r LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO V. • iro i D) KKlAK.S-l'A.i^K HKRMUmGH. ,„,,.• "•' "•»- !,„/,„ /,„./. I fi, tint •'"•■'' ' „ l". v " hm '/■'■•■ ' THE WORKS OP ROBERT BURNS AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, Criticism on fit's OTritinfis. TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. BY JAMES CURRIE, M. D. A NEW EDITION, FOUR VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE WITH MANY ADDITIONAL POEMS AND SONGS, AND AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. From the last London Edition of 1825. PHILADELPHIA: J. CRISSY AND J. GRIGG. 1832. M©©mAIMHIK THE AUTHOK. Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of January, 1759, in a small house about two miles from the town of Ayr in Scotland. The family name, which the poet modernized into Bums, was originally Burnes or B unless. His father, William, appears to have been early mured to poverty and hardships, which he bore with pious resignation, and endeavoured to alleviate by industry and economy. After various attempts to gain a livelihood, he took a lease of seven acres of land, with a view of commencing nurseryman and public gardener ; and having built a house upon it with his own hands (an instance of patient ingenuity by no means uncommon among his countrymen in humble life,) he married, December 1757, Agnes Brown.* The first fruit of his marriage was Robert, the subject of the present sketch. In liis sixth year, Robert was sent to a school, where he made considerable proficiency in reading and writing, and where he dis- covered an inclination for books not very com- mon at so early an age. About the age of thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to the parish school of Dalrymple, where he increased his acquaintance with English Grammar, and gained some knowledge of the French. Latin wis also recommended to him ; but he did not make any great progress in it. The far greater part of his time, however, was employed on his father's farm, which, in spite of much industry, became so unproduc- tive as to involve the family in great distress. I lis father having taken another farm, the speculation was yet more fatal, and involved his affairs in complete ruin. He died, Feb. 13, 17 1, leaving behind him the character of a good and wise man, and an affectionate father, who, under all his misfortunes, struggled to procure his children an excellent education; and endeavoured, both by precept and example to form their minds to religion and virtue. * This excellent woman is still living in the family of her son Gilbert. (May, 1813.) It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth year of his age, that Robert first " committed the sin of rhyme." Having formed a boyish affection for a female who was his companion in the toils of the field, he composed a song, which, however extraordinary from one at his age, and in his circumstances, is far inferior to any of his subsequent performances. He was at this time " an ungainly, awkward boy," unacquainted with the world, but who occasionally had picked up some notions of history, literature, and criticism, from the few books within his reach. These he informs us, were Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars, the Spectator, Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His- tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Ori- ginal Sin, a select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Meditations. Of this motley assemblage, it may readily be sup- posed, that some would be studied,!and some read superficially. There is reason to think, however, that he perused the works of the poets with such attention as, assisted by his na- turally vigorous capacity, soon directed his taste, and enabled him to discriminate ten- derness and sublimity from affectation and bombast. It appears that from the seventeenth to the twenty-fourth year of Robert's age, he mado no considerable literary improvement. His ac- cessions of knowledge, or opportunities of reading, could not be frequent, but no exter- nal circumstances could prevent the innate peculiarites of his character from displaying themselves. He was distinguished by a vigor- ous understanding, and an untaineable spirit. His resentments were quick, and, although not durable, expressed with a volubility of indignation which could not but silence and overwhelm his humble and illiterate asso- ciates ; while the occasional effusions of his muse on temporary subjects, which were hand- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH od about in manuscript, raised him to a local superiority that seemed the earnest of a more extended fame. His first motive to compose . as has been already noticed, was his early and warm attachment to the fair sex. His favourites were in the humblest walks of life; but during his passion, he elevated them to Lauras and Saccharissas. His attach- ments, however, were of the purer kind, and his constant theme the happiness of the mar- ried state; to obtain a suitable provision for which, he engaged in partnership with a flax- dresser, hoping, probably, to attain by degrees the rank of a manufacturer. But this specu- lation was attended with very little success, and was finally ended by an accidental fire. On his father's death he took a farm in con- junction with his brother, with the honourable view of providing for their large and orphan family. But here, too, he was doomed to be unfortunate, although, in his brother Gilbert, he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, a man of uncommon powers both of thought and ex- pression. During his residence on this farm he formed a connexion with a young woman, the con- sequences of which could not be long con- cealed. In this dilemma, the imprudent couple agreed to make a legal acknowledgment of a private marriage, and projected that she should remain with her father, while he was to go to Jamaica " to push his fortune." This proceeding, however romantic it may appear, would have rescued the lady's character, ac- cording to the laws of Scotland, but it did not satisfy her father, who insisted on having all the written documents respecting the marriage cancelled, and by this unfeeling measure, he intended that it should be rendered void. Di- vorced now from all he held dear in the world, he had no resource but in his projected voyage to Jamaica, which was prevented by one of those circumstances that in common cases, might pass without observation, but which eventually laid the foundation of his future fame. For once, his poverty stood his friend. Had lie been provided with money to pay for his passage to Jamaica, he might have set sail, and been forgotten. But he was destitute of every necessary for the voyage, and was there- fore advised to raise a sum of money by pub- lishing his poems in the way of subscription. They were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, in the year 17*6, in a small volume, which was encouraged by subscriptions for about :!."i(l copies. It is hardly possible to express with what eanr admiration these poems were every where received. Old and young, high and low, learned and ignorant, all were alike de- lighted. Such transports would naturally find their way into the bos,, hi of the author, illy when he found that, instead of the nece ity of flying from his native land, lie was now encouraged to go to Edinburgh and superintend the publication of a second edition. In the metropolis, he was soon introduced into the company and received the homage of men of literature, rank, and taste ; and his ap- pearance and behaviour at this time, as they exceeded all expectation, heightened and kept up I lie curiosity which his works had excited. I le became the object of universal admiration and w 7 as feasted, and flattered, as if it had been impossible to reward his merit too highly. Hut what contributed principally to extend his fame into the sister kingdom, was his fortunate introduction to Mr. Mackenzie, who, in the 97th paper of the Lounger, recommend- ed his poems by judicious specimens, and generous and elegant criticism. From this time, whether present or absent, Burns and his genius were the objects which engrossed all attention and all conversation. It cannot be surprising if this new scene of life, produced effects on Burns which were the source of much of the unhappiness of his future life : for whilo he was admitted into the company of men of taste, and virtue, he was also seduced, by pressing invitations into the society of those whose habits are too social and inconsiderate. It is to be regretted that he had little resolution to withstand those atten- tions which flattered his merit, and appeared to be the just respect due to a degree of supe- riority, of which he could not avoid being eon scious. Among his superiors in rank and merit, his behaviour was in general decorous and unassuming; but anions his more equal or inferior associates, he wasliimself ihe soup e of the mirth of the evening, and repaid the at- tention and submission of his hearers b\ sal- lies of wit, which, from one of his birth and education, had all the fascination of wonder. His introduction, about the same lime, into certain convivial clubs of higher rank, was an injudicious mark of respect to one who was destined to return to the plough, and to the simple and frugal enjoyments of a peasant's life. During his residence at Edinburgh, his finances were considerably improved by the new edition of his poems; and this enabled him to visit several other parts of his native country. He left Edinburgh, May (!, 1787, and in the course of his journey w as hospitably received at the houses of many gentlemen of worth and learning. He afterwards travelled into England ae far as Carlisle. In the be- ginning of June he arrived in Ayrshire, aftel ence of six months, during u Inch lie had experienced a change of fortune, to which the hopes ol' few men in his situation could have aspired. His companion in some of these tours was a Mr. Nicol, a man who was ei deared to Burns not only by the warmth or his friendship, hut by a certain congeniality of OF THE AUTHOR. sentiment and agreement inhabits. This sym- pathy, in some other instances, made our po- ll capriciously fond <>f companions, who, in the eyes of men of more regular conduct, were insufferable. During the greater part of the winter 17S7-8, Bums again resided in Edinburgh, and enter- ed with peculiar relish into its gayeties. But as the singularities of his manner displayed themselves more openly, and as the novelty of his appearance wore off, he became less an ob- ject of general attention. He lingered long in this place, in hopes that some situation would have been offered which might place him in independence : but as it did not seem probable that any thing of that kind would occur soon, he began seriously to reflect that tours of pleasure and praise would not pro- vide for the wants of a family. Influenced by these considerations he quitted Edinburgh in the month of February, 1788. Finding him- self master of nearly 500/. from the sale of his poems, he took the farm of Elhsland, near Dumfries, and stocked it with part of this mo- ney, besides generously advancing 200/. to his brother Gilbert, who was struggling with Difficulties. He was now also legally united to Mrs. Burns, who joined him with their cliil- dren about the end of this year. Quitting now speculations for more active pursuits, he rebuilt the dwelling-house on his farm ; and during his engagement in this ob- ject, and while the regulations of the farm had the charm of novelty, he passed his time in more tranquillity than he had lalely experi- enced. But unfortunately, his old ha'bits were rather interrupted than broken. He was again invited into social parties, with the additional recommendation of a man who had seen the world, and lived with the great ; and again partook of those irregularities for which men of warm imaginations, and conversation-talents, find too many apologies. But a circumstance now occurred which threw many obstacles in his way as a farmer. Burns very fondly cherished those notions of independence, which are dear to the young and ingenuous. But he had not matured these by reflection ; and he was now to learn, that a little knowledge of the world will overturn many such airy fabrics. If we may form any i'udgment, however, from his correspondence, lis expectations were not very extravagant, since he expected only that some of his fllus- trious patrons would have placed him, on whom they bestowed the honours of genius, in a situation where his exertions might have been uninterrupted by the fatigues of labour, and the calls of want. Disappointed in this, he now formed a design of applying for the office of exciseman, as a kind of resource in case his expectations from tho farm should be baffled. By the interest of one of his friends this object was accomplished ; and after the usual forms were gone through, he was ap- pointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, ganger of tho district in which he lived. " His farm was now abandoned to his ser- vants, while he betook himself to the duties of his new appointment. He might still, in- deed, be seen in the spring, directing his plough, a labour in wliich he excelled, or stri- ding with measured steps, along his turned-up furrows, and scattering the gram in the earth. But his farm no longer occupied the principal part of his care or his thoughts. Mounted on horseback, he was found pursuing the defaul- ters of the revenue, among the hills and vales of Nithsdale." About this time (1792,) he was solicited, to give his aid to Mr. Thomson's Collection of Scottish Songs. He wrote, with attention and without delay, for this work, all the songs which appear in tliis volume ; to which we have added those he contributed to Johnson's Musical Museum. Burns also found leisure to form a society for purchasing and circulating books among the farmers of the neighbourhood ; but these, however praiseworthy employments, still in- terrupted the attention he ought to have be- stowed on his farm, wliich became so unpro- ductive that he found it convenient to resign it, and, disposing of his stock and crop, re- moved to a small house which he had taken in Dumfries, a short time previous to his lyric engagement with Mr. Thomson. He had now received from the Board of Excise, an appoint- ment to a new district, the emoluments of which amounted to about seventy pounds ster- ling per annum. While at Dumfries, his