners and o' Lasses ! 
 Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 
 
 As saft as ony flesh is. 
 There's some are fou o' love divine, 
 
 There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
 An' monie jobs that day begin, 
 
 May end in Houghmagandie 
 
 Some ither day. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 27 
 
 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 scul 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 ; 
 
28 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 When B * * * befriends his humble name 
 And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame, 
 With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, 
 The god-like 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 
 Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
 The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer-toils, 
 Unnumber'd buds and 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 thund'ring 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 morn precede the sunny days, 
 Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noontide blaze, 
 While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 29, 
 
 'Tvvas 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 rout, 
 
 And down by Simpson's 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 wandered out he knew not where nor why :) 
 
 The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two, 
 
 And Wallace-Tout r had sworn the fact was true : 
 
 The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen-sounding roar, 
 
 Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore i ) / 
 
 All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee ; 
 
 The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 
 
 The chilly Frost, beneath the silver beam, 
 
 Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream. 
 
 When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
 The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
 Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
 Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare ; 
 Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
 The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
 Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
 The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
 
30 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 (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 ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them. ) 
 
 Auld rig appeared o' ancient Pictish race, 
 
 The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
 
 He seem'd as he wi' time had warstl'd lang, 
 
 Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
 
 New Brig was buskit in a braw, new coat, 
 
 That he, at Lon'on, from ane Adams got ; 
 
 In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
 
 Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head. 
 
 The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 
 
 Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
 
 It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
 
 And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
 
 Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
 
 He, down the water, gies him this guid-een 
 
 AULD BRIG. 
 
 I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
 Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank ! 
 But gin ye be a Brig as auld as me, 
 Tho', feith, that date, I doubt, ye'll never see ; 
 There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
 Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 31 
 
 NEW BRIG. 
 
 Auld Vandal, ye but shew 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 of stane and lime, 
 Compare wi' bonie Brigs o' modern time ? 
 There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream^ 
 Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
 Ere 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 
 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 Carpal draws his feeble source, 
 Arous'd by blustering winds an' spotting thowes, 
 In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
 
32 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat 
 Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
 And from Glenbuck, down to the Ration-key, 
 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, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 33 
 
 Or Cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, 
 That sullen gloom was Sterling true devotion ; 
 Fancies that our guid Burgh denies protection, 
 And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 
 
 AULD BRIG. 
 
 O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealins, 
 Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
 Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
 Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
 Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, 
 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 gae 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, agonizing, 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, 
 D 
 
34 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
 Men, three-parts made by Taylors and by Barbers, 
 Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damned new Brigs 
 and Harbours I 
 
 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 have 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 an' raisins, 
 Or gather' d lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
 If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
 Had shor'd them wi' 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 clishmaclaver might been said, 
 What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 35 
 
 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. 
 
 O had AFLauchlan, 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 raptur'd 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 guest 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, 
 
36 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
 
 A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
 
 Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 
 
 From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
 
 Last, white -rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazle wreath, 
 
 To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
 
 The broken, iron instruments of Death : 
 
 At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 37 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
 
 "O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pcwtrs, 
 That led tk' embattled Seraphim to war" 
 
 MILTON 
 
 OTHOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
 Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 
 
 Clos'd under hatches, 
 Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 
 
 To scaud poor wretches ! 
 
 Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
 An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
 
 Ev'n to a deil, 
 To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 
 
 An' hear us squeel ! 
 
 Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
 Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
 An' tho' yon lowan heugtts thy hame, 
 
 Thou travels far ; 
 An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur. 
 

 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Whyles, rangin like a roaran lion 
 For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
 Whyles, on the strong-wing'd Tempest flyin, 
 
 Tirlan the kirks ; 
 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 
 
 Unseen thou lurks. 
 
 I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
 In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
 Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray, 
 
 Nod to the moon, 
 Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 
 
 Wi' eldritch croon. 
 
 To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman ! 
 Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bumman 
 
 When twilight did my graunie summon, 
 
 ' /iu* 
 
 in r 
 
 Wi' eerie drone ; 
 
 Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, 
 Wi' heavy groan. 
 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
 
 The stars shot down wi' sklentan light, 
 
 Wi' you, mysely I gat a fright, 
 
 Ayont the lough ; 
 Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 
 
 Wi' waving sugh. fuV* 
 * 
 
ROBERT -BURNS. 39 
 
 , 
 
 - 
 
 I 
 
 The cudgel in my nieye did shake, 
 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
 When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick, 
 
 Amang the springs, 
 Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, 
 
 On whistling wings. 
 
 Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd Hags, 
 Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
 They skim the muirs an dizzy crags, 
 
 Wi' wicked speed ; 
 And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 
 
 Owre howkit dead. 
 
 Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
 May plunge an' plunge the kiry in vain ; 
 For, Oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 
 
 By witching skill ; 
 An' dawtet, twal-pint Hawkins gain 
 
 As yell's the Bill. 
 
 Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse, 
 
 On Young- Guidmen, fond, keen, an' croose ; * 
 
 When the best wark-lume i' the house, 
 
 By cantraip wit, * '* 
 Is instant made no worth a louse, 
 
 Just at the bit. 
 
40 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 When thawes disolve the snawy hoord, 
 An' float the jinglan icy-boord, 
 Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 
 
 By your direction, 
 An' nighted Travelers are allur'd 
 
 To their destruction. 
 
 
 
 An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
 Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
 The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies 
 
 Delude his eyes, 
 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
 
 Ne'er mair to rise. 
 
 When MASONS' mystic word an' grip, 
 In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 
 
 Or, strange to tell ! 
 The youngest Brother ye wad whip 
 
 Aff straught to hell. 
 
 Lang syne, in EDEN'S bonie yard, 
 When.youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
 An' all the Soul of Love they shar'd, 
 
 The raptur'd hour, 
 Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 
 
 In shady bow'r. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 41 
 
 Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog ! 
 
 Ye came to Paradise incog, 
 
 An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 
 
 (Black be you fa !) 
 An' gied the infant warld a shog, 
 
 'Maist ruin'd a'. 
 
 D'ye mind that day, when in a JDJZZ, 
 Wi' reeket duds, an' reestet gizz, 
 Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 
 
 'Mang better folk, 
 An' sklented on the man of Uzz 
 
 Your spitefu' joke ? 
 
 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
 An' brak him out o' house an' hal', 
 While scabs an' botches did him gall, 
 ,, Wi' bitter claw, 
 
 An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 
 Was warst ava? 
 
 But a' your doings to rehearse, 
 
 Your wily snares an' J[echtin fierce, j *V 
 
 Sin' that day MICHAEL did you pierce, 
 
 Down to this time, 
 Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
 
 In Prose or Rhyme. 
 .. ' 
 
42 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkan, 
 A certain Bardie 's rantan, drinkan, 
 Some luckless hour will send him linkan, 
 
 To your black pit ; 
 But faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkan, 
 
 An' cheat you yet. 
 
 But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben . 
 
 O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
 
 Ye aiblins might I dinna ken- 
 Still hae a stake 
 
 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
 
 Ev'n for your sake \ 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 DUAN FIRST. 
 
 r I ^HF sun had closed the winter-day ', 
 -L The Curlers quat their roaring play, 
 An' hunger'd Maukin taen her way 
 
 To kail-yards green, 
 While faithless snaws ilk step betray 
 
 Whare she has been. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 43 
 
 The thresher's weary flingin-tree> 
 
 The lee-lang day had tir'd me ; 
 
 And whan the Day had clos'd his e'e, 
 
 Far i' the West, 
 Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie, 
 
 I gaed to rest. 
 
 There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
 I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
 That fill'd, wi } hoast-provoking smeek, 
 
 The auld, clay biggin ; 
 An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
 
 About the riggin. 
 
 All in this mottie, misty clime, 
 I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
 How I had spent my youthfit prime, 
 
 An' done nae-thing, 
 But stringing blethers up in rhyme, 
 
 For fools to sing. 
 
 Had I to guid advice but harket, 
 I might, by this, hae led a market, 
 Or strutted in a Bank, and clarket 
 
 My Cash-Account : 
 While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarket, 
 
 Is a' th' amount. 
 
44 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 I started, mutt'ring blockhead ! coof ! 
 And heav'd on high my wauket loof, 
 To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
 
 Or some rash aith, 
 That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 
 
 Till my last breath 
 
 When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
 And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
 And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 
 
 Now bleezan bright, 
 A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 
 
 Come full in sight. 
 
 Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
 The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
 I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 
 
 In some wild glen ; 
 When sweet, like modest Worth, she blusht, 
 
 And stepped ben. 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad Holly-boughs 
 Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, 
 I took her for some SCOTTISH MUSE, 
 
 By that same token ; 
 And come to stop these reckless vows, 
 
 Would soon been broken. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 45 
 
 A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
 Was strongly marked in her face ; 
 A wildly-witty, rustic grace 
 
 Shone full upon her ; 
 Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 
 
 Beam'd keen with Honor. 
 
 Down flow'd her robe, a tartar sheen, 
 Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
 And such a leg' my BESS, I ween, 
 
 Could only peer it ; 
 Sae straught, sae taper, tight and clean, 
 
 Nane else came near it. 
 
 Her Mantle large, of greenish hue, 
 
 My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
 
 Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 
 
 A lustre grand ; 
 And seem'd, to my astonish'd view 
 
 A well-known Land. 
 
 Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
 There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
 Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 
 
 With surging foam ; 
 There, distant shone, Art's lofty boast, 
 
 The lordly dome. 
 
46 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Here, DOON pour d down his far-fetch'd floods , 
 There, well-fed IRWINE stately thuds, 
 Auld hermit AIRE staw thro' his woods, 
 
 On to the shore ; 
 And many a lesser torrent scuds, 
 
 With seeming roar. 
 
 Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
 
 An ancient BOROUGH rear'd her head ; 
 
 Still, as in Scottish Story read, 
 
 She boasts a Race, 
 To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 
 
 And polish'd grace. 
 
 DUAN SECOND. 
 
 WITH musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
 I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair ; 
 A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 
 
 Of kindred sweet, 
 When with an elder Sister's air 
 
 She did me greet. 
 
 " All hail ! my own inspired Bard ! 
 In me thy native Muse regard ! 
 Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
 
 Thus poorly low ! 
 I come to give thee such reward 
 
 As we bestow. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 47 
 
 " Know, the great Genius of this Land 
 Has many a light, aerial band, 
 Who, all beneath his high command, 
 
 Harmoniously, 
 As Arts or Arms they understand, 
 
 Their labors ply. 
 
 "They SCOTIA'S Race among them share : 
 Some fire the Sodger on to dare ; 
 Some rouse the Patriot up to bare 
 
 Corruption's heart : 
 Some teach the Bard, a darling care, 
 
 The tuneful Art. 
 
 " 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
 They ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
 Or, 'mid the venal Senate's roar, 
 
 They, sightless, stand, 
 To mend the honest Patriot-lore, 
 
 And grace the hand. 
 
 " Hence, FULLARTON, the brave and young ; 
 Hence, DEMPSTER'S truth-prevailing tongue ; 
 Hence, sweet harmonious BEATTIE sung 
 
 His "Minstrel lays;" 
 Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 
 
 The Sceptic's bays. 
 
48 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 " To lower Orders are assign'd, 
 The humbler ranks of Human-kind, 
 The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 
 
 The Artisan ; 
 All chuse, as, various they're inclin'd, 
 
 The various man. 
 
 " When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
 The threat'ning Storm some, strongly, rein ; 
 Some teach to meliorate the plain, 
 
 With tillage-skill; 
 And some instruct the Shepherd-train, 
 
 Blythe o'er the hill. 
 
 " Some hint the Lover's harmless wile ; 
 Some grace the Maiden's artless smile ; 
 Some soothe the Lab'rer's weary toil, 
 
 For humble gains, 
 And make his cottage-scenes beguile 
 
 His cares and pains. 
 
 "Some, bounded to a district-space, 
 Explore at large Man's infant race, 
 To mark the embryotic trace 
 
 Of rustic Bard ; 
 And careful note each op'ning grace, 
 
 A guide and guard 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 49 
 
 " Of these am I COILA my name ; 
 
 And this district as mine I claim, 
 
 Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 
 
 Held ruling pow'r : 
 I mark'd thy embryo- tuneful flame, 
 
 Thy natal hour. 
 
 "With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
 Fond, on thy little, early ways, 
 Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase, 
 
 In uncouth rhymes, 
 Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 
 
 Of other times. 
 
 " I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
 
 Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
 
 Or when the North his fleecy store ?' 
 
 Drove thro' the sky, 
 I saw grim nature's visage hoar 
 
 Struck thy young eye. 
 
 " Or when the deep-green-mantl'd Earth 
 Wann-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
 And joy and music pouring forth 
 
 In ev'ry grove, 
 I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 
 
 With boundless love. 
 
50 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 " When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
 Call'd forth the Reapers rustling noise, 
 I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 
 
 And lonely stalk, 
 To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
 
 In pensive walk. 
 
 " When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong, 
 Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
 Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
 
 Th' adored Name, 
 I taught thee how to pour in song, 
 
 To soothe thy flame. 
 
 " I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
 Wild-send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray , 
 
 By Passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from Heaven. 
 
 " I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
 The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
 Till now, o-'er all my wide domains, 
 
 Thy fame extends ; 
 And some, the pride of Coilds plains, 
 
 Become thy friends. 
 
ROBER T B URNS. 5 1 
 
 ** Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
 To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow ; 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 
 
 With Shenstonis art ; 
 Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow, 
 
 Warm on the heart. 
 
 "Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd Rose, 
 The lowly Daisy sweetly blows ; 
 Tho' large the forest's Monarch throws 
 
 His army shade, 
 Yet green the juicy Hawthorn grows, 
 
 Adown the glade. 
 
 " Then never murmur nor repine ; 
 Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
 And trust me, not Potosfs mine, 
 
 Nor King's regard^ 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
 
 A rustic Bard. 
 
 " To give my counsels all in one, 
 Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
 Preserve the dignity of Man, 
 
 With Soul erect ; 
 And trust, the UNIVERSAL PLAN 
 
 Will all protect. 
 
52 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 " And wear thou this " she solemn said, 
 And bound the Holly round my head : 
 The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 And, like a passing thought, she fled 
 
 In light away. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE UNCO QUID, OR THE 
 RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 
 
 My son, these maxims make a rule, 
 
 And lump them aye thegither; 
 The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 
 
 The Rigid Wise anither: 
 The cleanest corn that eer was dight, 
 
 May hae some pyles 0' caff in ; 
 So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
 
 for random fits o' daffin. 
 
 SOLOMON Eccles. vii. 16. 
 
 /**) 
 
 OYE wha are sae guid yoursel, 
 Sae pious and sae holy, 
 Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your Neebour's fauts and folly ! 
 Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 
 
 Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
 The heapet happer's ebbing still, 
 And still the clap plays clatter. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 53 
 
 Hear me, ye venerable Core, 
 
 As counsel for poor mortals, 
 That frequent pass aouceWisdom's door, 
 
 For JamtFolly's portals ; 
 I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 
 
 Would here propone defences, 
 
 VV~^***MI 
 
 Their oonsie tricks, their black mistakes, 
 Their failings and mischances. 
 
 Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd, 
 
 And shudder at the niffer^^c^t-A-^X. 
 But cast a moment's fair regard, 
 
 What maks the mighty differ ; 
 Discount what scant occasion gave 
 
 That purity ye pride in, 
 And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 
 
 Your better art o' hiding. 
 
 Think, when your castigated pulse 
 
 Gies now and then a wallop, 
 What raging must his veins convulse, 
 
 That still eternal gallop : 
 Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 
 
 Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
 But, in the teeth o' baith to sail, 
 
 It maks an unco leeway. 
 
54 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 See Social life and Glee sit down, 
 
 All joyous and unthinking, 
 Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 
 
 Debauchery and Drinking : 
 O would they stay to calculate 
 
 Th' eternal consequences ; 
 Or your more dreaded hell to state, 
 
 Damnation of expenses ! 
 
 Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 
 
 Ty'd up in godly laces, 
 Before ye gie poor Frailty names, 
 
 Suppose a change o' cases ; 
 A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, 
 
 A treacherous inclination 
 But, let me whisper i' your lug, *LP*rJ 
 
 Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 
 
 Then gently scan your brother Man, 
 
 Still gentler sister woman ; 
 Tho' they may gang a-kennin wrang, 
 
 To step aside is human : 
 One point must still be greatly dark, 
 
 The moving Why they do it ; 
 And just as lamely can ye mark, 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 55 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 
 
 Decidedly can try us, 
 He knows each chord its various tone, 
 
 Each spring its various bias : 
 Then at the balance let's be mute, 
 
 We never can adjust it ; 
 What's done we partly may compute, 
 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 HALLOWEEN. 
 
 Yes I let the Rich deride, the Proud disdain^ 
 The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 UPON that night, when Fairies light 
 On Cassilis Downans dance, 
 Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 
 
 On sprightly coursers prance ; 
 Or for Colean, the rout is taen, 
 
 Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
 There, up the Cove, to stray an' rove 
 Amang the rocks and streams 
 
 To sport that night ; 
 
56 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Amang the bonie, winding banks, 
 
 Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear, 
 Where BRUCE ance ruPd the martial ranks, 
 
 An' shook his Carrick spear, 
 Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 
 
 Together did convene, 
 To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 
 
 An' haud their Halloween 
 
 Fu' blythe that night. 
 
 The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 
 
 Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
 Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 
 
 Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin : 
 The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 
 
 Weel knotted on their garten, 
 Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 
 
 Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 
 
 Whyles fast at night. 
 
 Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail, 
 Their stocks maun a' be sought ance : 
 
 They steek their een, an' grape an' wale, 
 For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 
 
 Poor hav'rel Willte\\ aff the drift, 
 An' wander'd thro' the Bow-kail, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 57 
 
 An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 
 A runt was like a sow-tail, 
 
 Sae bow't that night. 
 
 Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 
 
 They roar an' cry a' throw'ther ; 
 The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin, 
 
 Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
 An' gif the custocks sweet or sour, 
 
 Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
 Syne coziely, aboon the door, 
 
 Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
 To lye that night. 
 
 The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 
 
 To pou their stalks o' corn ; 
 But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 
 
 Behint the muckle thorn : 
 He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 
 
 Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
 But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 
 
 When kiutlin i' the Fause-house 
 Wi' him that night. 
 
 The auld Guidwife's weel-hoordet nits 
 
 Are round an' round divided, 
 An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 
 
 Are there that night decided : 
 
58 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 
 An' burn thegither trimly ; 
 
 Some start awa, wi' saucy pride, 
 An' jump out-owre the chimlie 
 
 Fu' high that night. 
 
 Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; 
 
 Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
 But this is Jock, and this is me, 
 
 She says in to hersel : 
 He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 
 
 As they wad never mair part ; 
 Till raff ! he started up the lum, 
 
 As? Jean had e'en a sair heart 
 
 To see't that night. 
 
 Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runf, 
 
 Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie y 
 An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, 
 
 To be compar'd to Willie : 
 Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling, 
 
 An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
 While Willie lap, an' swoor \sy jing % 
 
 'Twas just the way he wanted 
 To be that night. 
 
 Nell had the Fause-house in her min', 
 She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 59 
 
 In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 
 
 Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
 NelVs heart was dancin at the view ; 
 
 She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
 Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 
 
 Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
 But Merran sat behint their backs, 
 
 Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
 She lea'es them gashan at their cracks, 
 
 An' slips out by hersel : 
 She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 
 
 An' to the kiln she goes then, 
 An' darklins grapet for the bauks, 
 
 And in the blue-due throws then, 
 
 Right fear't that night. 
 
 An' aye she wirit, an' ay she swat, 
 
 I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
 Till something held within the paf, 
 
 Guid Lord ! but she was quaukin ! 
 But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 
 
 Or whether 'twas a bauk-en\ 
 Or whether it was Andrew Belly 
 
 She did na wait on talkin 
 
 To spier that night. 
 
60 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Wee Jenny to her Graunie says, 
 
 "Will ye go wi' me, Graunie? 
 I'll eat the apple at the glass, 
 
 I gat frae uncle Johnie : " 
 She fufft her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 
 
 In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
 She notic't na, an aizle brunt 
 
 Her braw, new worset apron 
 
 Out thro' that night. 
 
 " Ye little Skelpie-limmer's-face ! 
 
 I daur you try sic sportin, 
 As seek the foul Thief onie place, 
 
 For him to spae your fortune ? 
 Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 
 
 Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
 For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 
 
 An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret, 
 
 On sic a night. 
 
 " Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 
 I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
 
 I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 
 I was na past fyfteen : 
 
 The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 
 An' Stuff was unco' green ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 61 
 
 An' ay a rantan Kirn we gat, 
 An' just on Halloween 
 
 It fell that night. 
 
 " Our Stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 
 
 A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
 His Sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 
 
 That liv'd in Achmacalla ; 
 He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel, 
 
 An' he made unco light o't ; 
 But monie a day was by himsel, 
 
 He was sae sairly frighted 
 
 That vera night." 
 
 Then up gat fechtin _/> Fleck, 
 
 An' he swoor by his conscience, 
 That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 
 
 For it was a' but nonsense : 
 The auld guidman raught down the pock, 
 
 An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
 Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 
 
 Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
 An' try't that night. 
 
 He marches thro' amang the stacks, 
 
 Tho' he was something sturtan ; 
 The graip he for a harrow taks, 
 
 An' haurls at his curpan : 
 
62 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 
 " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
 
 An' her that is to be my lass, 
 Come after me an' draw thee 
 
 As fast this night." 
 
 He whistl'd up lord Lenox* march, 
 
 To keep his courage cheary ; 
 Altho' his hair began to arch, 
 
 He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
 Till presently he hears a squeak, 
 
 An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
 He by his shouther gae a keek, 
 
 An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 
 
 Out owre that night 
 
 He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 
 
 In dreadfu' desperation ! 
 An' young an' auld come rinnan out, 
 
 An' hear the sad narration : 
 He swoor 'twas hilchany<?0w M'Craw % 
 
 Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
 Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 
 
 An' wha was it but Grumphie 
 Asteer that night ! 
 
 Meg fain wad to the Barn gaen 
 To winn three ivechts o' naething ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 63 
 
 But for to meet the Deil her lane, 
 
 She pat but little faith in : 
 She gies the Herd a pickle nits, 
 
 And twa red-cheeket apples, 
 To watch, while for the Barn she sets, 
 
 In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 
 That vera night. 
 
 She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw, 
 
 An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
 But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 
 
 Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
 A ration rattl'd up the wa', 
 
 An' she cry'd, Lord preserve her ! 
 An' ran thro' midden-hole, an' a', 
 
 An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 
 Fu' fast that night. 
 
 They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 
 
 They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
 It chanc'd the Stack \&f addon? t thrice 
 
 Was timmer-propt for thrawin : 
 He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 
 
 For some black, grousome Carlin ; 
 An* loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 
 
 Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 
 
 Aff's nieves that night. 
 
64 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 A wanton widow Leezie was, 
 
 As cantie as a kittlen ; 
 But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 
 
 She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 
 She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 
 
 An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
 Whare three laird? lands met at a burn> 
 
 To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 
 
 Was bent that night. 
 
 Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
 
 As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
 Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 
 
 Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
 
 Wi' bickering, dancin dazzle ; 
 Whyles cocket underneath the braes, 
 
 Below the spreading hazle, 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
 Amang the brachens on the brae, 
 Between her an' the moon, 
 
 The Diel, or else an outler Quey, 
 Gat up an' gae a croon : 
 
 Poor LeeziJs heart maist lap the hool ; 
 Near lav'rock-height she jumpet, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 65 
 
 But mist a fit, an' in the pool 
 Out owre the lugs she plumpet, 
 
 Wi' a plunge that night. 
 
 In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 
 
 The Luggies three are ranged ; 
 And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 
 
 To see them duely changed : 
 Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 
 
 Sin' Mar's-year did desire, 
 Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 
 
 He heav'd them on the fire 
 
 In wrath that night. 
 
 Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 
 
 I wat they did na weary ; 
 And unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 
 
 Their sports were cheap and cheary ; 
 Till butter* d So'ns, wi' fragrant lunt, 
 
 Set a' their gabs asteerin ; 
 Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 
 
 They parted aff careerin 
 
 Fu' blythe that night. 
 
66 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 
 
 A CANTATA. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 - 
 
 WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
 Or wavering like the Bauckie bird, 
 Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
 When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
 And infant frosts begin to bite, 
 
 In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
 Ae night at e'en a merry core 
 
 rv A- * p<uj it^ 
 
 O randie, gangrel bodies, 
 
 In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,">*~*>H 
 To drink their orra dud dies : /uuao- 
 Wi' quaffing and laughing, 
 
 They ranted and they sang ; 
 Wi' jumping and thumping, 
 
 The verra girdle rang. ^wA*J 
 
 First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
 Ane sat ; weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 
 And knapsack a' in order ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 67 
 
 His^doxy lay within his arm, 
 
 Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm, V^VUA^U. 
 
 on 
 
 her sodger i. 
 An' aye he gies the iozie drab 4 
 The tither skelpin' kiss, { , , . 
 While she held up her greedy gab, 
 Just like an aumos dish. 
 
 Ilk smack still, did crack still, 
 
 Just like a cadger's whip, 
 Then staggering and swaggering, 
 He roar'd this ditty up 
 
 AIR. 
 
 TUNE" Soldiers Joy" 
 
 I AM a son of Mars who have been in many wars, 
 And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
 This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
 When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, etc. 
 
 My 'prentiship I past where my leader breath'd his last, 
 When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; 
 I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, 
 And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, etc. 
 
68 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries 
 And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
 Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
 I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, etc. 
 
 And now, tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, 
 And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
 I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, 
 As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, etc. 
 
 What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
 Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home ; 
 When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
 I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 ,".< 
 
 He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 
 
 Aboon the chorus roar ; 
 While frighted rattons backward leuk, 
 
 And seek the benmost bore : 
 A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 
 
 He skirl'd out encore ! 
 But up arose the martial chuck, 
 
 And laid the loud uproar. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 69 
 
 AIR. 
 TUNB " Soldier Laddie" 
 
 I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
 And still my delight is in proper young men; 
 Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
 No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lai de lal, etc. 
 
 The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
 To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
 His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
 Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 
 
 But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
 So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
 He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 
 
 Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
 The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
 From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
 I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 
 
70 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
 Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair ; 
 His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
 My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lai de lal, etc. 
 
 And now I have liv'd I know not how long, 
 
 And still I can join in a cup or a song; 
 
 But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 
 
 Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 
 
 RECITATIYQ.. 
 
 flJLlMAf** *t+ **~*4*^^ 
 
 Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
 Whajcent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
 For mony a pursie she had hooked, 
 And had in mony a wel been ducked ; 
 Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
 But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
 Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
 To wail her braw John Highlandman. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 TUNE " O an* ye were dead^ Guidntan" 
 I. 
 
 A HIGHLAND lad my love was born, 
 The Lalland laws he held in scorn : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 71 
 
 But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
 My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
 Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
 There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
 
 Was match for my John Highlandman. 
 
 With his phfubeg an' tartan plaid, 
 And gude claymore down by his side, 
 The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
 My gallant, braw John Highlandman 
 Sing, hey, etc. 
 
 in. 
 
 We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
 And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
 For a Lalland face he feared nane, 
 My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, etc. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
 But ere the bud was on the tree, 
 Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
 Embracing my John Highlandman. 
 
 Sing, hey, etc. 
 
72 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 v. 
 
 But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
 And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
 My curse upon them every one, 
 They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, etc. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now a widow, I must mourn 
 The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
 No comfort but a hearty can, 
 When I think on John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, etc. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, 
 
 Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 
 
 Her strappan limb and gausy middle 
 
 He reach'd nae higher, 
 Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 
 
 And blawn't on fire. 
 
 Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, 
 He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
 Then in an Arioso key, 
 
 The wee Apollo 
 Set aff wi' Allegretto glee, 
 
 His giga solo. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 TUNE" Whistle owre the lave o't." 
 LET me ryke up to dight that tear, 
 An' go wi' me to be my dear, 
 An' then your every care and fear 
 May whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 I ^m a fiddler to my trade, 
 And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
 The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
 Was whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 At kirns an' weddings we'se be there, 
 And O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
 We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
 Sing, whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 I am, etc. 
 
 Sae merrily 's the banes we'll pyke, 
 And sun oursells about the dyke, 
 And at our leisure when ye like, 
 We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 I am, etc. 
 
 But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
 And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
 
74 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
 May whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 I am, etc. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 
 
 As well as poor Gutscraper ; 
 He taks the fiddler by the beard, 
 
 And draws a roosty rapier 
 He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 
 
 To speet him like a pliver, 
 Unless he wou'd from that time forth 
 
 Relinquish her for ever. 
 
 Wi' ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee 
 
 Upon his hunkers bended, 
 And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu* face, 
 
 An' so the quarrel ended. 
 But tho' his little heart did grieve 
 
 When round the tinkler prest her, 
 He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 
 
 When thus the Caird address'd her. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 TUNE "Clout the Cauldron" 
 MY bonnie lass I work in brass, 
 A tinker is my station ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 75 
 
 I've travell'd round all Christian ground 
 
 In this my occupation. 
 I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 
 
 In many a noble squadron ; 
 But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 
 
 To go an clout the caudron. 
 