temptations to ir- regularity, recurred so frequently as nearly to overpower his resolutions, and wliich he ap- pears to have formed with a perfect knowledge of what is right and prudent. During his quiet moments, however, he was enlarging his fame by those admirable compositions he sent to Mr. Thomson : and his temporary sallies and flashes of imagination, in the merriment of the social table, still bespoke a genius of won- derful strength and captivations. It has been said, indeed, that, extraordinary as his poems are, they afford but inadequate proof of the powers of their author, or of that acuteness of observation, and expression, he displayed on common topics in conversation. In the so- ciety of persons of taste, he could refrain from those indulgences, which, among Iris more con- stant companions, probably formed liis chief recommendation. The emoluments of his office, which now composed his whole fortune, soon appeared insufficient for the maintenance of his family. He did not, indeed, from the first, expect that they could ; but he had hopes of promotion BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH and would probably have attained it, if lie had not forfeited the favour of the Board of . by some cmnversations on the state of public affairs, which were deemed highly im- S roper, and were probably reported to the loard in a way not calculated to lessen their effect. That he should have been deceived by the affairs in France daring the early periods of the revolution, is not surprising ; he only caught a portion of an enthusiasm which was then very general ; but that he should have raised his imagination to a warmth beyond his fellows, will appear very singular, whin we consider that he had hitherto distinguish- ed himself as a Jacobite, an adherent to the house of Stewart. Yet he had uttered opi- nions which were thought dangerous; and in- formation being given to the Board, an in- quiry was instituted into his conduct, the re- sult of which, although rather favourable, was not so much as to re-instate him in the good opinion of the commissioners. Interest was necessary to enable him to retain his office ; and he was informed that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his future be- haviour. He is said to have defended himself, on this occasion, in a letter addressed to one of the Board, with much spirit and skill. He wrote another letter to a gentleman, who, hearing that he had been dismissed from his situation, proposed a subscription for him. In tins last, he gives an account of the whole transaction, and endeavours to vindicate his loyalty ; he also contends for an independence of spirit, which he certainly possessed, but which yet appears to have partaken of that extravagance of sentiment which are fitter to point a stanza than to conduct a life. A passage in tliis letter is too characteristic to be omitted. — "Often," says our poet, "in blasting anticipation have I listened to some future hackney scribbler, with heavy malice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of in- dependence to be found in his works, and after having been held up to public view, and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled in- to a paltry exciseman ; and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence, in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of man- kind." This passage has no doubt often been read with sympathy. That Burns should have em- braced the only opportunity in his power to provide for bis family, can be no topic of censure or ridicule, and however incompatible with the cultivation of genius the business of an exciseman may be, there is nothing of mo- ral turpitude or disgrace attached to it. It was not his choice, it was the only help within his reach : and he laid hold of it. But that he should not have found a patron generous or wise enough to place him in a situation at least free from allurements to "the sin that so easily beset him ;" is a circumstance on which the admirers of Burns have found it painful to dwell. Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the Lounger, after mentioning the poet's design of going to the West Indies, concludes that paper in words to which sufficient attention appears not to have been paid : " 1 trust means may be found to prevent this resolu- tion from taking place ; and that I do my country no more than justice, when I suppose her ready to stretch out the hand to cherish and retain this native poet, whose " wood notes wild" possess so much excellence. To repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity in which it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight the world : — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiority, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride." Although Burns deprecated the reflections which might be made on his occupation of exciseman, it may be necessary to add, that from this humble step, he foresaw all the con- tingencies and gradations of promotion up to a rank on which it is not usual to look with contempt. In a letter dated 1794, he states that he is on the list of supervisors ; that in two or three years he should be at the head of that list, and be appointed, as a matter of course ; but that then a friend might be of service in getting him into a part of the king- dom which he would like. A supervisor's in- come varies from about 120/. to 200/. a year : but the business is " an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit." He proceeds, however, to observe, that the moment he is appointed supervisor ho might be nominated on the Collector's list, " and tliis is always a business purely of political patronage. A col- Iectorship varies from much better than two hundred a year to near a thousand. Col tors also come forward by precedency on the list, and have besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary lei- sure; with a decent competence, is the summit of my wishes." He was doomed, however, to continue in his present employment for the remainder of his days, which were not man)'. His consti- tulion was now rapidly decaying; yet, his resolutions of amendment were but feeble. His temper became irritable and gloomy, and he was even insensible to the kind forgiveness and soothing attentions of his affectionate wife. In the month of June, 179b, he removed to Brow, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try OF THE AUTHOR. the effect of sea-bathing ; a remedy that at first, lie imagined, relieved the rheumatic pains in his limbs, with which he had been afflicted for some months : but this was immediately followed by a new attack of fever. When brought back to his house at Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to stand upright. The fever increased, attended with delirium and debility, and on the 21st ho expired, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. He left a widow and four sons, for whom the inhabitants of Dumfries opened a sub- scription, which being extended to England, produced a considerable sum for their imme- diate necessities.* This has since been aug- mented by the profits of the edition of his works, printed in four volumes, 8vo. ; to * Mrs. Burns continues to live in the house in which the Poet died: the eldest son, Robert, is at present in the Stamp Office : the other two are officers in the East In- dia Company's army, William is in Bengal, and James in Madras, (May, 1813.) Wallace, the second son, a lad of great promise died of a consumption. which Dr. Currie, of Liverpool, prefixed a life, written with much elegance and taste. As to the person of our poet, he is described as being nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a form that indicated agility as well as strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, expressed uncommon capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and animation. His face was well formed, and his countenance uncommonly in- teresting. His conversation is universally allowed to have been uncommonly fascinating, and rich in wit, humour, whim, and occa- sionally in serious and apposite reflection. This excellence, however, proved a lasting misfortune to him : for while it procured him the friendship of men of character and taste, in whose company his humour was guarded and chaste, it had also allurements for the lowest of mankind, who know no difference between freedom and licentiousness, and are never so completely gratified as when genius conde- scends to give a kind of sanction to their grossness. He died poor, but not in debt, and left beliind him a name, the fame of which will not soon be eclipsed. ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. BY MR. ROSCOE. Rear high thy hleak, majestic hills, Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But, ah ! what poet now shall tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he the sweetest bard is dead That ever breath 'd the soothing strain ? As green thy towering pines may grow, As clear thy streams may speed along ; As bright thy summer suns may glow, And wake again thy feathery throng ; But now, unheeded is the song, And dull and lifeless all around, For liis wild harp lies all unstrung, And cold the hand that wak'd its sound. What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise In arts and arms thy sons excel ; Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, And health in every feature dwell ; Yet who shall now their praises tell, Tn strains impassion'd, fond, and free, Since he no more the song shall swell To love, and liberty, and thee ! With step-dame eye and frown severe His hapless youth why didst thou view : For all thy joys to him were dear, And all his vows to thee were due : Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, In opening youth's delightful prime, Than when thy favouring ear he drew To listen to his chanted rhyme. Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies To him were all with rapture fraught ; He heard with joy the tempests rise That wak'd him to sublimer thought; Ann Sensibility. Addressed to Mrs Dunlop, of Dunlop, A Verse. When Death's dark stream ferry o'er. .... Verses written at Selkirk, . I liberty, a Fragment, Elegyon the death ofRobertRuisseaux Tin loyal Natives' Verses, Burns— Extempore, . To J. Lapraik, .... To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing a copy of Holy \\ illie'.s Prayer, which he had requested, . To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchline recommending a Boy, To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-Gillan, To Capt. Riddel, Glenriddel, . To Tcrraughty, on his Birth-day, To a Lady, with a present of a pair of drinking-glasses, The Vowels, a Tale, . Sketch, ..... Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland'; Benefit, .... Extemporaneous Effusion on being ap pointed to the Excise, On seeing the beautiful scat of Lord G On the same, .... On the same, .... To the same on the Author being threatened with his resentment, The Dean of Faculty, Extempore in the Court of Session, Verses to J. ttanken, . ( )n hearing that there was falsehood in the Rev. Dr. 1! \s very looks, On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish Fifeshire, .... Elegy on the Year 1788, a Sketch, Verses written under the Portrait of Fergusson, the Poet, The Guidwife of Wauehopc-houso to Robert Burns, The Answer, .... The Kirk's Alarm, A Satire, The twa Herds, Epistle from a Taylor to Robert Burns, The Answer, ... Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on the publication of his Essays, Letter to J — s T 1 Gl nc r, On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair The Jolly Beggars, a Cantata. CONTENTS Page SONGS. Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! Adown winding Nith I did wander, Ae fond kiss and then we sever, Again rejoicing nature sees, A 1 [ighland lad my love was born, Altho' my bed were in yon muir, Amang the trees where humming bees An < >, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy De- cember ! .... Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, A rose-bud by my early walk, As 1 cam in by our gate-end, As I stood by yon roofless tower, As I was a-wandering ae morning in spring, ..... Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, B. Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee dearie, ..... Blithe, blithe and merry was she, Blithe hae I been on yon hill, Bonnie lassie will ye go, Bonnie wee thing, caimie wee thing, But lately seen in gladsome green, By Allan stream I chanced to rove, By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Clarinda, mistress of my soul, Come, let me take thee to my breast, Comin thro' the rye, poor body, Contented wi 1 little, and cantie wi' mair, Could aught of song declare my pains, D. Deluded swain, the pleasure, Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? . 157 ib. 158 159 CI 92 141 60 160 146 145 112 114 71 107 149 117 147 105 59 93 139 107 90 106 112 98 91 83 96 100 108 92 129 100 150 94 124 Duncan Grny came here to woo, F. Fair the face of orient day, Fairest maid on Devon banks, Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies. Farewell thou stream that wm'ding flows, ...... Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, First when Maggie was my care, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, ..... Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, From thee, Eliza, I must go, . . G. Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, . Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, Green grows the rashes, O ! . 1!. Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here's a bottle and an honest friend, Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here is the glen, and here the bower Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, How can my poor heart be glad, How cruel are the parents, How long and dreary is the night, How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, Husband, husband, cease your strife, I. I am a bard of no regard, I am a fiddler to my trade, I am a son of Mars, . . . I do confess thou art so fair, I dream 'd I lay where flowers were springing, .... I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 1 hae a wife o' my ain, . . I'll ay ca' in by yon town, I'll kiss thee yet, yet, . In simmer when the hay was raawn, I once was a maid tho' I cannot tell when, Is there for honest poverty, It was upon a Lammas night, It was the charming month of* May, J. Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, . John Anderson my jo, John, Page 86 151 106 99 142 116 142 115 104 61 111 137 59 91 88 143 105 146 95 147 96 102 97 78 95 162 161 159 138 137 110 78 142 143 112 159 100 58 98 126 110 CONTEXTS. Page Ken ye ought o" Captain Grose ? Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Last .May a braw wooer cam down the langglen, ■ . ... Let me ryke up to (light that tear, Let not woman e'er complain Long, long the night, . Loud blaw the frosty breezes, Louis, what reck I by thee, . M. Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, . Musing on the roaring ocean, My bonny lass, I work in brass, . My Chloris, mark how green the groves, My father was a farmer upon the Car- rick border, O, .... Mv heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ;..... My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, . My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, . N. Nae Gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, . No churchman am I for to rail and to write, ...... Now bank and brae are claith'd in green Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, Now nature hangs her mantle green Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers Now spring has cloth'd the groves in green, Now weslin winds and slaughtering guns, o. O ay my wife she dang me, O bonnie was yon rosy brier, O cam ye here the fight to shun, . Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, < ) gin mv love were yon red rose, O guidale corro , and guid ale goes, < i how can I be blithe and glad, . Ob, open ili" door, some pity to show, Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, . O ken yewhaMeg o' the Mill has got- ten ...... O lassie, art thou sleepin yet? O have novels, ye Mauchlino belles, < ) Leeze rne on my eroinning wheel, O Logan, weetiy didst thou glide, O lovely Polly Stewart, O hive will venture in, where it daur na wool he seen. 12G 90 104 1G1 97 102 106 116 103 107 161 98 .140 110 138 116 150 126 122 62 141 100 64 93 103 58 151 104 120 109 90 150 141 88 123 89 llil 151 112 90 149 113 < ) Mary, at thy window be, • > May, thy morn was no'er sae sweet, ( ) meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, O my hive's like a red, red rose, . On a bank of flowers, one summer's day, . . . . On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, One night as I did wander, . O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, O Philly, happy be the day, . O poortith cauld, and restless love, O raging fortune's withering blast, O saw ye bonnie Lesley, O saw ye my dear, my Phely? O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay O tell na me o' wind and rain, O, this is no my ain lassie, . O Tibbie, I hac seen the day, Out over the Forth I look to the north O, wat ye wha's in yon town, O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! O wha is she that lo'es me, . O wha my babic-clouts will buy ? O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, . O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar, ..... O why the deuce should I repine, Powers celestial, whose protection R. Raving winds around her blowing, Robin shure in hairst, . S. Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, See the smoking bowl before us, . She's fair and fause that causes my smart, ..... She is a winsome wee thing, Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, . . . . • Stay my charmer, can you leave me? Streams that glide in orient plains, Bweel fa's the eve on Craigic-burn, T. The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The < !a1 fine woods were yellow seen, The day returns, my bosom burns, Page 87 116 111 87 117 151 143 145 79 99 86 146 85 97 101 ib. 103 108 142 116 109 125 138 92 110 149 163 144 107 149 96 127 94 162 115 85 93 160 97 152 10(i 78 101 150 109 ib. CONTENTS. Tho deil cam fiddling tho' the town, The yloomy night is gath'ring fast, Tho 1 leather was blooming,tho meadows were mawn, Tlie lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, The lovely lass o' Inverness, The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, The Thames ilows proudly to the sea, The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last, .... Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, .... There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, .... There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity, .... There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie lass, .... There was a lad was born at Kyle, There was a lass and she was fair, . There were five carlins in the South, Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling ! Thine am I, my faithful fair, Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, . Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, True heatrcd was he, the sad swain of Yarrow, . ... Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Twas even, the dewy fields were green, Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; . Page 144 CO 144 109 116 79 115 110 147 102 86 138 87 149 146 90 152 106 94 141 93 77 147 89 113 76 102 PrtgC U. Up in the morning's no for mc, . W. Wae is my heart and the tear's in my e'e, Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; Wha is this at my bower door ? . What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, ..... When first I came to Stewart Kyle, When Guilford good our pilot stood, . When o'er the hill the eastern star, When January winds were blawing cauld, When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, ...... Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, Where braving angry winter's storms, Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, While larks, with little wing, Why, why tell thy lover, Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, . Wilt thou be my dearie ? Y. Yo banks and braes, and streams, around, Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, . Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, Ye gallants bright I red you right, Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, . Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, Yon wild mossy mountains, Young Jockey was the blithest lad, . Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, I You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 137 144 150 140 111 146 57 84 153 89 94 108 115 91 105 85 114 ib. 85 113 114 137 144 149 139 14'J 145 136 PREFACE FIRST EDITION m it 8» 1 © 1 1 ^ ga 4KJ) £>a PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786. The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Vir- gL. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut up, and a b3ok sealed. Unacquainted witli the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic com- peers around him, in his and. their native lan- guage. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his wortli show- ing ; and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears," in his own breast : to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own re- ward. Now that, he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trem- bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as— An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his non on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes to- B gether, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abili- ties, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal un- affected sincerity, declares, that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame than for servile imitation. To his Subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing grati- tude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of' every poetic bosom — to be dislingished. lie begs his readers, particularly the Teamed and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for edu- cation and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned, witiiout mercy, to contempt and oblivion. jj^UIQA^IQXI SECOND EDITION OF THE POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED. NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. My Lords and Gentlemen, A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Coun- try's service — where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native Land ; those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue : 1 tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of ( !ale- donia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protection ; I now obey her dictates. Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentle- men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honesl rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- ing for a continuation of those favours ; I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. 1 come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminatcd ; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Ho- nour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await your return : When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your re- turn to )'our native Seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates ! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find you an' inexorable foe ! I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble servant, ROBERT BURNS Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. ©11 CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS, 'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na tlirang at liame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ccesar, Was keepit for Ins Honour's pleasure : His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, na pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' liillocks wi' liim. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,* Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, 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 o'er his hurdies wi' a svvurl. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' tliick thegither ; * Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; Whyles scour 'd awa' in lang excursion, An' worry 'd ither in diversion ; Until wi' damn weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation. CAESAR. 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 kain, and 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 bonnie 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 stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie, That's littie short o' downright wastrie. Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the Ian' : An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth,Ccesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like, Himself, a wife, ho thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an' rape. BURNS' POEMS. An' when thoy moot 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 an' hunger; But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, They're maistly wonderl'u' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever huzzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. C^SAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff d, and disrespeckit ! L — d, man, our gentry care as liltlc For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, As 1 wad by a slinking brock. I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, An 1 mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies scant o 1 cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash : J le'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble. I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun bo wretches ? LUATH. They're nae 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 dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whylea twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mend the Kirk and State affairs: Theyll talk o 1 patronage and priests, Wi'tond] Eurj in their breasts, Or toll what new taxation's comin, An' ferlie at the folk in London. As hleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, Thoy get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, o' ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation ; 1 Love blinks, W T it 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 luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' richt guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro' the house,— My heart has been sae lain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock, O 1 decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, Are riven out baith root and 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 liis saul indentin — CiESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; Fur 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 may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an' see the warl'. There, at Vienna or Versailles He rives his father's auld entails ; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles Then bouses drumly German w r atcr, To mak himsel look fair and fatter, An' 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 thcmscls wi' kintra sports, BURNS' POEMS. It wad for ev'ry anc be better, The Laird, the Tenant, mid the Cotter ! For thae frank, ranlin, raniblin billies, Fient liaet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their liniiner, Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me, Master Cccsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nac cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them. CiESAR. L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er 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' gripes an' granes : But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves to vex them ; An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the plough, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; A kintra lassie at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; An' e'en 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 ; Ac night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters ; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman ; But this is Gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out o' sight, An' darker gloaming brought the night ! The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair ; An' liquor guid to fire hisbluid, Thai's press'd wi' grief an' care ; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. Solomon's Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7. Let other poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink : Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name ! Let husky Wheat the laughs adorn, An' Aits set up their awnie horn, An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 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' gricvin, But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Care ; BURNS' POEMS. Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil, Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, \\ i' ( icntles tliou erects thy head ; Yet humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine His wee drap parritch, 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, Arc doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! Or reekin on a New-year morning In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker ! "When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare ! to see thee fizz an freath V tli' luggit caup ! Then Burnewin* comes on like death At every chaup. Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammcr, Till block an' studdic ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin euifs their dearies slight ; Wae worth the name ! Nao howdie gets a social night, Or piack frao them. When necbors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley tree Cement the quarrel ! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee To taste the barrel. * Burnewin — burn-thc-wind—lUc Blacksmith appropriate title. E. Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason To wytc her countrymen wi' treason ! But monio daily weet Ibeir weason Wi 5 liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price. Wac worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, O' half his days An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst facs. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well 1 Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, deartlifu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment liim inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky punch Wi' honest men. O Whisky ! saul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks I When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks At ithcr's a — s ! Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast i Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast May kill us a' ; For royal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa I Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize '. Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! There, seize the blinkers I And bake them up in brunstano pies For poor d — n\l drinkers. Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me sfill Hale brceks, a scone, and Whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thec best. BURNS' POEMS. TIIE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES, IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. Dearest of Distillation ! last and best How art thou lost ! Parody on Milton. Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our bxughs an' shires, An" doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her a — Low i' the dust, An' scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to brust '. Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction, On Aquavitm ; An' rouse them up to strong conviction, An' move their pity. Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The honest, open, naked truth : Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, His servants humble ! The muckl'e decvil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em : If honestly they canna come, Far better want e'm. In gath'ring votes you were na slack ; Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, An' hum an' haw ; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. * This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 178G ; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks. Paint Scolland greeting owrc her thrissle; Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a wliissle: An' d — mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a Stcll, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Or lampit shell. Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, An' chcck-for-chow, a chuifie Vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld Mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves ? Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire clean out o' sight ; But could I like Montgornries fight, Or gab like Boswell There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honors, can ye see't, The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' gar them hear it, An' toll them wi' a patriot heat, Ye winna bear it ! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period, an' pause, An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues ; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran ; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;* An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, The Laird o' Graham,\ An' ane, a chap that's d — mn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billic ; True Campbells, Frederick an' liny; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; An' monie ithers Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithore. Arouse, my boys 1 exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; * Sir Adam Ferguson. E. tThe present Duke of Montroae. (1800.) E. 8 Or faith ! Ill wad my new pleugh-pettlc, ' Ye'll see't, or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, Anithei sang. Tliis while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she's like to rin red-wud Ahout her Whisky. An' L — d, if anco they pit her till't, Her tartan petti'. .at shell kilt, An' durk an 1 pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, P th' lirst she meets ! For G — d sake, Sirs! then speak her fair, An 1 straik her canine wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, UP instant speed,' An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie For, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; But gie hiin't hot, my hearty cocks ! E'en cowe the caddie ; An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnoclc's I'll he his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Name Tinnoelts* Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like ten an 1 winnock's, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my ait li in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a rauelc tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. An' now, ye chosen Fire-and-Forty, May still your Mithcr's heart support yc ; * A worthy old Hostessof the Author's hi Mauchline, where i»e sometimes studied I'olitics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink. BURNS' POEMS. Then, though a Minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o kail and brats o' claisc, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie's! Yqur humble Poet sings an' prays \\ bile Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies See future wines, rich elust'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But hly the and frisky. She eyes her freeborn, martial hoys, Tak art' their Whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, Whilo fragrance blooms and beauty charms; When wretches range, in famish'd swarins, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms lit hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their hauldcst thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp — a shot — they're all', a' throwthcr, To save their skin. But. bring a Scotsman &ae his hill, Clap in bis cheek a I lighland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought hut how to kill Twa at a blow. Nac cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye lie sees him ; Wi' bluidy hand awelcomegies him : An' when In' fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es liim In fauit huzzas. Sages their solemn een may stcek, An' raise a philosophic reek, And physically causes seek, In clime and season ; But tell me Wliisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. BURNS' POEMS. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam ; Freedom and Whisky gang thegithcr ! Tak aft' your dram. THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation ; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation : A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy a-la-mode. I. Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air, The rising sun owre Gulston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin ; The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day. n. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three Hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way ; Twa had manteelcs 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. in. The twa appcar'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes ! Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes : * Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a Sacramental occasion. B 2 Tho third cam up, hap-stcp-an'-lowp, As light as ony Iambic, An' wi' a curchic low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. IV. Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I'm sure IVe seen that bonnie face, But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, An' taks me by the hands, " Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. V. " 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." VI. Quoth I, " With a' my heart, 111 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 body, In droves that day VII. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; There, swankies young, in braw braid- claith, Are springin o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' siveet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' furls bak'd wi' butter Fu' crump that day. vm. 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 gathrin, Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin Right loud that day. 10 BURNS' POEMS. IX. Hero stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen ourkintra Gentry, There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck An' there a batch of wabster lads, Blackguarding frac K ck For fun this day. X. Here some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes ; Ane curses feet that fyl'd liis shins, Anither sighs an' praj : On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' ecrew'd up grace-proud faces ; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thraiic winkin on the lasses To chairs that day. XI. O happy is that man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wliase ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin down beside him ! Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, He sweetly does compose him '. Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loot' upon her bosom Unken'd that day. xn. Now a 1 the congregation o'er, Is silent expectation ; For ****** spcels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. Should Uornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' G — present bun, The vera eight o' * * * * *'s face, To's ain hot liamc had sent him Wi' fright that day. xni. Hear how he clears Ihe points o' faith, Wi' ratlin an' wi' thumpin ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He'sstampin an' be'sjumpin ! His lengtheh'd chin, his turn'd up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day ! XIV. But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; There's peace an' rest nae langcr : For a' the recdjudges rise, They carina sit for anger. ***** opens out liis cauld harangues, On practice and on morals ; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To srie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. XV. What signifies his barren shine < >f moral pow'rs and reason ? His English style, an' gesture fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonim; Or some auld pagan Heathen, The moral man he docs define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day. XVI. In guid time comes an antidote Airainst sic poison'd nostrum ; * * * * * i f rae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum : Sec, up he's got the word o' G — -, An' meek an' mim hasview'd it, While Common-Sense has laYn the road, An' all, an' up the Cowgate,* Fast, fast, that day. XVH. Wee ******, niest, 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, cannily he hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafBins-ways o'ercomes him At tunes that day. xvni. Now butt an* ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup Commentators; Here's crying out for bakes and "ills, An' there the pint stowp clatters ; While thick an' IhraiiM'. 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. * A street so called, which faces the lent in BURNS' POEMS. 11 XIX. Lcczo me on Drink ! it gies us mair Than either School or College : It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It panrrs us fou o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny whcep, Or ony stronger potion, It never fails on drinking drop, To kittle up our notion By night or day. XX. 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 leuk, They're making observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' formin assignations, To meet some day. XXI. But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin, An' echoes back return the shouts : Black ****** is na spairin : His piercing words, like Higliland swords, Divide the joints an' marrow ; His talk o' H-ll, where devils dwell, Our vera sauls does harrow* Wi' fright that day. XXII. A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, Whase ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! The half asleep start up wi 5 fear, An' think they hear it roarin, When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neebor snorin Asleep that day. xxm. Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell How monie stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill When they were a' dismist ; How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches; An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches, An' dawds that day. Shakspeare's Uamlet. XXIV. In comes a gaucie gash Guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife. The lasses they are shyer. The auld Guidmen about the grace, Frac tide to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An' gi'es them't like a tether, Fu' lang that day. XXV. Wacsucks ! for liim that gets naes lass, Or lasses that hae naething ! Sma' need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing ! O wives, be mindfu', ancc yoursel, How bonnie lads ye wanted, An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let lasses be affronted On sic a day ! XXVI. Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin 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 : Wi' faith an' hope an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune, For crack that day. XXVII. 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. DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. A TRUE STORY. Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd, Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd In holy rapture, A rousing wind, at times to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. 12 BURNS' POEMS. But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a riighl befel, Is just as tine's the Deil's in h-11 Or Dublin city : That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a mucldo pity The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but jusl had plenty ; 1 staclier'd wliyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches ; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : To count her horns, wi' a 1 my pow'r, 1 set mysel ; But whether she had three or four, I cou'd na tell. I was come round about the liill, And toddlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff wi' a 1 my skill, To keep mc sicker Tho' leeward whylcs, against my will, I took a bicker. 1 there wi' Something did forgather, That put me hi an eerie swither ; An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther, Clear-dangling, hang : A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotcli ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava ! And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. " Guid-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! hae ye been mawiu, When ither folk are busy sawin ?"* It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan,' Bui naething spak ; At lengtli, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, Will ye go back?" It spak rijht howc, — " My name is Drath, But bt! na fley'd." — Quoth I, " Guid faith, Ye're may be come In stap my breath ; But tent mc, billic : I red ye wcel, tak care o' ska it 1 1, Sec, there's a gully !" •Thia rencounter happened in seed-time, 1783. " Guidman," quo' lie, " put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad bo kittle To be mislear'd, I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out-owre my beard. " Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't ; Come, gies your hand, an' sac we're greo't ; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news ; This while* ye hae heen monic a gate At monic a house." " Ay, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his head, " It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath : Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sac maun Death. " Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the hutching bred, An' nionie a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me ; Till ane Hombook''sf ta'en up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me. " Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Dcil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan\ An' ither chaps, That weans haud out their fingers laughin And pouk my hips. " See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, They hae piere'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art, And cursed skill, Has made them baith not wortli a f — t, Damn'd haet they'll kill, " 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I throw a noble throw at ane ; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. " Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortify 'd the part, * An epidemical fever was then raging In that country. t This gentleman, Dr. JTomhooh, Is professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. X Buchan's Domestic Medicine. BURNS' POEMS. 13 That when I looked to my dart, It was sac blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pi-rc'd the heart Of a kail-riuit. " I drew my sitho in sic a fury, I ncarhand cowpit wi' my hurry But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 0' hard whin rock. " Ev'n them he canna get attended, Alto' their face he ne'er had kend it, J -ist hi a kail-blade, and send it, As soon he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it At once he tells't. " And then a' doctors' saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae ; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. " Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; The Farina of beans and pease, He has't in plenty ; Aqua-fontis, what you please, ■ He can content ye. " Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus of capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'd per se ; Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail- clippings, And monie mae." " Waes me for Johnny Ged"s Hole* now," Quo' I," if that the news be true ! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonnic, Nao doubt they'll rive it wi' the plow ; They'll ruin Johnie .'" The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till'd enough, Tak ye nae fear : They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh In twa-three year ' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, * The grave-digger Tliis night I'm frco to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. r " An honest Wabster to his trade, Whaso wife's twa nieves were scarce wee bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it wassair; The wife slado cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. " A kintra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel. " A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care ; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there. " That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, An's weel paid for't ; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d-mn'd dirt : " But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; I'll nail the self-conceited Scot, As dead's a herrin : Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets liis fairin !" But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith : I took the way that pleas'd myscl And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR, A POEM. INSCRIBED TO J. B*********,Esq. AYR. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush ; 14 BURNS' POEMS. The soarin" lark, the pcrcliing red-breast shnll. Or deep-ton'd, plovers, gray, wild-whistling oYr the hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To I. ttdonce bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stem .Misfortune's field, Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, nary Swiss of rhymes? iur hard the panegyric close, Willi all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. And throws liis hand uncouthly o'er the strii He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, liis great, his dear reward. Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; When B ********* befriends liis humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heart-felt throes Jus grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter- hap, And thack and rape secure the toil won-crap ; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are dooin'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek: The thundering guns are heard on every 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 flower in field or meadow springs ; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin's whistling (jlee, Proud o' the height o' some bithalf-lang tree : The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide blaze, Wliile thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple hard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ; at, within the ancient brugh of Ayr By whim baspir'd, or haply prest wi' care; He h i'i M I i ik Ins wayward route, And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left about : * A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) The drowsy Uungetm-docJ^ had numbcr'dtwo, And JVallacc Tower* had sworn the fact was true . The tidc-swoln Firth with sullen sounding roar, Tlirough the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; The silent moon shone liigh o'er tower and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream. — When, lo ! on either hand the hst'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swii't as the Gosi drives on the wheeling hare ; Ane on th' Auld Bri«; his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising purs : Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr pre- side. (That Bards arc second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual fo'k ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them,) And cv'n the very deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The vera wrinkles Gothic in liis face : He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. .\" ir Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at London, frae ane Adams, got; Jn"s hand live taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; It chane'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, gics him litis guidcen : — AULD BRIG. I doubt na, frien', yell think ye're nae sheep shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day, I doubt, yell never see * The two steeples. tTbe gos-liawk, or falcon. BURNS 1 POEMS. 15 There'll be, if that dato come, I'll wad a bod- dlc, Somo fowcr whigmelceries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, yc but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' boimie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat- slream,* Tho' they should cast the very sark an swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! Tliis monie 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 you better, When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the brawl- ing Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpali draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'rmg winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; And from Glenbuck,% down to the Rolton- fcey,{ Avid 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 .^kies : A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Arcliitecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! S * A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. t The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy- scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaisls, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. t The source of the river Ayr. $ A small landing place above the large key. Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ningjut, like precipices; O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 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 tho second dread commemd be free, Then likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace tho building tasto Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; Fit only for a doited Monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, Or cuiis of later times, wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest with re- surrection ! AULD BRIG. O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealmgs, Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- ings! Ye worthy Provescs, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveencrs, To whom our moderns are but causey-clean- ers; Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your liurdies 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 ha deep vex- ation, To see each melancholy alteration ; And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! Nae langer Rcv'rend Men, their country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men, tliree-parts made by Tailors and by Bar- bers, Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs and Harbours ! NEW BRIG. Now haud you there ! for faith ye'vo said enough, And muckle niair than ye can mak to through. 16 BURNS' POEMS. As for your priesthood, 1 shall sny but little, Corbies and ( 7< rgy are a shot riy^lit 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. I h r, Wag-wits nae mair can liac a handle To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal : Nuo mair the Couiicil waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin owro hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random train]), Jlad shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense, for once bc- tray'd them, Plain, dull Stupidity slept kindly in to aid them. What farther clishmaclavcr might been said. What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear 'd in order bright : Adown the glittering stream they fcatly dane'd ; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : They footed o'er the watry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling Hards heroic ditties sung. O had M'LaMchlan,* thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys (they bore with Highland rage, Or when Ihey 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 liner touch inspir'd ! No rniess could tell what instrument appear'd, Hut all the soul of Music's self was heard; 1 1 ii monious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on tlio heart. The Genius of the Stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advane'd in years; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Nexl came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Sprinir ; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came rural •Toy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : * A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin. All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn; Then Winter's time-blcack'd locks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Nexl I'ollow'd 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 hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wratlu THE ORDINATION. For sense tliey little owe to Frugal Heaven.— To please the Mob they hide the little given. Kilmarnock Wabstcrs fidge an' claw An' pour your creeshie nations ; An* ye wha leather rax an' draw, ( )i'a' denominations, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a' An' there tak up your stations ; Then aff to B-gb — U in a raw, An' pour divine libations For joy this day II. Curst Common Sense that imp o' li-ll, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;* But O * * * * * * * aft made her yell, An' II * * * * * sair misca'd her; This day M' * * * ,: * * * lakes the flail, And he's the boy will blaud her ! He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daub her Wi' dirt tliis day. III. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor; * Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the .mlinissi.il) of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to lh( Laigh Kirk BURNS' POEMS. 17 O' double verse come gie us four, An -1 skirl up the liiinrror : This day the kirk kirks up a st.oure, Nae uiair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow'r, An' gloriously shall whang her VVi' pith tliis day. IV. Come, let a proper text be read, An' touch it affwi' vigour, How graceless Hon** lough at his Dad, Which made Canaan a niger ; Or P1> ineasi drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah, t (lie scaulcnn jade, Was like a bluidy tiger 1' tlY inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That Stipend is a carnal weed He taks but for the fasliion ; An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin, Spare them nae day. VI. Now auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, And toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture's scanty ; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day. VII. Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion ; And lung our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin : Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, And o'er the thairrns be tryin ; Oh, rare ! to sec our elbucks wheep, An' a' like lamb-tails flyin Fu' fast this day ! * Genesis, chap ix. 22. f Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. t Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25. VIII. Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, As lately F-nw-ck sair forfairn, I las proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencaim, He saw mischief was brewin ; And like a godly elect bairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, And sound tliis day. IX. Now R ****** * harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever : Or try the wicked town of A**, For there they'll think you clever ; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a Shaver • Or to the N-th-rt-n repair, And turn a Carpet-weaver Aff-hand tliis day. X. M * * * * * and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones : Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons ; And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons ; But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' liis brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast tliis day. XL See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, She's swingein tlrro' the city : Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty : There, Learning, with his Greekish face. Grunts out some Latin ditty ; And Common Sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her 'plaint this day. XII. But there's Mortality himsel, Embracing all opinions ; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions ; See, how she peels the skin an' fell, As ane were peelin onions ! Now there — they're packed affto hell, And banish'd our dominions, Henceforth this day. 18 BURNS' POEMS. xin. O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair rind quarter : j^i ****** *^ r ***** are the boys, That Heresy can torture ; They'll gie her on a rape and lioyso And cow her measure shorter By th' head some day. XIV. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here's, for a conclusion, To every New Light* mother's son, From this time"forth, Confusion : If mair they deave us with their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, We'lfrin them air" in fusion Like oil, somo day. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. - And when ye'ro number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head — " Hero lies a famous Bullock .'" ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Powers, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. Milton. On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. " And they shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall " Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance ; there's yoursel just now, God knows, an unco Calf ! And should some Patron bo so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na, Sir, but then wo'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, You e'er should be a Slot ! Tho', when some kind connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang tho nowle. *Jfeie Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Nor- wich has defended so strenuously. O thou ! whatever title suit thee, Auld llornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an 1 sootic, Closed under hatches, Spairgcs about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches. Hear mc, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be ; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en 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 and noted is thy name ; An' tho' yon lowin hough's thy hame, Thou travels far ; An' faith 1 thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. "VVhyles, ranging like a roarin lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; Whylcs on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, Tirling tho kirks ; Whylcs, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray ; Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Yc fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my Grannie summon To say her prayers, douce, honest woman . Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone ; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrecs comin, Wi' heavy groan. Ac dreary, windy, winter night, The Btars shot down wi' sklentin light, BURNS' POEMS. 19 Wi' you, mysol, I gat a fright, Ayont the lough ; Yc, like a rash-hush, stood in sight, WT waving sujrh. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaick — quaick- Amang the springs, Awa ye squattcr'd, like a drake, On wliistlincr a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin. Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 1G. 1. O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sac pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neebor's faults 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 H. Hear me, yo venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. m. Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer, 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. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings 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. 28 BURNS' POEMS. See social life and trice sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrifyM, they're grown Debauchery and drinking : O, would they stay to calculato Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to taste, D-mnation of expenses ! VI. 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, Yc're aiblins nae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrong ; 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. vm. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord — its various tono, 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. TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. An honest man's the noblest work of God. Fope. Has auld K******* * * seen the Deil ? Or great M' * * * * * * * + thrawn his heel ! * When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir- fowl season, he supposed It ws . phrase, " tin: last fif his fields ;" and expressed an ardent wish 10 die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil- lion, Vide the Ordination, stanza II. Or R* ***** * again grown weel,* To preach an' read. "Na,waur than a !" cries ilka cliiel, Tam Samson's dead ! K* ******** j an g ma y g mn t, an ' grane An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tain Samson's dead ! The bretliren of the mystic level May hing their head in wocfu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead ; Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : Tarn Samson's dead ! When winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock ; When to the louglis the curlers flock, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock ? Tarn Samson's dead ! He was the king o' a' the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu r6ar In time of need ; But now he lags on death's li og-score, Tam Samson's dead 1 Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, And geds lor greed, Since dark in death's Jiih-creel we wail Tam Samson dead ! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu'braw, Withouten dread; Your mortal fac is now awa', Tam Samson's dead . That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd, Saw him in shootin graith adorn 'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed; But, och ! ho gaed and ne'er return'd ! Tam Samson's dead! In vain auld age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters; * Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few who was at that time ailing. For him, see also theOr- dination, stanza IX. BURNS' POEMS. 29 In vain the bums came down like waters, An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wife, grectin, clatters, Tain Samson's dead ! Owre many a weary has ho limpit, An' ay the tither shot lie thumpit, Till coward death behind him iumpit, A\T deadly feide ; Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, Tarn Samson's dead ! When at his heart he felt the dagger, He recl'd his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel aim'd heed ; " L — d, five !" he cry'd an' owre did stagger ; Tarn Samson's dead ! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; Bk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tarn Samson' 's dead .' There low he lies, in lasting rest ; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed ; Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! Tarn Samson's dead ! When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his mein'ry crave O' pouther an' lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tain Samson's dead ! Hcav'n rest his saul, whare'er he bo ! Is ilT wish o' monie mae than me ; He had twa faults, or may be three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man want we : Tarn Samson's dead ! THE EPITAPH. Tam Samson's weel-worn clay hero lios, Ye canting zealots, spare him '. If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye '11 mend or ye win near him. PER CONTRA. Go, fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killici* Tell ev'ry social, honest billie To cease his grievin, For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tarn iSumsoii's livin. IIALLOWEEN.f The following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes arc ad- ded, to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the pea- santry in the west of Scotland. The passion of pry- ing into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude slate, in all ages and nations; and it maybe some entertainment to a phi- losophic mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it, among tho more unenlightened in our own. Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly ttain ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Goldsmith. I. Upon mat night, when fairies light, On Cassilis Downans% dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance ; Or for Colean the route is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams ; There, up the cove$ to stray an' rove Amang the rocks and streams To sport that night. II. Amang the bonnie winding banks, Where Doon rins, wimpling clear, Where Bruce|| ance rul'd the martial ranks, An' shook his Carrick spear, * Killic is a phrase the country-folks sometimes usg for Kilmarnock. t Is thought to be night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands; particularly those aerial people the Fairies, are said on that night, to hold a grand anniversary. t Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. § A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, ijircad abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, \\ i' pith, an 1 pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypct owre» When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer ; I kenn'd m} r Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer. hi cart or car thou never reestit ; The steyest brae thou wad hae fae't it : Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 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 tlirctteen pund an' twa, The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa han wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! An' monie an anxious day, 1 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 1 lion's less descrvin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin, For my last/bi<, A hcapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years tliegither ; Well toyte about wi' ane anithcr ; Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Where yc may nobly r;i\ your bather, Wi' sma' fatigue. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle '. I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattlc ! I'm truly sorry man's dominion lias broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which maks thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then? poor beastie, thou maim live ! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, And never miss't ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's arc strewin '. An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage L r reen ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snoll and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter coniin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out tliro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain : The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, ( rang n ft a-gley, An' lca'eus nought but grief an pain, For promis'd joy. Still Ihou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee : But, Ocli ! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an'' fear. BURNS' POEMS. 35 A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pityless storm ! How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, Yourloop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these 1 SlIAKSPEARE. When biting Boreas, fell and dourc, Sharj) shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; When Phccbus gies a short-liv'd glow'r Far south the lift, Dim-dark 'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Or whirling drift : Ac night the storm the steeples rock'd, Poor labour sweet in sleep was lock'd, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock'd, "Wild-eddying swirl, Or tliro' the mining outlet bock'd, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, O' winter war, And tliro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneatli a scar. Ilk happing bird, w r ee, helpless tiling, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee ? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing, An' close thy e'e ? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exil'd, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pityless tho tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phmbe, in her midnight reign Dark mufil'd, view'd the dreary plain , Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, Wlion on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole— " Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! And freoze, thou bitter-biting frost ! Descend, ye cliilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindncss, unrelenting, Vengeful malice, unreport! ing, Than heav'n illumin'd man on brother man be- stows ! Sec stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory baud, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Wo, want, and murder o'er a land ! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, Tho parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittring show, A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrcfin'd. Tlae'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, be- low; Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow, The pow'rs you proudly own? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone ! Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- ing blast ! Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on Ids straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and clunky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine '. Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! But shall thy lega rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's underserved blow ? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook oft' the pouthcry snaw", And hail'd the morning with a cheer, A cottage-rousing craw. But deep this truth impress 'd my minJ- Thro' all his works abroad, The heart, benevolent and kind, The most resembles God. 36 BURNS' POEMS. EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.* January- I. While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, And spin a Terse or twa o' rhyme, In liamely westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, That live sae bien an' snug : I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side ; But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. . II. It's hardly in a body's po^v'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd ; How best o' chicls are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't : But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier : " Mair spier na', nor fear na,"t Auld age ne'er mind a fcg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only for to beg. III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress ! Yet then content could make us blest ; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, J low ever fortune kick the ba', Has ay some cause to smile, And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. * David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbollon, and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. E t Raiu IV. What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either huuse or hall ? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, Tho sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year : On braes when we please, then, We'll sit an' sovvth a tune ; Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, And sinff 't when we hae done. V. It's no in titles nor in rank ; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest ; It's no in makin muckle mair : It's no in books ; it's no in lear, To make us truly blest : If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest ; Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang ; The heart ay's the part ay, That makes us right or wrang. VI. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive tliro' wet and dry Wi' never-ceasing toil ; Think ye, are we less blest than they Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth their while ? Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress ! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess ! Baith careless, and fearless Of either heav'n or hell! Esteeming, and deeming It's a' an idle tale ! VII. Then let us checrfu' acquiesce ; Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our slate ; And, even should misfortunes come, I, hero wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. They gie tho wit of age to youth ; They let us ken oursel : They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. BURNS' POEMS. 37 Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where. VIII. But tent mo Davie, ace o' hearts ! (To sUy aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I ; And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' tlie heart, The lover an' the frien' ; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean ! It warms ine, it charms me, To mention but her name : It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame ! IX. O' all ye pow'rs who rule above ! O Them, whose very self art love ! Thou know'st my words sincere ! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear, immortal part, Is not more fondly dear 1 When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r ; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care 1 X. All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow ; Long since, this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you ! Fate still has bless'd me with a friend, In every care and ill ; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean. XI. O, how that name inspires my style ! The words come skelpin rank and file, Amaist before I ken 1 The ready measure rins as fine, As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp, Till ance he's fairly het ; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An' rin an unco fit : But least then, the beast then, Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty wizen'd hide. THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo ! Home. I. O thou pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep ! With wo I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. II. I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly-marked distant hill : I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill : My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance cease ! Ah ! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace ! m. No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim , No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; The oft attested pow'rs above : The promis'd Father's lender name : These were the pledges of my love ! IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 38 BURNS' POEMS And must I think it ! is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast ? And does she heedless hear my groan ? And is she ever, ever lost i < Hi ! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover p;irt. The plighted husband of her youth ! Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth Her Way lie thro' rough distress ! Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, J ler sorrows share and make them less ? VL Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. That breast how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room ! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy "d, And not a wish to gild the gloom ! vn. The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and wo : I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. vm. And when my nightly couch I try, Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, k> > |i watchings with the nightly thief: Or it* I slumber, fancy, i Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : Ev'n,day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breatlung night. IX. O ! thou bright queen who o'er th' expanse, Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! < >:'i has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us. fondly-wanuring, stray ! The time, unheeded, sped away, While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. To mark the mutual kindling eye. X. Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! Scenes, never, never, to return ! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again 1 bum ! From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' And bopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow. DESPONDENCY, AN ODE. Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear I sit me down and sigh : O life ! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I ! Dim backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear ! Whal sorrows yet may pierce me thro', Too justly I may fear ! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom ; My woes here shall close ne'er, But with the closing tomb ! II. Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end 's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same ; You, bustling, and just lino-. Forget each grief and pain : I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain. III. How blest the Solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting all-forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gatherd fruits, Beside his crystal well ! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream, BURNS' POEMS. 39 The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream : While praising, and raising His thoughts to hcav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky. IV. Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trae'd, Less fit to play the part ; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art : But all ! those pleasures, loves, and joys Which 1 too keenly taste, The Solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be, blest ! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate, Wliilst I here must cry here, At perfidy ingrate ! V. Oh ! enviable, early days, When dancincr thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchang'd for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish ! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage .' The fears all, the tears all, Of dim-declining age WINTER. A DIRGE. I. The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw ; Or, the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw : While tumbling brown, the burn c down, And roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest And pass the heartless day. 11. " The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to mo more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join, The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine III. Thou PoieV Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy Will ! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine !) Since to enjoy thou dost deny Assist me to resign. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT INSCRIBED TO R. A****, ESQ- Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the poor. Gray. My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend I 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 wavs: What A'**** in a cottage would have been; All '. tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, Lween. II. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the plough , The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- pose: Dr. Young. 40 BURNS' POEMS. The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the mnm in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, liis course does hameward bend. m. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneatli the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. His wee bit jngle, blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wi/ie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a 1 his weary, carking cares beguile, Vn' makes him quite forget his labour an' hi:s toil. IV. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the plough, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errend to a neebor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in hov e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd unnotic'd fleet ; Eacli tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mullu r. wi' her needle ari ! her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. VI. Their master's an 1 their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; " \n" mind their labours wi' and eydenthand, An'ne'er,tho'outo'sight,to jauk or play : An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway! An' mind your duly, duly, 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 !" VII 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 ; With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafllins is affraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. VIII. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye; 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 1 , scarce can weel behave ; The mother, wi" a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an sae grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. IX. O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I've paced much this weary mortal round, 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 others 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 ? BURNS Curse on his pcrjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- traction wild? XI. But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont tne hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her wcel-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 Deil. xn. The cheerfu' 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, 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 1" he says, with solemn air. xm. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tunc their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : Or noble Elgin oeets the heav'nward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bado eternal warfare wage With Jlmalek's ungracious progeny ; D2 POEMS. 41 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; O^ Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. XV. 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'lon's doom pronoune'd by Heav'n's command. XVI. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 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. xvn. 