 I've ta'en the gold, etc. 
 
 Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 
 
 Wi' a' his noise and caprin', 
 An' tak a share wi' those that bear 
 
 The budget an' the apron ; 
 And by that stowp ! my faith and houpe 
 
 And by that dear Keilbaigie, 
 If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 
 
 May I ne'er weet my craigie. 
 
 And by that stowp, etc. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 The Caird prevail'd th' unblushing fair 
 
 In his embraces sunk, 
 Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 
 
 An' partly she was drunk. 
 Sir Violinos with an air, 
 
 That show'd a man of spunk, 
 
76 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Wish'd unison between the pair, 
 And made the bottle clunk 
 
 To their health that night. 
 
 But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 
 
 That play'd a dame a shavie, 
 The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 
 
 Behint the chicken cavie. 
 Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 
 
 Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
 He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 
 
 And shor'd them Dainty Davie. 
 O boot that night. 
 
 He was a care-defying blade 
 
 As ever Bacchus listed, 
 Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 
 
 His heart she ever miss'd it. 
 He had nae wish but to be glad, 
 
 Nor want but when he thristed ; 
 He hated nought but to be sad, 
 
 And thus the muse suggested 
 
 His sang that night. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 TUNE "Fora' that, and a' that*' 
 I AM a bard of no regard 
 Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 77 
 
 But Homer-like y the glowran byke, 
 Frae town to town I draw that. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 And twice as muckle 's a' that ; 
 I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
 
 I've wife emugh for a' that. 
 
 I never drank the Muses' 
 Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
 
 But there it streams, and richly reams, 
 My Helicon I ca' that. 
 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
 Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
 Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 
 
 But lordly will, I hold it still 
 A mortal sin to thraw that. 
 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
 In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
 Wi' mutual love, an' a* that ; 
 
 But for how lang theyftV may stang, 
 Let inclination law that. 
 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
78 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 
 They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
 
 But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 
 I like the jads for a' that. 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 And twice as muckle 's a' that ; 
 
 My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
 They're welcome till't for a' that. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 So sung the bard and Nansie's wa's 
 Shook with a thunder of applause, 
 
 Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
 They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, 
 They scarcely left to cooer their fuds, 
 
 To quench their lowan drouth. 
 
 Then owre again, the jovial thrang 
 
 The poet did request 
 To lowse his pack an' wale a sang, 
 
 A ballad o' the best ; 
 He, rising, rejoicing, 
 
 Between his twa Deborahs, 
 Looks round him, an' found them 
 
 Impatient for the chorus. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 79 
 
 AIR. 
 T>JNE "Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses.'' 
 
 I. 
 
 SEE ! the smoking bowl before us, 
 
 Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
 Round and round take up the chorus, 
 
 And in raptures let us sing. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 A fig for those by law protected ! 
 
 Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
 Courts for cowards were erected, 
 
 Churches built to please the priest. 
 
 II. 
 
 What is title ? what is treasure ? 
 
 What is reputation's care ? 
 If we lead a life of pleasure, 
 
 'Tis no matter how or where ! 
 A fig, etc. 
 
 in. 
 
 With the ready trick and fable, 
 
 Round we wander all the day ; 
 4.nd at night, in barn or stable, 
 
 Hug our doxies on the hay. 
 
 A fig, etc. 
 
So SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 IV. 
 Does the train-attended carriage 
 
 Through the country lighter rove ? 
 Does the sober bed of marriage 
 Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
 A fig, etc. 
 
 V. 
 Life is all a variorum, 
 
 We regard not how it goes ; 
 Let them cant about decorum 
 Who have characters to lose. 
 A fig, etc. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 
 
 Here's to all the wandering train ! 
 Here's our ragged brats and callcts ! 
 
 One and all cry out, Amen ! 
 
 A fig for those by law protected ! 
 
 Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
 Courts for cowards were erected, 
 
 Churches built to please the priest. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 81 
 
 THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING 
 
 SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, 
 
 MAGGIE, 
 
 ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO 
 HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 AGUID New- Year I wish thee Maggie ! 
 Hae, there's a "PPtgJtfj^auld baggie : 
 Tho' thou's howe?f:>acket, now, an' knaggie, 
 
 I've seen the day, 
 
 Thou could hae gane like ony staggie 
 Out-owre the lay. 
 
 Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff an' crazy, 
 An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie, 
 I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie, 
 
 A bonie gray : 
 He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 
 
 Ance in a day. 
 
 Thou ance was i' the foremost j 
 A filly buirdly, steZve, an' swank, 
 An' set weel down a shapely shank, 
 
 As e'er tread yird ; 
 An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 
 
 Like onie bird. 
 G 
 
82 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 
 Sin' thou was my Guid father's Meere / 
 
 u - A A rv^A^V 
 
 He gied me thee, o tocher cleay; 
 
 An' fifty mark ; 
 Tho' it was sma' 'twas weel-won gear, 
 
 An' thou was stark. 
 
 When first I gaed to woo my Jenny ', 
 Ye then was trottan wi' your minnie : 
 Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, 
 
 Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
 But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 
 
 An' unco sonsie. 
 
 That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
 When ye bure hame my bonie Bride ; 
 An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 
 
 Wi' maiden air ! 
 KYLE-STEWART I could bragged wide, 
 
 For sic a pair. 
 
 Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
 An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
 That day ye was a j inker noble 
 
 For heels an' win' ! 
 An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
 
 Far, far behin'. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 83 
 
 When thou an' I were young ancrskeigh, 
 An' Stable-meals at fairs were driegh,"T^ 
 How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 
 
 An' tak the road ! 
 Towris-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
 
 An' ca't thee mad. 
 
 When thou was cofrn't, an' I was mellow, 
 We took the road ay like a Swallow : 
 At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 
 
 For pith an' speed ; 
 But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
 
 Whare'er thou gaed. 
 
 The sma' droop-rum pPt, hunter rattle-, 
 X 75fe^^*/** jfJZsLA^Jr 
 
 Might iiblms waur't thee for a^rattle ; 
 
 But sax Scotch mile thou try't their mettle, 
 An* gart them whaizle :1 
 
 Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
 n~yMn^^ 
 O saugh or hazle. 
 
 Thou was a noble Fittie-lan\ 
 As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
 Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 
 
 On guid March-weather, 
 Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 
 
 For days thegither. 
 
84 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' flisket. 
 But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisket, 
 An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 
 - ~+,0 Wi' pith an' pow'r. 
 
 ^lA/CCA^* rUX***' 
 
 Till sprittie knowes wad rair't and risket, 
 An' slypet owre. 
 
 When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
 An' threaten'd labor back to keep, 
 I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 
 
 Aboon the timmer ; 
 I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 
 
 For that, or Simmer. 
 
 In cart or car thou never reestet ; 
 The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
 Thou never lap, an' sten't and breastet, 
 
 Then stood to blaw ; 
 But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 
 
 Thou snoov't awa. 
 
 My Pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
 Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
 Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 
 
 That thou hast nurst : 
 They drew me thretteen pund an' twa 
 
 The vera warst. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 85 
 
 Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
 An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
 An' monie an anxious day, I thought 
 
 We wad be beat ! 
 Yet here to crazy Age we're brought, 
 
 Wi' something yet. 
 
 And think na, my auld, trusty Servan\ 
 That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
 An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 
 
 For my last fou, 
 A heapet Stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
 
 Laid by for you. 
 
 We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
 We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
 Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 
 
 To some hain'd rig, 
 Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
 
 Wi' sma' fatigue. 
 
86 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. OF AYR. 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure / 
 
 Nor Grandeur fiear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the Poor. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 MY lov'd, my honour'd, much respected frier d ! 
 No mercenary Bard his homage pays : 
 With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end ; 
 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
 
 The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 What Aiken in a Cottage would have been ; 
 Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 
 The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 
 The black'nirig trains o' craws to their repose : 
 The toil-worn COTTER frae his labor goes, 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 87 
 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely Cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 The expectant wee-things, toddlan, stacher through 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkan bonilie, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wife's smile, 
 The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, 
 
 Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 
 At Service out, amang the Farmers roun' ; 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 
 
 In youthfu' bloom, Love sparkling in her e'e, 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 
 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
 To help her Parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 
 An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; L 
 
88 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The Parents partial eye their hopeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The Mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
 
 Gars auld claies look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their Master's an' their Mistress's command, 
 
 Theyeun&ers a' are warned to obey ; 
 
 i i 
 
 An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, d^ v J* 1 **' 
 An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : \j\ \ t 
 
 An' O ! be sure to fear the LORD alway, 
 
 " An' mind your duty, duely, morn an' night! 
 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
 Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
 
 They never sought in vain that sought the LORD aright ! " 
 
 But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily Mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 
 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weelpleas'dthe Mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless Rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
 A sir appan youth ; he takes the Mother's eye; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 89 
 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
 The Youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; riO 
 The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
 Weel-pleas'd to think her bairris respected like the lave. 
 
 O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 
 O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round y 
 
 And sage EXPERIENCE bids me this declare 
 " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy Vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest Pair, 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale. " 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart 
 
 A Wretch \ a Villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
 
 Are Honor, Virtue, Conscience, all exil'd ? 
 Is there no Pity, no relenting Ruth, 
 
 Points to the Parents fondling o'er their Child ? 
 Then paints the ruirfd Maid, and their distraction wild ! 
 
90 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 But now the Supper crowns their simple board, 
 The healsome porritch, chief o' SCOTIA'S food : 
 
 The soupe their only Hawkie ^does afford, 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
 
 The Dame brings forth in complimental mood, 
 
 \ To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. ( 
 
 An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
 The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' Lint was i' the bell. , 
 
 yUtf~X/**-~ V\AsW&(Jh> / 
 
 The chearfu' Supper done, wi' serious face, 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 
 The Sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 The big ha? -Bible, ance his Father's pride : 
 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 ii His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
 
 Those strains that once did sweet in ZION glide, 
 He wales a portion with judicious care, 
 
 " And let us worship GOD ! " he says, with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts^ by far the noblest aim : 
 Perhaps Dundee ',$ wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of SCOTIA'S holy lays : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 91 
 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our CREATOR'S praise. 
 
 The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Abram was the Friend of GOD on high ; 
 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage, 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other Holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme, 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How HE, who bore in heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on Earth whereon to lay His head ; 
 How His first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 The Precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Bab' Ion's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's 
 command. 
 
 Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, 
 The Saint) the Father , and the Husband prays : 
 
92 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
 
 Together hymning their CREATOR'S praise, 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 
 While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
 The POWER, incens'd, the Pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 But haply, in some Cottage far apart, 
 
 May hear, well pleas'd the language of the Soul ; 
 And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 
 
 The youngling Cottagers retire to rest : 
 The Parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
 That HE who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
 Would, in the way His Wisdom sees the best, 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 But chiefly, in their hearts with Grace divine preside. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 93 
 
 From scenes like these old SCOTIA'S grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her loved at home, rever'd abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 " An honest man's the noble work of GOD : " 
 And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, 
 
 The Cottage leaves the Palace far behind ; 
 What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refined ! 
 
 O SCOTIA ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
 And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From Luxury* s contagion, weak and vile ; 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous Populace may rise the while, 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved 
 ISLE. 
 
 O THOU ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream'd thro' great, unhappy Wallace' heart ; 
 Who dared to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, 
 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part : 
 
94 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 (The patriot's GOD, peculiarly thou art, 
 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
 
 O never, never, SCOTIA'S realm desert, 
 
 But still the Patriot, and the Patriot-Bard, 
 
 In bright succession raise, her Ornament and Guard! 
 
 A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH 
 
 "X \ 7HY am I loth 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 ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 95 
 
 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 controuling pow'r assist ev'n me, 
 
 Those headlong, furious passions to confine, 
 For all unfit I feel my powers be, 
 
 To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
 O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine / 
 
 A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF 
 VIOLENT ANGUISH. 
 
 OTHOU great Being ! what Thou art, 
 Surpasses me to know : 
 Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 
 Are all Thy works below. 
 
 Thy creature here before Thee stands, 
 
 All wretched and distrest ; 
 Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
 
 Obey Thy high behest. 
 
Q6 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 
 
 From cruelty or wrath ! 
 O, free my weary eyes from tears, 
 
 Or close them fast in death ! 
 
 But if I must afflicted be, 
 To suit some wise design ; 
 
 Then, man my soul with firm resolves 
 To bear and not repine ! 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN 
 APRIL, 1786. 
 
 T T 7EE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
 
 V Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem. 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
 
 Thou bonie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonie Lark, comnpaion meet ! 
 
ROBER T B URNS. 97 
 
 Bending thee 'rnang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 
 
 The purpling East. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting North 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet chearfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flauntingyftw' our Gardens yield, 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane, 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field, 
 
 Unseen,- alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 H 
 
98 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
 Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
 By Love's simplicity betray'd, 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
 
 On Life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent Lore, 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
 Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To Misery's brink, 
 Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but HEAV'N, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine no distant date ; 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 99 
 
 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 : 
 
ioo SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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 should na 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 neebor's part, 
 
 Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 
 
 Aye free, afF han', your story tell, 
 
 When wi' a bosom ciony ; 
 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 loive o' weel-placed love, 
 Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
 
 But never tempt th' illicit rove, 
 Tho' naething should divulge it > 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 101 
 
 I wave the quantum o' the sin, 
 
 The hazard o' 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 justify'd by Honor ; 
 Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
 
 Nor for a train-attendant ; 
 But for the glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent. 
 
 o* helVs a hangman's whip, 
 
 To haud the wretch in order ; 
 But where ye feel your Honor 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 : 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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- stingy 
 
 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! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 103 
 
 TO A HAGGIS. 
 
 FAIR fa* your honest, sonsie face, 
 Great Chieftain o' the Puddin'-race i 
 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 destil 
 
 Like amber bead. 
 
 His knife see Rustic-labour dight, 
 An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
 Trenching your gushing entrails bright 
 
 Like onie ditch ; 
 And then, O what a glorious sight, 
 
 Warm-reekin, rich ! 
 
104 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 105 
 
 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' pray'r, 
 
 Gie her a Haggis I 
 
 TOW***S*** 
 
 OCHILTREE 
 
 Maty, 1785 
 
 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
 Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
 Tho* I maun say't, I wad be silly, 
 
 An' unco vain, 
 
 Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 
 Your flatterin strain. 
 
 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
 I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
 Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 
 
 On my poor Music ; 
 Tho' in sic .phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, 
 
 I scarce excuse ye. 
 
106 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 My senses wad be in a creel, 
 Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
 Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbert 'field \ 
 
 The braes o' fame ; 
 Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, 
 
 A deathless name. 
 
 (O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
 111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
 My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 
 
 Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 
 The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 
 
 Wad stow'd his pantry !) 
 
 Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
 
 Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
 
 As whiles they're like to be my dead, 
 
 (O sad disease !) 
 I kittle up my rustic reed ; 
 
 It gies me ease. 
 
 Auld COILA, now, may fidge fu' fain, 
 She's gotten Bardies o' her ain, 
 Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 
 
 But tune their lays, 
 Till echoes a* resound again 
 
 Her weel-sung praise. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 107 
 
 Nae Poet thought her worth his while, 
 To set her name in measur'd style ; 
 She lay like some unkend-of isle, 
 
 Beside New Holland, 
 Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 
 
 Besouth Magellan. 
 
 Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 
 Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
 Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 
 
 Owre Scotland rings. 
 While Irwin, Lugar, Aire an' Doon, 
 
 Naebody sings. 
 
 Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
 Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
 But Willie, set your fit to mine, 
 
 An' cock your crest, 
 We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 
 
 Up wi' the best. 
 
 We'll sing auld COILA'S plains an' fells, 
 Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
 Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 
 
 Where glorious WALLACE 
 Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 
 
 Frae Southron billies. 
 
io8 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 At WALLACE' name, what Scottish blood 
 But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
 Oft have our fearless fathers strode 
 
 By WALLACE' side, 
 Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 
 
 Or glorious dy'd. 
 
 O, sweet are COILA'S haughs an' woods, 
 When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
 And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 
 
 Their loves enjoy, 
 While thro' the braes the cushat croods 
 
 Wi' wailfu' cry ! 
 
 Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
 When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
 Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 
 
 Are hoary gray ; 
 Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 
 
 Dark'ning the day ! 
 
 O NATURE ! a' thy shews an' forms 
 To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
 Whether the Summer kindly warms, 
 
 Wi' life an' light, 
 Or Winter howls, in gusty storms, 
 
 The lang, dark night ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 109 
 
 The Muse, na Poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
 Adown some trottin burns meander, 
 
 An' no think lang ; 
 O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 
 
 A heart-felt sang ! 
 
 The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
 Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
 Let me fair NATURE'S face descrive, 
 
 And I, wi' pleasure, 
 Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 
 
 Bum owre their treasure. 
 
 Fareweel, " my rhyme -composing brither" 
 We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
 Now let us lay our heads thegither, 
 
 In love fraternal : 
 May Envy wallop in a tether, 
 
 Black fiend, infernal ! 
 
 While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 
 While moorlan' herds like guid, fat braxies ; 
 While Terra firma, on her axis, 
 
 Diurnal turns, 
 Count on a friend, in faith an* practice, 
 
 In ROBERT BURNS. 
 
I io SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 A yT Y memory's no worth a preen ; 
 *'! I had amaist forgotten clean, 
 Ye bad me write you what they mean 
 
 By this new -light ^ 
 'Bout which our herds sae aft have been 
 
 Maist like to fight. 
 
 In days when mankind were but callans 
 
 At Grammar, Logic, an' sic talents, 
 
 They took nae pains their speech to balance, 
 
 Or rules to gie, 
 But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, 
 
 Like you or me. 
 
 IH thae auld times, they thought the Moon, 
 Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
 Woor by degrees, till her last roon, 
 
 Gaed past their viewin, 
 An' shortly after she was done, 
 
 They gat a new ane. 
 
 1 A cant term for those religious opinions, which Dr. Taylor, of 
 Norwich defended so strenuously. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. in 
 
 This past for certain, undisputed ; 
 It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
 Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 
 
 An' ca'd it wrang ; 
 An* muckle din there was about it, 
 
 Baith loud an' lang. 
 
 Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
 Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
 For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 
 
 An' out o' sight, 
 An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 
 
 She grew mair bright. 
 
 This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
 
 The herds an' kissels were alarm'd : 
 
 The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm'd, 
 
 That beardless laddies 
 Should think they better were inform'd, 
 
 Than their auld daddies. 
 
 Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
 Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
 An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 
 
 Wi' hearty crunt ; 
 An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 
 
 Were hang'd an' brunt. 
 
112 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 This game was play'd in monie lands, 
 An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
 That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 
 
 Wi' nimble shanks, 
 Till Lairds forbad, by strict commands, 
 
 Sic bluidy pranks. 
 
 But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
 Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe, 
 Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe 
 
 Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
 An' some, their New-light fair avow, 
 
 Just quite barefac'd. 
 
 Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatan ; 
 Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatan ; 
 Mysel, 1 ve even seen them greetan 
 
 Wi' girnan spite, 
 To hear the Moon sae sadly He'd on 
 
 By word an' write. 
 
 But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
 Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
 Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 
 
 To tak a flight, 
 An' stay ae month amang the Moons, 
 
 An' see them right. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 113 
 
 Guid observation they will gie them ; 
 
 An' when the auld Moon's gaun to lea'e them ; 
 
 The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 
 
 Just i' their pouch, 
 An' when the new-light billies see them, 
 
 I think they'll crouch. 
 
 Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
 
 Is naething but a " moonshine matter ; " 
 
 But tho' dull-prose folk latin splatter 
 
 In logic tulzie, 
 I hope we, Bardies ken some better 
 
 Than mind sic brulzie. 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKIN, 
 
 ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 
 
 O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankin, 
 The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin ! 
 There's monie godly folks are thinkin, 
 
 Your dreams an' tricks 
 Will send you, Korah-like, 1 a-sinkin, 
 Straught to auld Nick's. 
 
 1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the 
 world 
 
H4 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
 And in your wicked, druken rants, 
 Ye mak a devil o' the Saunts, 
 
 An' fill them fou ; 
 And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
 
 Are a' seen thro'. 
 
 Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
 That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
 Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 
 
 The lads in black ; 
 But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 
 
 Rives't aff their back. 
 
 Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
 It's just the Bhte-gown badge an' claithing, 
 O' Saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 
 
 To ken them by, 
 Frae ony unregenerate Heathen 
 
 Like you or I. 
 
 I've sent you here, some rhyming ware, 
 A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair ; 
 Sae when ye hae an hour to spare, 
 
 I will expect, 
 Yon Sang^- ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, 
 
 And no neglect. 
 
 1 A song he had promised the Author. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 115 
 
 Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
 My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
 I've play'd mysel a bonie spring, 
 
 An' danced my fill ! 
 I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, 
 
 At Bunker's Hill. 
 
 J Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 
 
 I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
 
 An' brought a Paitrick to the g run, 
 
 A bonie hen, 
 And, as the twilight was begun, 
 
 Thought nane wad ken. 
 
 The poor, wee thing was little hurt ; 
 
 I straikit it a wee for sport, 
 
 Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 
 
 But, Deil-ma-care ! 
 Somebody tells the Poacher-Court 
 
 The hale affair. 
 
 Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
 That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
 I was suspected for the plot ; 
 
 I scorn'd to lie ; 
 So gat the whissle o my groat 
 
 An' pay't the fee. 
 
n6 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
 An' by my pouther an' my hale, 
 An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 
 
 I vow an' swear ! 
 The Game shall pay, o'er moor an' dail 
 
 For this, niest year. 
 
 As soon's the dockin-time is by, 
 An' the wee powts begun to cry, 
 Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by, 
 
 For my gowd guinea ; 
 Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 
 
 For't, in Virginia 1 
 
 Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
 But twa-three draps about the wame 
 
 Scarce thro' \hzfeathers ; 
 An' baith a yellow George to claim, 
 
 An' thole their blethers ! 
 
 It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
 
 So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
 
 "But pennyworths again is fair, 
 
 When time's expedient : 
 Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 
 
 Your most obedient. 
 
ROBERT BURftS. 117 
 
 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 wav'd 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 bleached 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 aged year, 
 
n8 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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 aged 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 ithers plant them in my room. 
 
 " I've seen sae mony changfu' 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 : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 119 
 
 In weary being now I pine, 
 
 For a' the life of life is dead, 
 And hope has left my aged 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, 
 
 Nae 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, generous, great, 
 
 Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
 
120 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Of Bnrwnyis and of Bogilisfull in this Buke. 
 
 GAWIN DOUGLAS 
 
 WHEN chapman billies leave the street, 
 And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
 As market-days are wearing late, 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy, a ^ , 
 An' getting fou and unco happy, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 121 
 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
 That lie between us and our hame, 
 Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
 Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 This truth fand honest Tarn d* Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
 For honest men and bonny lasses. ) 
 
 O Tarn I hadst thou but been s*ae wise, 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum - vXt) 
 That frae November till October, 
 Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
 
 t ilka rjnejder, wi' the miller, 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
 That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
 The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
 She prophesy'd that late, or soon, 
 Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
 Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
 
122 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 How mony lengthen'd sage advices, 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 
 But to our tale : Ae market night, 
 Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; ^ 
 And at his elbow, Soutery<?/6;zy, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
 Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
 And ay the ale was growing better : 
 The landlady and 7am grew gracious, 
 Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
 The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; /I/WT< HtA/y^ 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
 The storm without might rair and rustle, 
 Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
 E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : ^AJ^ 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
 Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
 O'er the ills o' life victorious ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 123 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
 You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
 Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
 A moment white then melts for ever ; 
 Or like the borealis race, 
 That flit ere you can point their place ; 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
 Evanishing amid the storm. 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
 The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
 And sic a night he taks the road in, 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
 The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
 That night, a child might understand, 
 The Deil had business on his hand. 
 
 Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg y 
 A better never lifted leg, 
 
 Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, (wsvW^ 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
 Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
 
124 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares : 
 Kirk-Allbway was drawing nigh, 
 Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford, 
 Whare in the^naw, the chapman smoor'd; 
 And past the birks and meikle stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
 Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
 Whare Mungtfs mither hang'd hersel. 
 Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
 The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
 The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
 Near and more near the thunders roll : 
 When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
 Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noodle, 
 Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
 
 -n 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 125 
 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
 
 Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
 
 She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
 
 And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
 
 Nae cotillion brent new frae France 
 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 
 A wjnnocj^bunker in the east, 
 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
 
 A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
 
 To gie them music was his charge : 
 
 He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, J-A^^ 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 
 
 Coffins stood round like open presses, 
 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 
 And by some devilish cantraip slight 
 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light, 
 
 By which heroic Tarn was able 
 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
 
 A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 
 
 Wi 5 his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
 
 Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
 
 Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 
 A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
 
126 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
 The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awefu', 
 Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curicus, 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, / 
 Till ilka carlm'sj^t and reekit," " 
 And coost her duddies to the wark, 
 And lifiket at it in her sark ! - 
 
 yrtpA^cj 
 Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had thae been queans, 
 
 A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
 Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen ! 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
 That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
 I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
 For ae blink o' the bonie burdies ! 
 
 But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
 Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
 , . Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 127 
 
 But Tarn kend what was what fu' brawl ie, 
 There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, 
 That night enlisted in the core, 
 (Lang after kend on Carrick shore ; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot, x~ 
 
 And perish'd mony a bony boat, 
 And shook baith mejkje corn anjfbe^ Vv^o 
 And kept the country-side in fear^ 
 HeiLCUtty sark, o' Paisley harn, Oft^t^* 
 That while a lassie she had worn, 
 In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie. 
 Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie, 
 That sark she coftjbr her wee Nannie, t 
 Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 
 
 But here my Muse her wing maun cour ; 
 Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
 (A souple jade she was, and strang,) 
 And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
 And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
 Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
 Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
 
128 SELECTED POEMS OP 
 
 And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
 And in an instant all was dark : 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
 When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
 As open pussie's mortal foes, 
 When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
 As eager runs the market-crowd, 
 When, " Catch the thief ! " resounds aloud ; 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 
 
 Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
 In hell they'll roast thee like an herrin ! 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 And win the key-stane ' of the brig : 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they darena cross. 
 
 1 It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no 
 power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the 
 next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the 
 benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever 
 danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in f 
 turning back. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 129 
 
 But ere the key-stane she could make, 
 
 The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
 
 For Nannie, far before the rest, 
 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 
 And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; ; Y\, 
 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle 
 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
 
 But left behind her ain gray tail : 
 
 The carlin claught her by the rump, 
 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read 
 Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
 Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 
 
130 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PERE- 
 GRINATIONS THRO' SCOTLAND, 
 
 COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 
 
 HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
 Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ! 
 If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
 I rede you tent it : 
 A chield's amang you, taking notes, 
 
 And, faith, he'll prent it. 
 
 If in your bounds ye chance to light 
 Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
 O' stature short, but genius bright, 
 
 That's he, mark weel 
 And wow ! he has an unco slight 
 
 O' cauk and keel. 
 
 By some auld, houlet -haunted, biggin, 1 
 
 Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 
 
 It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 
 
 Some eldritch part, 
 Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's ! colleaguin 
 
 At some black art. 
 
 1 Vide his "Antiquities of Scotland." 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 131 
 
 Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
 
 Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
 
 And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar, 
 
 Warlocks and witches ; 
 Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 
 
 Ye midnight bitches. 
 
 It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
 And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
 But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 
 
 And dog-skin wallet, 
 And taen the Antiquarian trade, 
 
 I think they call it. 
 
 He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
 Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, 1 
 Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 
 
 A towmont gude ; 
 And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 
 
 Before the Flood. 
 
 Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
 Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender ; 
 That which distinguished the gender 
 
 O' Balaam's ass ; 
 A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 
 
 Weel shod wi' brass. 
 
 1 Vide his treatise on ancient armour and weapons 
 
POEMS OF 
 
 fshape you aff, fu' gleg 
 The cut^f Adam's philibeg ; 
 The knife that nicket Abel's craig 
 
 He'll prove you fully, 
 It was a faulding jocteleg, 
 
 Or lang-kail gullie. 
 
 But wad ye see him in his glee, 
 For meikle glee and fun has he, 
 Then set him down, and twa or three 
 
 Gude fellows wi' him ; 
 And port) O port I shine thou a wee, 
 
 And THEN ye'lJ see him ! 
 
 Now, by the Pow'rs o' Verse and Prose ! 
 Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! 
 Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 
 
 They sair misca' thee ; 
 I'd take the rascal by the nose, 
 
 Wad say, Shame fa' thee. 
 
ROBERT ^A^flB 133 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT 
 OF FERGUSSON THE POET, 
 
 XN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS 
 
 PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, 
 
 MARCH IQTH, 1787. 
 
 /^*URSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'cl, 
 
 V^ And yet can starve the author of the pleasure. 
 
 O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
 
 By far my elder brother in the muses, 
 
 With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
 
 Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
 
 Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 
 
 VERSES 
 
 ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR 
 DRUMLANRIG. 
 
 A S on the banks o' wandering Nith, 
 ** Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd, 
 And traced its bonnie howes and haughs, 
 
 Where Unties sang and lambkins play'd. 
 
134 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 I sat me down upon a craig, 
 
 And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
 
 When, from the eddying deep below, 
 Uprose the genius of the stream. 
 
 Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 
 
 And troubled, like his wintry wave, 
 And deep, as sughs the boding wind 
 
 Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave 
 "And came ye here, my son," he cried, 
 
 " To wander in my birken shade ? 
 To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 
 
 Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 
 
 " There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 
 
 Ye might hae seen me in my pride, 
 When a' my banks sae bravely saw 
 
 Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
 When hanging beech and spreading elm 
 
 Shaded my stream sae clear and cool ; 
 And stately oaks their twisted arms 
 
 Threw broad and dark across the pool ; 
 
 "When, glinting through the trees, appear'd 
 The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
 
 And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 
 That slowly curled up the hill. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 135 
 
 But now the cot is bare and cauld, 
 
 Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
 And scarce a stinted birk is left 
 
 To shiver in the blast its lane." 
 
 " Alas 1 " said I, " what ruefu' chance 
 
 Has twined ye o' your stately trees ? 
 Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 
 
 Has stripped the cleading o' your braes ? 
 Was it the bitter eastern blast, 
 
 That scatters blight in early spring ? 
 Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs, 
 
 Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ? " 
 
 " Nae eastlan' blast," the sprite replied ; 
 
 " It blew na here sae fierce and fell, 
 And on my dry and halesome banks 
 
 Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
 Man ! cruel man ! " the genius sigh'd 
 
 As through the cliffs he sank him down, 
 "The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees, 
 
 That reptile wears a ducal crown." 
 
136 SELECTED POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 THERE'S NAETHIN LIKE THE HONEST 
 NAPPY. 
 
 HpHERE'S naethin like the honest nappy ! 
 
 -*- Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, 
 Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 
 
 'Tween morn an' morn, 
 As them wha like to taste the drappie 
 
 In glass or horn. 
 
 I've seen me daez't upon a time ; 
 I scarce could wink or see a styme ; 
 Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, 
 
 Ought less is little, 
 Then back I rattle on the rhyme 
 
 As gleg's a whittle 1 
 
SONGS. 
 
MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. 
 
 WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, 
 Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
 And owsen frae the furrow'd field 
 Return sae dowf and wearie O ; 
 Down by the burn, where scented birks 
 
 Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
 I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 
 In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
 
 I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
 If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 
 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 
 
 And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
 I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 
140 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 
 
 To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
 At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 
 
 Alang the burn to steer, my jo ; 
 Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, 
 
 It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
 To meet thee on the lea-rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 
 AULD ROB MORRIS. 
 
 HHHERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
 
 -* He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld men ; 
 He has gowd in his coffers, he has sheep, he has kine, 
 And ae bonie lassie, his darling and mine. 
 
 She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
 She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
 As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
 And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 
 
 But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
 And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard : 
 A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed ; 
 The wounds I maun hide that will soon be my dead. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 141 
 
 The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
 The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
 I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, 
 And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my breast. 
 
 had she but been of a lower degree, 
 
 1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! 
 O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
 As now my distraction no words can express ! 
 
 MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 
 
 HE is a winsome wee thing, 
 ^-5 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a bonie wee thing, 
 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 1 never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never loe'd a dearer, 
 
 And neist my'heart I'll wear her, 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a bonie wee thing, 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
142 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The world's wrack, we share o't, 
 The warstle and the care o't ; 
 Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. 
 
 T^UNCAN Gray cam' here to woo, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 On blyth yule-night when we were fu', 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 MAGGIE coost her head fu' high, 
 Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
 Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 Meg was deaf as AILSA CRAIG, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Duncan sigh'd, both out and in, 
 Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
 Spak o' lowping o'er a linn ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 143 
 
 Time and chance are but a tide, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Slighted love is sair to bide, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
 For a haughty hizzie die ? 
 She may gae to France for me ! 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 How it comes, let Doctors tell, 
 
 Ha. ha, the wooing o't ; 
 
 Meg grew sick, as he grew hale, 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Something in her bosom wrings, 
 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 
 And oh ! her een they spak sic things ! 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
 
 Maggie's was a piteous case, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan cou'dna be her death, 
 
 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
 
 Now they're crouse and canty baith ! 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
144 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 BRAW LADS ON YARROW BRAES. 
 
 BRAW, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
 Ye wander thro' the blooming heather ; 
 But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
 Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 
 
 But there is ane, a secret ane, 
 Aboon them a' I loo him better : 
 
 And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
 The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 
 
 Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
 And tho' I hae na meikle tocher ; 
 
 Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
 
 We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. 
 
 It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
 That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 
 
 The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
 O that's the warld's chiefest treasure ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 145 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 HERE awa, there awa, wandering WILLIE, 
 Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 
 Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 
 
 Tell me thou bring'st me my WILLIE the same. 
 
 Winter winds blew, loud and cauld, at our parting, 
 Fears for my WILLIE brought tears in my ee ; 
 
 Welcome now Simmer, and welcome my WILLIE, 
 The Simmer to Nature, my WILLIE to me. 
 
 Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers ; 
 
 How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
 Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
 
 And waft my dear Laddie ance mair to my arms. 
 
 But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his NANIE, 
 Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ; 
 
 May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
 
 But, dying, believe that my WILLIE'S my ain ! 
 
146 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 TUNE "Logan Water' 
 
 O, LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide, 
 That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
 And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
 Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
 But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
 Like Drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. 
 
 Again the merry month o' May 
 
 Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 
 
 The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
 
 The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 
 
 Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
 
 And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
 
 My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
 
 While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 
 
 Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
 Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
 Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
 Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 147 
 
 But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
 Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
 Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
 While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 
 
 O wae upon you, men o' state, 
 That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
 As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, 
 Sae may it on your heads return ! 
 How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
 The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
 But soon may peace bring happy days, 
 And Willie, hame to Logan Braes 1 
 
148 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? 
 
 TUNE " Let me in this at night" 
 
 O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet ? 
 Or art thou waking? I would wit, 
 For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
 And I would fain be in, jo. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O let me in this ae night, 
 
 This ae, ae, ae night ; 
 For pity's sake this ae night, 
 
 O rise and let me in, jo. 
 
 Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
 Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
 Tak pity on my weary feet, 
 And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
 O let me in, etc. 
 
 The bitter blast that round me blaws, 
 Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
 The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
 Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
 O let me in, etc. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 149 
 
 HER ANSWER. 
 
 OTELL na me o' wind and rain, 
 Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain, 
 Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
 I winna let you in, jo. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 I tell you now this ae nigh 
 
 This ae, ae, ae night ; 
 And ance for a' this ae night, 
 
 I winna let you in, jo. 
 
 The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
 That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
 Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
 That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
 I tell you now, etc. 
 
 The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
 Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
 Let simple maid the lesson read, 
 The weird may be her ain, jo. 
 I tell you now, etc. 
 
 The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
 Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
 Let witless, trusting, woman say 
 How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
 I tell you now, etc. 
 
150 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE. 
 
 TUNE " Humours of glen" 
 
 THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
 reckon, 
 
 Where bright beaming-summers exalt the perfume ; 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
 
 Wi' the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom : 
 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
 
 Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen ; 
 For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
 A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my JEAN. 
 
 Tho 5 rich is the breeze in their gay sunny vallies, 
 
 And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
 Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 
 
 What are they ? The haunt of the Tyrant and Slave 
 The Slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
 
 The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
 He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
 
 Save LOVE'S willing fetters, the chains o' his JEAN. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 151 
 
 LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER CAM' DOWN 
 THE LANG GLEN. QAM^ 
 TUNE" Lothian Lassie" 
 
 LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
 And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
 I said, there was naething I hated like men, 
 
 The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe me, 
 The deuce gae wi' him to believe me. 
 
 He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, 
 
 And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
 I said he might die when he liked for Jean ; 
 
 The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
 
 The Lord forgie me for lying ! 
 
 A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 
 And marriage aff hand, were his proffers : 
 
 I never loot on that I kend it, or car'd, 
 
 But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 
 But thought I might hae waur offers. 
 
 But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
 
 The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
 He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
 
152 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Guess ye how the jad ! I could bear her, could bear her 
 Guess ye how the jad I I could bear her. 
 
 But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care, 
 
 I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock ; 
 And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
 
 I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
 
 I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 
 
 But owre my left shouther I ga'e him a blink, 
 
 Lest neebors might say I was saucy : 
 My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 
 
 . , ' 
 
 I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
 
 If she had recover'd her hearing ; 
 And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet ; 
 But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearing, a-swearing, 
 But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearing. 
 
 He begged, for gude-sake ! I wad be his wife, 
 
 Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 
 So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
 
 I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
 
 I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 153 
 
 BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
 
 TUNB " Andro and his cuttle gun. " 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Blythe, Blythe and merry was she, 
 
 Blythe was she but and ben : 
 Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
 
 And blythe in Glenturit glen. 
 
 T) Y Ochtertyre grows the aik, 
 J~J On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 
 But Phemie was a bonier lass 
 Than braes o' -Yarrow ever saw. 
 Blythe, etc. 
 
 Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
 Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 
 
 She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
 As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
 Blythe, etc. 
 
 Her bonie face it was as meek 
 
 As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
 The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
 
 As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
 Blythe, etc. 
 
154 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
 And o'er the Lawlands I hae been ; 
 
 But Phemie was the blythest lass 
 That ever trode the dewy green. 
 Blythe, &c. 
 
 I LOVE MY JEAN. 
 
 TUNE "Mrs. Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 
 
 OA' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonie Lassie lives, 
 
 The Lassie I lo'e best : 
 There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And mony a hill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air : 
 There's not a bonie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, 
 There's not a bonie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 155 
 
 WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 
 
 O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, 
 And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
 Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 
 Ye wad na find in Christendie. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 We are na fou, we're nae that fou, 
 
 But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
 The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
 
 And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 
 
 Here are we met, three merry boys, 
 Three merry boys I trow are we ; 
 
 And mony a night we've merry been, 
 And mony mae we hope to be ! 
 We are na fou, etc. 
 
 It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
 That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
 
 She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
 But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
 We are na fou, etc. 
 
156 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
 A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
 
 Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
 He is the king among us three ! 
 We are na fou, etc. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, 
 When we were first Acquent ; 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 Your bony brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is beld, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 John Anderson my Jo. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And mony a canty day John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go ; 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson my Jo. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 157 
 
 GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. 
 
 GANE is the day and mirk's the night, 
 But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
 For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
 And bluid-red wine's the risin' Sun. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the lawin, 
 Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a coggie 
 
 There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
 And semple-folk maun fecht and fen', 
 But here we're a' in ae accord, 
 For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
 Then guidwife count, etc. 
 
 My coggie is a haly pool, 
 That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
 And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
 An' ye drink it a', ye'll find him out. 
 Then guidwife count, etc. 
 
158 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN 
 AULD MAN. 
 
 TUNE * : What can a Lassie do" 
 
 "\ T 7 HAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
 
 V What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
 Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my Minnie 
 To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
 
 He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
 He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang : 
 
 He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 
 O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
 
 He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
 I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
 
 He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows, 
 O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 
 
 My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
 I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
 
 I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
 And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 159 
 
 O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! 
 
 TUNE" The Mondiewort." 
 
 CHORUS. 
 An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 
 An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
 
 An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
 
 THEY snool me sair, and baud me down, 
 And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ; 
 But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
 And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn. 
 An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 
 An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
 An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
 
 A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
 Was left me by my Auntie, Tarn ; 
 
 At kith or kin I need na spier, 
 An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
 
i6o SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 
 An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn 1 
 I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
 
 An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
 
 They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
 
 Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tarn ; 
 But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
 I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 
 An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
 I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
 An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
 
 BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 TUNE "Bottom of the Punch Bowl" 
 
 OLEEZE me on my spinning wheel, 
 And leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
 Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
 And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
 I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
 While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
 Blest wi' content, and milk and meal 
 O leeze me on my spinnin wheel. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 161 
 
 On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
 And meet below my theekit cot ; 
 The scented birk and hawthorn white 
 Across the pool their arms unite, 
 Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
 And little fishes' caller rest : 
 The sun blinks kindly in the bier, 
 Where, blythe I turn my spinnin wheel. 
 
 On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
 And Echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
 The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
 Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
 The craik amang the claver hay, 
 The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
 The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
 Amuse me at my spinnin wheel. 
 
 Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
 Aboon distress, below envy, 
 O wha wad leave this humble state, 
 For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
 Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
 Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
 Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
 Of Bessy at her spinnin wheel ? 
 
1 62 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Y 
 
 THE BANKS O' BOON. 
 
 TUNE" The Caledonian Hunt's delight" 
 
 'E Banks and braes o' borne Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
 Thou'lt break my heart thou warbling bird, 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
 Departed never to return. 
 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 And my fause luver stole my rose, 
 
 But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 163 
 
 VERSION PRINTED IN THE MUSICAL 
 MUSEUM. 
 
 YE flowery banks o' bonie Boon, 
 How can ye blume sae fair ; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 And I sae fu' o' care ! 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
 
 That sings upon the bough ; 
 Thou minds me o' the happy days 
 
 When my fause luve was true. 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 
 To see the wood-bine twine, 
 
 And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
 And sae did I o' mine. 
 
164 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
 Frae off its thorny tree ; 
 
 And my fause luver staw the rose, 
 But left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 FOR THE SAKE O' SOMEBODY. 
 
 TUNE" The Highland Watch's farewell." 
 
 MY heart is sair, I dare na tell, 
 My heart is sair for Somebody ; 
 I could wake a winter night, 
 For the sake o' Somebody ! 
 Oh-hon ! for Somebody ! 
 Oh-hey ! for Somebody ! 
 I could range the world around 
 For the sake o' Somebody ! 
 
 Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love, 
 
 O, sweetly smile on Somebody ! 
 Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
 And send me safe my Somebody. 
 Oh-hon ! for Somebody ! 
 Oh-hey ! for Somebody ! 
 I wad do what wad I not ? 
 For the sake o' Somebody ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 165 
 
 O MAY, THY MORN. 
 
 OMAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
 As the mirk night o' December ; 
 For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
 And private was the chamber : 
 And dear was she I dare na name, 
 But I will aye remember. 
 And dear, etc. 
 
 And here's to them, that, like oursel, 
 
 Can push about the jorum, 
 And here's to them that wish us weel, 
 
 May a' that's guid watch o'er them ; 
 And here's to them we dare na tell, 
 
 The dearest o' the quorum. 
 And here's to, etc. 
 
166 - SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 
 
 r T^HE lovely lass o' Inverness, 
 
 J" Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
 For e'en and morn she cries, Alas ! 
 
 And aye the saut tear blins her ee : 
 Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 
 
 A waefu' day it was to me ; 
 For there I lost my father dear, 
 
 My father dear and brethren three. 
 
 Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 
 
 Their graves are growing green to see ; 
 And by them lies the dearest lad 
 
 That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
 Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, 
 
 A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
 For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 
 
 That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee I 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 167 
 
 A RED, RED ROSE. 
 
 TUNE " Wishavus favourite" 
 
 O, MY Luve's like a red, red rose 
 That's newly sprung in June ; 
 0, my Luve's like the melodic 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonie lass, 
 
 So deep in luve am I : 
 And I will luve thee still, my Dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 
 
 And I will luve thee still, my Dear, 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
 And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 
 
 And fare thee weel, awhile ! 
 And I will come again, my Luve, 
 
 Tho' it ware ten thousand mile I 
 
1 58 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 ADDRESS TO A LADY. 
 
 OH wert thou in the cauld blast, 
 On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
 My plaidie to the angry airt, 
 
 I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
 Or did misfortune's bitter storms 
 
 Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
 Thy beild should be my bosom, 
 To share it a' to share it a'. 
 
 Or were I in the wildest waste, 
 
 Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
 The desart were a paradise, 
 
 If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
 Or were I Monarch o' the globe, 
 
 Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
 The brightest jewel in my crown 
 
 Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 169 
 
 UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
 
 blaws the wind frae east to west, 
 ' The drift is driving sairly ; 
 Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Up in the morning's no for me, 
 
 Up in the morning early ; 
 When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 
 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
 
 A' day they fare but sparely ; 
 And lang's the night frae e'en to morn 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 Up in the morning's no for me, 
 
 Up in the morning early ; 
 When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
170 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 171 
 
 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 MY heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
 A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
 The birthplace of Valour, the country of Worth ; 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 
 
 Farewell to the mountains high-cover'd with snow ; 
 Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : 
 Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer : 
 A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe ; 
 My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 
172 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 
 
 A Galic Air. 
 
 r I ^HERE'S a youth in this city, it were a great pity 
 -*- That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
 For he's bonie and braw, weel favour'd witha', 
 
 And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
 His coat is the hue o' his bonnet sae blue ; 
 
 His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
 His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 
 And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
 His coat is the hue, etc. 
 
 For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 
 
 Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw ; 
 But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 
 
 The Pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
 There's Meg wi T the mailin that fain wad a haen him, 
 
 And Susy, whase daddy was Laird o' the Ha'; 
 There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy 
 
 But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 173 
 
 AE FOND KISS. 
 
 AE fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae fareweel, and then for ever I 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
 While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy : 
 But to see her was to love her ; 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
 Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
 Never met or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure ! 
 
174 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 
 Ae fareweel, Alas ! for ever ! 
 
 Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
 OUT OVER THE FORTH. 
 
 OUT over the Forth, I look to the North ; 
 But what is the North and its Highlands to me ? 
 The South nor the East gie ease to my breast, 
 The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 
 
 But I look to the West when I gae to rest, 
 
 That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 
 
 For far in the West lives he I loe best, 
 The man that is dear to my babie and me. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 175 
 
 JOHN BARLEYCORN. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 was three kings into the east, 
 J- Three kings both great and high, 
 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 John Barleycorn should die. 
 
 They took a plough and plough'd him down, 
 
 Put clods upon his head, 
 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 
 John Barleycorn was dead. 
 
 But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on, 
 
 And show'rs began to fall ; 
 John Barleycorn got up again, 
 
 And sore surpris'd them all. 
 
 The sultry suns of Summer came, 
 
 And he grew thick and strong, 
 His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
 
 That no one should him wrong. 
 
176 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The sober Autumn enter'd mild, 
 When he grew wan and pale ; 
 
 His bending joints and drooping head 
 Show'd he began to fail. 
 
 His colour sicken'd more and more, 
 
 He faded into age ; 
 And then his enemies began 
 
 To show their deadly rage. 
 
 They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, 
 And cut him by the knee ; 
 
 Then tied him fast upon a cart, 
 Like a rogue for forgerie. 
 
 They laid him down upon his back. 
 And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
 
 They hung him up before the storm. 
 And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 
 
 They filled up a darksome pit 
 
 With water to the brim, 
 They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
 
 There let him sink or swim. 
 
 They laid him out upon the floor, 
 To work him farther woe, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 177 
 
 And still, as signs of life appear'd, 
 They toss'd him to and fro. 
 
 They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 
 
 The marrow of his bones ; 
 But a Miller us'd him worst of all, 
 
 For he crush'd him between two stones. 
 
 And they hae taen his very heart's blood, 
 
 And drank it round and round ; 
 And still the more and more they drank, 
 
 Their joy did more abound. 
 
 John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 
 
 Of noble enterprise *, 
 For if you do but taste his blood, 
 
 'Twill make your courage rise. 
 
 'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 
 
 'Twill heighten all his joy : 
 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 
 
 Tho' the tear were in her eye. 
 
 Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
 
 Each man a glass in hand ; 
 And may his great posterity 
 
 Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 
 
178 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 
 
 TUNE *' Corn rigs are bonie" 
 
 IT was upon a Lammas night, 
 When corn rigs are bonie, 
 Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 
 
 I held awa to Annie : 
 The time flew by, wi' tentless head, 
 
 Till, 'tween the late and early, 
 Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 
 To see me thro' the barley 
 
 II. 
 
 The sky was blue, the wind was still, 
 
 The moon was shining clearly ; 
 I set her down, wi' right good will, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley : 
 I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 
 
 I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
 I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 179 
 
 in. 
 
 I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 
 
 Her heart was beating rarely : 
 My blessings on that happy place, 
 
 Amang the rigs c* barley ! 
 But by the moon and stars so bright, 
 
 That shone that hour so clearly ! 
 She ay shall bless that happy night 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I hae been blythe wi' Comrades dear ; 
 
 I hae been merry drinking ; 
 I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear ; 
 
 I hae been happy thinking : 
 But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
 
 Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 
 That happy night was worth them a', 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, 
 An' corn rigs are bonie : 
 
 I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
 Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 
 
i8o SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 SONG. 
 
 TUNE" My Nanie, O." 
 
 T> EHIND yon hills where Stinchar flows, 
 -L' 'Mang moors an* mosses many, O, 
 The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
 And I'll awa' to Nanie, O. 
 
 The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 
 
 The night's baith mirk and rainy, O : 
 But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal, 
 
 An* owre the hill to Nanie, O. 
 
 My Nanie's charming, sweet an' young ; 
 
 Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 
 May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
 
 That wad beguile my Nanie, O. 
 
 Her face is fair, her heart is true ; 
 
 As spotless as she's bonie, O ; 
 The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
 
 Nae purer is than Nanie, O. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 181 
 
 A country lad is my degree, 
 
 An' few there be that ken me, O ; 
 
 But what care I how few they be, 
 I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O. 
 
 My riches a's my penny-fee, 
 
 An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
 But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
 
 My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O. 
 
 Our auld Guidman delights to view 
 His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O ; 
 
 But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, 
 An* has nae care but Nanie, O. 
 
 Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
 I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O : 
 
 Nae ither care in life have I, 
 But live, an' love my Nanie, O. 
 
182 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O ; 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ; 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 
 Are spent amang the lasses, O. 
 
 I. 
 
 HERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han', 
 -L In ev'ry hour that passes, O : 
 What signifies the life o' man, 
 An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 11. 
 
 The warly race may riches chase, 
 An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
 
 An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 183 
 
 in. 
 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 
 My arms about my Dearie, O ; 
 An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
 
 May a j gae tapsalteerie, O ! 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : 
 
 The wisest Man the warl' saw, 
 He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, etc. 
 
 v. 
 
 Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears 
 
 Her noblest work she classes, O ; 
 
 Her prentice han' she try'd on man, 
 
 An' then she made the lasses, O. 
 
 Green grow, etc. 
 h * * * 
 
184 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 YE BANKS, AND BRAES, AND STREAMS 
 AROUND. 
 
 TUNE " Katharine Ogie" 
 
 YE banks, and braes, and streams around 
 The castle of Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry : 
 
 For there I took the last farewell 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
 As underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp 'd her to my bosom ! 
 The golden Hours, on angel wings 
 
 Flew o'er me and my Dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life, 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 
^ 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 185 
 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder. 
 But oh ! fell Death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my Flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary 1 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And closed for ay, the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwalt on me sae kindly ! 
 And mouldering now in silent dust, 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 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. 
 
186 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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, etc. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 And pou'd the go wans fine ; 
 
 But we've wander'd mony a weary fitt 
 Sin* auld lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 We twa hae paidlet i' the burn, 
 Fra' morning sun till dine ; 
 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And there's a hand, my trusty fiere i 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ! 
 And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, etc. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 187 
 
 BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 
 AT BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 TUNE "Hey tuttie tattic" 
 
 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 Slavery ! 
 
 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 ; 
 Free-man stand, or Free-man fa', 
 Let him on wi' me. 
 
1 88 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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 ! ! ! 
 
 So may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberty, as he 
 did that day ! Amen ! R. B. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 IS there, for honest poverty 
 That hangs his head, an' a' that ; 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Our toils obscure and a' that, 
 The rank is but a guinea's stamp ; 
 The Man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine, 
 Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that ; 
 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 A Man's a Man for a' that : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 189 
 
 For a' that, an' a* that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, an' a' that ; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that ; 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 He's but a coof for a' that : 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 His ribband, star, an' a' that, 
 The man o' independent mind, 
 He looks an' laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 Quid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their dignities, an' 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, 
 
 Should bear the gree, an' a' that 
 
igo SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 It's comin yet for a* that, 
 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 TUNE "Push about the jorum." 
 
 ^ 1795. 
 
 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, x 
 
 And Criffel 2 sink to Sol way, 
 Ere we permit a foreign foe 
 On British ground to rally ! 
 
 Fall de rail, etc. 
 
 O let us not like snarling tykes 
 
 In wrangling be divided ; . 
 Till, slap ! come in an unco loon 
 
 And wi' a rung decide it. 
 
 1 Corsincon, a high hill at the source of the river Nith. 
 
 2 Criffel, a mountain at the mouth of the same river. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 191 
 
 Be Britain still to Britain true, 
 
 Amang oursels united ; 
 For never but by British hands 
 
 Maun British wrangs be righted ! 
 Fall de rail, etc. 
 
 The kettle o' the kirk and state, 
 
 Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
 But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
 
 Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
 Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 
 
 And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
 By Heav'ns ! the sacrilegious dog 
 
 Shall fuel be to boil it ! 
 
 Fall de rail, etc. 
 
 The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 
 
 And the wretch his true-born brother, 
 Who would 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 ne'er forget the people. 
 
192 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 TUNE" Bide ye yet. ' 
 
 OMARY, at thy window be, 
 It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see, 
 
 That make the miser's treasure poor : 
 How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
 
 The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
 Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 193 
 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
 O SAW YE BONIE LESLEY. 
 TUNE" The Colliers bonie Lassie.'' 
 
 OSAW ye bonie Lesley, 
 As she gaed o'er the border ? 
 She's gane, like Alexander, 
 
 To spread her conquests farther. 
 To see her, is to love her, 
 
 And love but her for ever ; 
 For Nature made her what she is, 
 And never made anither ! 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
 
 Thy subjects we before thee : 
 Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 
 The hearts of men adore thee. 
 The Deil he cou'dna scaith thee, 
 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ! 
 He'd look into thy bonie face, 
 
 And say, " I canna wrang thee." 
 o 
 
194 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The Powers aboon will tent thee, 
 
 Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
 Thou'rt like themsels sae lovely, 
 
 That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 
 Return again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie ! 
 That we may brag we hae a lass 
 
 There's nane again sae bonie. 
 
 WOMEN'S MINDS. 
 TUNE "Fora* that" 
 
 THO' women's minds, like winter winds 
 May shift and turn, and a' that, 
 The noblest breast adores them maist, 
 A consequence I draw that. 
 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 And twice as meikle's a' that, 
 
 The bonie lass that I loe best 
 She'll be my ain for a' that. 
 
 Great love I bear to all the fair, 
 Their humble slave, and a' that ; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 195 
 
 But lordly will, I hold it still 
 A mortal sin to thraw that. 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
 But there is ane aboon the lave, 
 
 Has wit, and sense, and a' that ; 
 A bonie lass, I like her best, 
 
 And wha a crime dare ca' that ? 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
 In rapture sweet this hour we meet, 
 
 Wi' mutual love, an' a' that; 
 But for how lang the flie may stang, 
 
 Let inclination law that. 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
 Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft, 
 
 They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 
 But clear your decks, and here's "The Sex!" 
 
 I like the jades for a' that. 
 For a' that, etc. 
 
I 9 6 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 TUNE " Miss Forbes* farewell to Banff" 
 
 lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
 J- That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget ? 
 
 Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
 Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace, 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild-woods, thick'ning green ; 
 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene : 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 197 
 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser-care ! 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 PATRIOTIC SONG. 
 
 T T ERE'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' I 
 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. 
 
198 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 II ere's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa-, 
 
 Here's a health to Charlie the chief o' the clan, 
 
 Altho' that his band be sma'. 
 
 May Liberty meet wi' success ! 
 
 May Prudence protect her frae evil ! 
 
 May tyrants and tyranny tine i' 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 ! 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 199 
 
 AWA WHIGS, AWA. 
 
 CHORUS. Awa Whigs, awa I 
 
 Awa Whigs, awa ! 
 Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 
 Ye'll do nae good at a'. 
 
 OUR thrissles flourish 'd fresh and fair, 
 And bonie bloom'd our roses ; 
 But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
 And wither'd a' our posies. 
 
 Awa Whigs, awa ! 
 
 Awa Whigs, awa ! 
 Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 
 
 Ye'll do nae good at a*. 
 
 Our ancient crown's fa'en in the dust ; 
 
 Deil blin* them wi' the stoure o't ! 
 And write their names in his black beuk, 
 
 Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 
 Awa Whigs, etc. 
 
 Our sad decay in church and state 
 Surpasses my descriving : 
 
200 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The Whigs cam o'er us for a curse, 
 And we hae done wi' thriving. 
 
 Awa Whigs, etc. 
 
 Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 
 But we may see him wauken : 
 
 Gude help the day when Royal heads 
 Are hunted like a mauken ! 
 
 Awa Whigs, awa ! 
 
 Awa Whigs, awa ! 
 Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 
 
 Ye'll do nae gude at a'. 
 
 BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER. 
 
 TUNE "Galla, Water" 
 
 CHORUS. Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; 
 
 O braw lads of Galla Water : 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
 And follow my love through the water. 
 
 Q* AE fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
 O Sae bonie blue her een, my dearie ; 
 Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
 The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 201 
 
 O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, 
 
 O'er yon moss amang the heather; 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
 
 And follow my love through the water. 
 
 Down amang the broom, the broom, 
 
 Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
 The lassie lost a silken snood, 
 
 That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. 
 Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; 
 
 O braw lads of Galla Water: 
 I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
 And follow my love through the water. 
 
 COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 
 
 TUNE" Coming through the rye" 
 
 /DOMING through the rye, poor body, 
 ^-* Coming through the rye, 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. f 
 
 Jenny's a' _wat, poor body, v ^ 
 
 Jenny's seldom dry; 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 
202 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 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 ? 
 Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; 
 
 Jenny's seldom dry ; 
 She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the rye. 
 
 HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 
 
 TUNE" The Dusty Miller" 
 
 HEY, the Dusty Miller, 
 And his dusty coat ; 
 He will win a shilling, 
 Or he spend a groat. 
 Dusty was the coat, 
 
 Dusty was the colour, 
 Dusty was the kiss 
 That I got frae the Miller. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 203 
 
 Hey, the dusty Miller, 
 And his dusty sack ; 
 Leeze me on the calling 
 Fills the dusty peck : 
 Fills the dusty peck, 
 
 Brings the dusty siller ; 
 I wad gie my coatie 
 For the dusty Miller. 
 
 THE CARDIN' O'T. 
 
 TUNE "Salt Fish and Dumplings" 
 
 ICOFT a stane o' haslock woo', 
 To make a wab to Johnie o't ; 
 For Johnie is my only jo, 
 I lo'e him best of onie yet. 
 The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 
 
 The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
 When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
 The taylor staw the lynin o't. 
 
 For though his locks be lyart gray, 
 And though his brow be beld aboon, 
 
 Yet I hae seen him on a day 
 The pride of a' the parishen. 
 
204 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 
 The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
 
 When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
 The tailor staw the lynin o't. 
 
 IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING. 
 
 T T was a' for our rightfu' king 
 
 * We left fair Scotland's strand ; 
 
 It was a' for our rightfu' king 
 
 We e'er saw Irish land 
 
 My dear, 
 
 We e'er saw Irish land. 
 
 Now a' is done that men can do, 
 
 And a' is done in vain : 
 My Love and Native Land farewell, 
 
 For I maun cross the main, 
 My dear, 
 
 For I maun cross the main. 
 
 He turn'd him right and round about, 
 
 Upon the Irish shore ; 
 And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 205 
 
 With adieu for evermore, 
 
 My dear, 
 
 With adieu for evermore. 
 
 The soger frae the wars returns, 
 
 The sailor frae the main ; 
 But I hae parted frae my Love, 
 
 Never to meet again, 
 
 My dear, 
 
 Never to meet again. 
 
 When day is gane, and night is come, 
 
 And a' folk bound to sleep ; 
 I think on him that's far awa', 
 
 The lee-lang night and weep, 
 My dear, 
 
 The lee-lang night, and weep. 
 
 O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE. 
 
 TUNE" O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie" 
 
 O KENMURE'S on and awa, Willie, 
 O Kenmure's on and awa ; 
 An' Kenmure's Lord's the bravest Lord 
 That ever Galloway saw. 
 
206 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 
 
 Success to Kenmure's band ! 
 There's no a heart that fears a Whig 
 
 That rides by Kenmure's hand. 
 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 
 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! 
 There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 
 
 Nor yet o' Gordon's Line. 
 
 O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, 
 
 O Kenmure's lads are men ; 
 Their hearts and swords are metal true, 
 
 And that their faes shall ken. 
 
 They'll live, or die wi' fame, Willie, 
 
 They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
 But soon, wi' sounding Victorie, 
 
 May Kenmure's Lord come hame ! 
 
 Here's Him that's far awa, Willie ! 
 
 Here's Him that's far awa ! 
 And here's the flower that I loe best, 
 
 The rose that's like the snaw. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 207 
 
 SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 
 
 TUNE " 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 weary : 
 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 bonie lad 
 And I bleer my een with greetin'. 
 Ay waukin O, 
 
 Waukin still and weary ; 
 Sleep I can get nane 
 
 For thinking on my Dearie. 
 
208 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
 
 1umL"Ifthou'ltplay me fair play. n 
 
 HP HE boniest lad that e'er I saw, 
 -- Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, 
 
 Bonie Highland laddie. 
 On his head a bonnet blue, 
 
 Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 His royal heart was firm and true, 
 
 Bonie Highland laddie. 
 
 Trumpets sound and cannons roar, 
 
 Bonie lassie, Lawland lassie, 
 And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 
 
 Bonie Lawland lassie. 
 Glory, Honour, now invite, 
 
 Bonie lassie, Lawland lassie, 
 For Freedom and my King to fight, 
 
 Bonie Lawland lassie. 
 
 The sun a backward course shall take, 
 Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 
 Ere aught thy manly courage shake ; 
 Bonie Highland laddie. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 209 
 
 Go, for yoursel procure renown, 
 
 Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
 And for your lawful King his crown, 
 
 Bonie Highland laddie ! 
 
 WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. 
 TUNE " Duncan Gray" 
 
 T T 7EARY fa' you, Duncan Gray 
 
 * Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
 Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
 When a' the lave gae to their play, 
 Then I maun sit the lee-lang day, 
 And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 
 
 And a' for the girdin o't. 
 
 Bonnie was the Lammas moon 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
 Glowrin' a' the hills aboon 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
 The girdin brak, the beast cam down, 
 I tint my curch, and baith my shoon 
 Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon 
 
 Wae on the bad girdin o't ! 
 P 
 
210 SELECTED POEMS OF 
 
 But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
 Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath 
 
 Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
 Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
 The beast again can bear us baith, 
 And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, 
 
 And clout the bad girdin o't. 
 
 YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 
 TUNE" Ye Jacobites by name" 
 
 E Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear ; 
 * Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
 Ye Jacobites by name, 
 Your fautes I will proclaim, 
 Your doctrines I maun blame, 
 You shall hear. 
 
 What is Right and what is Wrang, by the law, by the 
 
 law? 
 
 What is Right and what is Wrang by the law ? 
 What is Right and what is Wrang ? 
 A short sword, and a lang, 
 A weak arm, and a strang 
 For to draw. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 211 
 
 What makes heroic strife, fam'd a far, fam'd a far ? 
 What makes heroic strife fam'd afar ? 
 
 What makes heroic strife ? 
 
 To whet th' assassin's knife, 
 Or hunt a Parent's life 
 
 Wi' bludie war ? 
 
 Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state : 
 Then let your schemes alone, in the state ; 
 
 Then let your schemes alone, 
 
 Adore the rising sun, 
 And leave a man undone ' 
 To his fate. 
 
 WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 
 
 WHAN I sleep I dream, 
 Whan I wauk I'm eerie, 
 Sleep I canna get, 
 
 For thinkin' o' my dearie. 
 
 Lanely night comes on, 
 A' the house are sleeping, 
 
 I think on the bonie lad 
 
 That has my heart a keeping. 
 
212 SELECTED POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 Ay waukin O, waukin ay and wearie, 
 Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' my dearie, 
 
 Lanely night comes on, 
 A' the house are sleeping, 
 
 I think on my bonie lad, 
 
 An' I bleer my een wi' greetin' ! 
 Ay waukin, etc. 
 
 WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 WHEN I think on the happy days 
 I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 
 And now what lands between us lie, 
 How can I be but eerie ! 
 
 How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
 
 As ye were wae and weary ! 
 It was na sae ye glinten by 
 
 When I was wi' my dearie. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Abeigh, at a shy distance. 
 
 Ac, one. 
 
 Aiblins, perhaps. 
 
 Aim, iron. 
 
 Airt, quarter of the compass. 
 
 Aizle, a hot cinder. 
 
 A-kennin, knowingly. 
 
 Ase, wood ashes. 
 
 Ask lent, aslant. 
 
 A steer, abroad, astir. 
 
 Aumos, alms. 
 
 Awnie, bearded. 
 
 Backet, bucket. 
 
 Bairn-time, a brood of children. 
 
 Barley-brie, barley-brew; beer. 
 
 Bauckie, a bat. 
 
 Bank, a cross beam. 
 
 Baws'nt, having a white stripe 
 
 down the face. 
 Bear, barley. 
 Beets, boots. 
 Beild, a shelter. 
 Belyve, presently. 
 Ben, within, the room within, or 
 
 parlour. 
 
 Bicker, a wooden dish. 
 
 Biggin, building. 
 
 Billies, young fellows. 
 
 Bing, a heap. 
 
 Birk, birch. 
 
 Birken, of birch. 
 
 Birken-shaw, wood of birch. 
 
 Birkie, a clever fellow. 
 
 Blate, bashful. 
 
 Bleary, with wet eyes ; blirt and 
 
 bleary = outburst of grief with 
 
 tears. 
 
 Bleeze, to blaze. 
 Bleezing, blazing. 
 Blellum, an idle chatterer. 
 Blethering, an idle talker. 
 Blethers, foolish talk. 
 Blinker, a. term of contempt. 
 Blirt, outburst of grief. 
 Blue-clue, a ball of blue worsted. 
 Bluntie, a stupid person. 
 Blype, a shred. 
 Boddle, a small copper coin. 
 Bogle, a ghost. 
 Boortrie, an elder-bush. 
 Bore, a cranny. 
 
216 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Bow-kail, cabbage. 
 
 Brae, a hill slope. 
 
 Braing, to plunge, or fret. 
 
 Brash, a sudden illness. 
 
 Brattle, a short race. 
 
 Braiv, fine. 
 
 Brawlie, finely. 
 
 Braxie, a diseased sheep. 
 
 Breckan, bracken. 
 
 Bree, brew. 
 
 Brent, bright. 
 
 Brisket, breast. 
 
 Brogue, a trick. 
 
 Broo, broth. 
 
 Broose, broth. 
 
 Brugh, a burgh, town. 
 
 Brulzie, a broil. 
 
 Brunt, burnt. 
 
 Buckskin, a Virginian. 
 
 Bughiin-time, the time for folding 
 
 sheep. 
 
 Buirdly, stoutly made. 
 Bum-clock, a cockchafer. 
 Bure, bore, past tense of bear. 
 Burn, a small stream. 
 Busk, to dress. 
 But and ben, without and within 
 
 = the kitchen and parlour. 
 Byke, a bee-hive. 
 
 Caddie^ a porter ; street servant. 
 Caird, a gipsy. 
 Callan, a boy. 
 Callet, a whore. 
 Caller, or callor, fresh. 
 Cannie, crafty. 
 
 Canny, gentle. 
 
 Cantie, cheerful. 
 
 Cantraip, a charm or spell. 
 
 Cant, to tell merry tales. 
 
 Carlin, an old woman. 
 
 Cauk, chalk. 
 
 Causey, causeway. 
 
 Cavie, a hencoop. 
 
 Chield, child. 
 
 Chiel, child. 
 
 Chuck, a hen = a woman. 
 
 Claut, a heap. 
 
 Cleading, clothing. 
 
 Cleed, to clothe. 
 
 C7*, to hook. 
 
 Clishmaclaver, idle talk. 
 
 Clockin' time, hatching time. 
 
 Clootie, hoofed one; a name foi 
 
 the devil. 
 Clour, a lump. 
 Coble, a boat. 
 Cqft, bought. 
 
 Cog, coggie, a wooden dish. 
 Cood, the cud. 
 Coof, a blockhead. 
 Coost, cast.- 
 Cootie, a small tub. 
 Core, a corps. 
 Corn't, to feed with oats. 
 Couthy, kind. 
 Cowe, a set down. 
 Crabbet, fretful. 
 Crack, to talk. 
 Crack, a chat. 
 
 Craig, craigie, the neck, or throat. 
 Cranreuch, hoar-frost. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 217 
 
 Creel, a basket; to have one's 
 senses in a creel = to be con- 
 fused. 
 
 Creeshie, greasy. 
 
 Croon t to hum. 
 
 Croose, crouse, cheerful. 
 
 Crouchie, crook-backed. 
 
 Crowdie, porridge ; crowdie-time = 
 breakfast time. 
 
 Crummock, a cow with crooked 
 horns. 
 
 Crump, crisp. 
 
 Grunt) a blow on the head. 
 
 Curpan, the crupper. 
 
 Cushat, the wood-pigeon. 
 * Custocks, the pith of a cabbage 
 stalk. 
 
 Cutty, short. 
 
 Baffin, foolish merriment. 
 
 Daft, foolish. 
 
 Dai I, a plank. 
 
 Daurk, a day's labour. 
 
 Dawd, a large piece. 
 
 Dawted, petted. 
 
 Deave, to deafen. 
 
 Deil, the devil. 
 
 Dight, to wipe, or clean. 
 
 Ding, to beat, surpass. 
 
 Donsie, unlucky. 
 
 Dool, sorrow. 
 
 Douce, wise. 
 
 Doure, sullen, 
 
 Douse, wise. 
 
 Dowf, weakly. 
 
 Dowie, worn out with fatigue. 
 
 Doylt, stupefied. 
 
 Dreigh, to endure. 
 
 Drouthy, thirsty. 
 
 Druntly, muddy. 
 
 Drunt, ill-humour. 
 
 Driddle, to move slowiy. 
 
 Drift, fell affthe drift = wandered 
 
 away from the company. 
 Dub, a puddle. 
 Duddie, ragged. 
 Duds, duddies, rags. 
 Dusht, pushed by an ox = dazed. 
 
 Eerie, haunted. 
 Eldritch, elvish. 
 Ettle, aim, attempt. 
 Eydent, diligent. 
 
 .Fa', he maun a fa' that = have that 
 
 as his lot. 
 
 Faddom't, measured. 
 Fain, glad. 
 Farl, an oat-cake. 
 Fash, to care for. 
 Fauld, to fold. 
 Pause-house, an empty space in a 
 
 corn-stack. 
 Fawsont, seemly. 
 Feat, neat. 
 Fecht, to fight. 
 Feck, plenty. 
 
 Fecket, a sleeved waistcoat. 
 Fell, sharp and biting. 
 Fen', defend. 
 Ferlie, wonder. 
 
218 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Fidge, to fidget. 
 
 Fie/, soft. 
 
 Fiere, a friend. 
 
 Fitt, a foot. 
 
 Fittie-lan', the near wheeler of a 
 team. 
 
 Fleech, to supplicate in a flatter- 
 ing manner. 
 
 Fley, to scare. 
 
 Flichter, to flitter. 
 
 Flingin-tree ', a flail. 
 
 Flisket, fretted. 
 
 Fodgel, short and fat. 
 
 Forbye, besides. 
 
 Fou, full = drunk. 
 
 Fouth, enough. 
 
 Fud, the scut of a hare or rabbit. 
 
 Fyke, trifling annoyance 
 
 Fyle, to soil. 
 
 Gab, the mouth = conversation 
 
 Gangrel, a wanderer. 
 
 GVzr, to cause, to make. 
 
 Gart t caused. 
 
 Gash, wise. 
 
 Gashan, talking. 
 
 Gate, way. 
 
 Gaucie, gausy, gaiucie, large. 
 
 Gear, riches, or goods. 
 
 Geordie, a guinea. 
 
 Gilpey, half-grown. 
 
 Girdle, or griddle, an iron plate 
 
 for baking cakes. 
 Girn, to grin. 
 Gizz, a wig. 
 Glaikit, foolish. 
 
 Glaizie, glittering. 
 
 Gleg, sharp-sighted. 
 
 Gleib, glebe = a portion of land 
 
 Glowr, to stare. 
 
 Glunch, to frown. 
 
 Cowans, wild flowers. 
 
 Gowd, gold. 
 
 <;/, a cuckoo = a fool. 
 
 Graip, a stable fork. 
 
 Grape, to grope. 
 
 Graith, dress or equipments. 
 
 Oatf, past tense of greet. 
 
 Gree, to agree. 
 
 Greet, to shed tears. 
 
 Gruntle, the snout. 
 
 Grushie, a protruding muzzle. 
 
 Gude-willie, liberal hearted. 
 
 Gu-llie, a large knife. 
 
 Gumlie, muddy. 
 
 Gusty, tasteful, savoury. 
 
 Haet, a very small quantity. 
 
 Haffets, the temples. 
 
 Hafflins, nearly half-, not full- 
 grown. 
 
 Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled 
 in the stomach of a cow or sheep. 
 
 Hain, to save. 
 
 Hairst, harvest. 
 
 Hale, whole. 
 
 Hallan, a turf seat against a wall. 
 
 Haly, holy. 
 
 ffan' durk, hand labour. 
 
 Hansel = hand-sale, first instal- 
 ment of a bargain. 
 
 Hap, to wrap. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 219 
 
 Happer, hopper of a mill. 
 Harn, coarse linen. 
 Hash, a careless fellow. 
 Haslock, the wool on a sheep's 
 
 neck. 
 
 HaugJts, lowlands. 
 Havrel, half-witted. 
 Hawkie, a white-faced cow. 
 Hecht, promised. 
 Herryment, plundering. 
 Heugh, a pit. 
 JJilchan, limping. 
 Hind, a farm labourer. 
 Hirple, to walk lame, to limp. 
 Hissel, a flock. 
 Histie, dry, barren. 
 Hoast, host, a cough ; to cough. 
 Hoddan, jolting. 
 Hoddin, undyed wool. 
 Hog-shouther, to justle shoulders. 
 Hatched, topsy-turvy ; mixed 
 Hool, outer skin or case. 
 Houghmagandie, fornication. 
 Howe-backet, hollow-backed. 
 Howe, hollow. 
 Howk, to dig. 
 Hoy, to urge. 
 Hoyte, to move clumsily. 
 Hunkers, the hams. 
 Hurdies, the buttocks. 
 
 Ilka, every. 
 
 Indentin, entering into an inden- 
 ture. 
 
 Jad, jade. 
 
 Jauk, to idle. 
 Jaup, to splash. 
 Jing, a petty oath. 
 Jink, to turn suddenly. 
 Jinker, sprightly. 
 Jo, a sweetheart. 
 Jocteleg, a clasp-knife. 
 Jow, to swing as a bell. 
 Jundie, to justle. 
 
 Kail, cabbage, as in sea-kale. 
 Kane, kain, fowls, etc., paid as 
 
 rent. 
 
 Kebars, rafters. 
 Kebbuck, cheese. 
 Keek, to peep. 
 Keilbaigie, whisky from Kilbaigie 
 
 distillery. 
 Kiaugh, anxiety. 
 Kirn, a churn. 
 Kitchen, to give relish to. 
 Kittle, to tickle. 
 Kiutlin, to cuddle, to fondle. 
 Knaggie, knotty. 
 Knowe, a knowl = hillock. 
 Kyte, the belly. 
 Kythe t shown. 
 
 Lag, sluggish. 
 
 Laithfu' , bashful. 
 
 Lallans, Lowland Scotch. 
 
 Lang-kail, cabbage cooked, but 
 not cut up. 
 
 Lang-tocher 9 d, long = well dow- 
 ered. 
 
 Lave, the leavings = remainder. 
 
22O 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Laverock, a lark. 
 
 Lawin, a tavern score. 
 
 Lay, part of a weaver's oom. 
 
 Lea-rig^ grassy ridge. 
 
 Lee, untilled land. 
 
 Lee-lang, life-long. 
 
 Leeze, blessing ; leeze me on drink 
 
 = blessings on drink. 
 Lift, the sky. 
 Limmer, a wench. 
 Link, to trip along. 
 Linn, a waterfall. 
 Lint, flax. 
 Lintwhite, linnet. 
 Loan, milking-shed. 
 Loaf, the palm of the hand. 
 Loot, past of let. 
 Loun, a rogue. 
 Lowan, loiuin, flaming. 
 Lug, the ear; "at the lug of," 
 
 close to. 
 Luggies, a small wooden dish, with 
 
 a handle. 
 Luni, a chimney. 
 Lunt, smoke. 
 Lyart, hoary. 
 
 Mae, more. 
 
 Mailen, mailin, a farm. 
 
 Mauken, a hare. 
 
 Meikle, much, a great quantity. 
 
 Melder, a load of corn for the mill. 
 
 Mclvie, to soil with meal. 
 
 Mense, good manners. 
 
 Messan, a small dog. 
 
 Mill, a snuff-box. 
 
 Mini, prim. 
 
 Mirk t dark. 
 
 Moro, El Morro, a fort in Cuba. 
 
 Mottie, full of motes. 
 
 Moudeivurt, a mole. 
 
 Muckkin, a pint. 
 
 Nappy, ale. 
 
 Nick; to cheat. 
 
 Nick, a notch, or wound. 
 
 Nieve, a fist. 
 
 Nijfer, to barter. 
 
 Nit, a nut. 
 
 Nowt, black cattle. 
 
 Orra, superfluous. 
 
 Ou, wool. 
 
 Outler, cattle lying in the fields 
 
 at night. 
 Owsen, oxen. 
 
 Paitrick, a partridge. 
 
 /W, a pot. 
 
 Pechan, the stomach. 
 
 Petted, fretted. 
 
 Philibeg, the kilt. 
 
 Pickle, a small quantity. 
 
 Plackless, without a plack = penny 
 
 Poind, to seize cattle for rent. 
 
 Poortith, poverty. 
 
 Poiuts, a poult, or chick. 
 
 Preen, a pin. 
 
 Prig, to haggle about a bargain. 
 
 Quean, a young woman. 
 Quey, a young cow. 
 
, or 'rapt 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 221 
 
 Raep, raip, oFVape, a rope. 
 
 Raible, to rattle nonsense. 
 
 Rair, to roar. 
 
 Raize, to rouse. 
 
 Randie, a sturdy beggar. 
 
 Rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 
 
 Raucle, reckless. 
 
 -fftfjr, to rack = stretch. 
 
 Ream, to froth. 
 
 Rede, counse 
 
 Reek, smoke. 
 
 Reestet, withered. 
 
 Riddle, instrument for sifting corn. 
 
 Riggin, the ridge of a house. 
 
 Rigwoodie, the rope, or chain 
 
 traces ; so lank and withered. 
 Ripp, a handful of corn. 
 Risk, to make a noise like tearing 
 
 roots from the ground. 
 Rive, to tear. 
 Roon, a shred, the selvage of 
 
 woollen cloth. 
 Row, to roll. 
 Rowt, to low. 
 Rung, a cudgel. 
 Runkle, winkle. 
 Runt, the stalk of cabbage. 
 Ryke, to reach. 
 
 Sair, to serve. 
 
 Sark, a shirt or shift. 
 
 Saugh, a willow. 
 
 Sauntont, salmon. 
 
 Scaith, to harm. 
 
 Scaur, a precipitous bank. 
 
 Scanner a loathing, to loathe. 
 
 Screed, a rent. 
 
 Scrieve, to move rapidly. 
 
 Scrimply, scarcely. 
 
 Shaird, shard ; a shred. 
 
 Shacvie, to do an ill turn. 
 
 Sheugh, a trench. 
 
 Shord, threatened. 
 
 Shot right kittle, a difficult or 
 
 perilous shot. 
 Sinsyne, since that time. 
 Skaith, to harm. 
 Skeigh, skittish. 
 
 ^^//ww,agoOd-for-nothing fellow. 
 Skelp, to strike. 
 Skelpit, to hurry. 
 Skirl, to shriek. 
 &*, aslant. 
 Skreigh, to scream. 
 Skyte, a smart stroke. 
 37a/j, a gap in a hedge. 
 Slypet, slipped, fell over. 
 Snteek, smoke. 
 Snioor, to smother. 
 Smytrie, a collection of small 
 
 creatures. 
 
 Snash, abusive language. 
 Sned, to lop off. 
 Sneeshin, snuff. 
 Snell, bitter. 
 Snick, a latch. 
 
 Snick-drawing, over-reachi n g. 
 Snirtle, to sniff. 
 Snood, a ribbon for the hair. 
 Snool, to keep under. 
 Snoove, to sneak away. 
 Snowk) to snuff, as a dog. 
 
222 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Sowens, a kind of porridge. 
 
 Sonsie, lucky. 
 
 Souter, a shoe-maker. 
 
 Sowther, to solder. 
 
 Spavie, the spavin. 
 
 Spean, to wean. 
 
 Speat, a sudden flood in a river.. 
 
 Sped, to climb. 
 
 Speels, to climb. 
 
 Spence, the parlour. 
 
 Spier, to ask a question. 
 
 Splore, noisy merriment. 
 
 Sprittie, spirited. 
 
 Spunkies, sparks, will-o'-the-wisp. 
 
 Spurtle, a stick to stir porridge. 
 
 Stacher, to stagger. 
 
 Stank, a stagnant pool. 
 
 Stark, stout. 
 
 Staumrel, half-witted. 
 
 Staw, stole. 
 
 .S^/fc, to shut, a stitch. 
 
 6"/^r, to trouble. 
 
 Steeve, firm. 
 
 Stech t or stegh, to cram. 
 
 Sten'd, to rear as a horse. 
 
 .SY**/, a task. 
 
 Sterling, a silver coin. 
 
 Stey, steep. 
 
 Stibble-rig, stibble = stubble ; stib- 
 
 ble-rig, the reaper who takes the 
 
 lead in harvest. 
 Stick-an-sto'we, completely. 
 Stimpart, a quarter of a peck. 
 Stinted, stunted. 
 Stock, a plant of colewort, cab- 
 
 Stoor> sounding hollow, hoarse. 
 
 Stoure, dust 
 
 Stownlins, stealthily. 
 
 Stowp, a jug. 
 
 Stroan, to spout. 
 
 Strunt t spirituous liquor. 
 
 Studdie, an anvil. 
 
 Sturtan, frightened. 
 
 Sty me, a glimpse. 
 
 Sucker, sugar. 
 
 Sugh, a sigh. 
 
 Swank t limber. 
 
 Swankie, an agile lad or lass. 
 
 Swatch, a sample. 
 
 Swats, small-beer. 
 
 Syne, since. 
 
 Tackets, shoe nails. 
 
 Tap-pickle, grain at the top of the 
 stalk. 
 
 Tapsalteerie, topsy-turvy. 
 
 Tassie, a cup. 
 
 Tawie, tame. 
 
 Tawted, uncombed. 
 
 Tent, to attend, a field pulpit. 
 
 Tentie, cautiously. 
 
 Tentless, carelessly. 
 
 Teugh, tough. 
 
 Thack, thatch. 
 
 Thack an' raep = in order, de- 
 noting what is well regulated. 
 
 Thairm, catgut for a fiddle. 
 
 Thole, to bear. 
 
 Thowe, to thaw. 
 
 Thrang, busy. 
 
 Threap, to assert. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 223 
 
 Through, "to mak' to through." 
 to make good. 
 
 Thrissle, a thistle. 
 
 Timnter, timber. 
 
 Tine, to lose, or suffer loss 
 
 Tirl, to tap gently. 
 
 Tittle, to whisper. 
 
 Tocher, marriage-portion. 
 
 Toont, empty. 
 
 Tow, a rope. 
 
 Towmond, towntont, a twelve- 
 month. 
 
 Tozie, towzie, rough. 
 
 Toyte, to totter. 
 
 Trepan, to steal or kidnap. 
 
 Tryste, an appointment. 
 
 Tulzie, a fight. 
 
 Twine, to deprive. 
 
 Uncos, news. 
 Usquebae, whisky. 
 
 V auntie, joyous. 
 Virls, ferule = a ring. 
 
 Wad, a bet. 
 
 Waesucks! alas! 
 
 Wale, to choose. 
 
 TPa/zV, large. 
 
 Wame, womb = the belly 
 
 Wark-lume, a working-tool. 
 
 Warlocks, a wizard. 
 
 Warr, the world. 
 
 Warly, worldly. 
 
 Warstle, to wrestle. 
 
 Waught, a draught, 
 
 Wauket, callous. 
 
 Waur, worse. 
 
 Waurt, worst. 
 
 Wawlie, strapping. 
 
 Wean, a child. 
 
 Wechts, scales for weighing. 
 
 Wheej>, small-beer. 
 
 Whaizle, to wheeze. 
 
 Whid, to run about. 
 
 Whigmeleeries, whims. 
 
 Whins, furze. 
 
 Whissle, to change money. 
 
 Whittle, a knife. 
 
 Whun-stane, whinstone = trap, or 
 
 Other hard rock. 
 Wiel, a small whirlpool. 
 Wintplin, to curl. 
 Winn, to winnow. 
 Win't, winded. 
 
 Winnock-bunker, a window-seat. 
 Wintle, a staggering motion. 
 Winze, to swear. 
 Wonner, to wonder. 
 W<3, to dwell. 
 
 Woodie, a halter for the gallows. 
 Wooer-babs, garters knotted below 
 
 the knees. 
 Wud, mad. 
 Wyte, to reproach. 
 
 Yealins, yearlingfs = 
 
 age. 
 
 Yill-caup, ale-cup. 
 Yird, earth. 
 
 of the same 
 
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