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 Poiv'r, incens'd,the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well plcas'd, the language of the soul ; And in liis book of life the inmates poor enrol. xvm. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The yougling cottagers retire to rest : The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- quest * Pope's Windsor Forest. 42 BURNS' POEMS. That lie who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in fiow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees th« best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of God :" And cartes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The col/age 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 refin'd ! XX. O Scolia .' my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- vent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er croivns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much- lov'd Isle. XXI. O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- ward !) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert : Bui still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. Whfn chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One cv'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks ofJlyr, I spy'd a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care ; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. II. " Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?' Began the reverend sage ; " Docs thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage ; Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man ! m. " The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride ; I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return ; And ev'ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn. IV. " O man ! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Mispcnding all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youtliful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives nature's law, That man was made to mourn. " Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right : But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, Oh ! ill match'd pair, Show man was made to mourn. VI. " A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap rarest ; Yet, think, not all the rich and groat Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land. Are wretched and forlorn ; Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. BURINS' POEMS. 43 VII. ' Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwovon with our frame I More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whoso heaven-erected faco The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! vni. " See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. IX. • If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,- By nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why ami subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn ? X. " Yet, let not this, too much, my son, Disturb thy youtbful breast : Tliis partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last ! The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn 1 XI H O death ! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn ; But, Oh ! a bless 'd relief to those That weary-laden mourn !" PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps 1 must appear ! II. If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; HI. Thou know'st that thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. IV. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailly stept aside, Do thou Jill-Good .' for such thou art, In shades of darkness liide. V. Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good ; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms i Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- tween : 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 liis sin-avenging rod. 44 BURNS' POEMS. Fam would I say,"Forgive my foul offence!" Fain promise never more to disobey ; But, should my Author health again dis- pense, Again 1 might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in lolly's path might go astray: Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to tempta- tion 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, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With what controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, Those headlong furious passions to con- fine ; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 0, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine I LYING AT A REVEKEXD FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. O thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above I I know thou wilt me hear : When for this scene of peace and love, I make my pray'r sincere. II. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleas'd to spare .' To bless his lktle filial flock, And show what good men are. m. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O, bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears ! VI. Their hopo, their stay, their darling youth, In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish ! The beauteous, seraph sister-band With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide thou their steps ahvay 1 VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driv*n, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family hi Heav'n ! THE FIRST PSALM. The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore ! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like thetroos Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on lhgh, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that God the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O thou 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 district ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure thou. Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! ( i. in e my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wild design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine ! BURNS' POEMS. 45 FIRST SIX VERSES OP THE NINETIETH PSALM. O thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place I Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath thy forming hand, Before tliis pond'rous globe itself, Arose at thy command : That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought: Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought 1" Thou layest them, witli all their cares, In everlasting sleep ; As with a flood thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd ; But long ere night cut down it lies All wither'd and decay'd. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL 178 G. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Tliou'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 bonnie gem. Alas '. it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wi' spreckled breast. When upward-springing, blythe to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew tho bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rcar'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa"s maun shield, But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stano, Adorns the histie stibble-Jield, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed. And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet Jlow'ret 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 OP prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! Such fate of suffering worth isgiv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Tillwrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heavn, He, ruin'd, sink ! E'vn thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate Tliatfate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! TO RUIN. I. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel wo-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all 1 4G With sfern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I sec each aimed dart ; For one lias cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my lieart. Then low "ring, and pouring, Tlie storm no more I dread ; TIid* thick'ning and black'ning, Round my devoted head. II. And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh ! hear a wretch's prayY! No more I shrink appall'd,"afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul in silent peace, Resign life's joyless day ; My weary lieart its throbbing cease, Cold mould'ring in the clay ? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face ; Enclasped, and grasped Within thy cold embrace I BURNS' POEMS. TO MISS L— , WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail ; 1 send you more than India boasts, In Edwin's simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY-I78C. I. I LANa hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end Than just a kind menu nto; But how the subject-theme may gang Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang Perhaps turn out a sermon. II. Ye'll try Hie world soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And mucklc 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. m. Til no say, men arc villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked : But och ! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted ; If self tho wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted 1 IV. Yet they wha fa 1 in fortune's strife, Their fate we should nae censure, For still th' important e?id of life, They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest lieart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare liim. Ay free, aff han' your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony ; But. still keep sometliingto yoursel Ye'scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frao critical dissection ; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen 'd, slee inspection. VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' tho sin, The hazard of concealing ; But och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies tho feeling ! BURNS' 1>0EMS. 47 VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her ; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's jus1 ified by honour ; Not. for to liide it in a hedge, Not for a train-attendant ; But. for the glorious privilege Of being independent. vrn. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To baud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that ay be your border ; Its slightest touches, instant pause — Debar a'. side pretences ; And resolutely keep its laws Uncaring consequences. IX. The great Creator to revere, Must sine become tho creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended ! X. When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded ; Or if she gie a random sling, 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 ! XI. 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 you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser ! ON A SCOTCH BARD GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, A' yc wha live by crambo-clink. A' yc wha live and never think, Conic mourn wi' me ! Our billie 's gicn us a' a jink, An' owro the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the mt try-roar, In social key ; For now he's ta'cn anither shore, An' owrc the sea. The bonnic lasses wcel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e • For weel I wat they'll sairly miss hin That's owre the sea. O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! Hadst thou ta'cn aff some drowsy bummlc, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea ; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear, In flinders flee ; Ho was her laureate monie a year, That's owre the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ncer was under Hiding ; He dealt it free : The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie bicl : Yell iind him ay a dainty chiel, And fou' o' glee ; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea. 48 BURNS' POEMS. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! Your nativo soil was right lll-willie ; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now honnilie ! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great cliieftain o' the puddin-racc ! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, An' cut you up with ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich ! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums ; Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, Bttliankit 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 withcr'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 liis walio nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle ; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrisslc. 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 ! A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. Expect na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble blind, Because ye're surnam'd like his grace, Perhaps related to the race ; Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me ! sae laigh I needna dow, For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord, be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me) On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, He's just — nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want ; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What anco he says he winri'a break it ; Ought ho can lend he'll no refus't, Till aft his guidncss is abus'd : And rascals whylcs that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail liis part in either. But then, na thanks to him for a' that ; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor, sinfu,' corrupt nature ! Ye'U get tho best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, BURNS' POEMS. 49 Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion ; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly banc, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro' a winnork frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door: Be to the poor liko onic whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving ; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, Anil damn a' parties but your own; I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath ; When Ruin, with Ids sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : While o'er the liarp pale mis'ry moans, And strikes the ever deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my work I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to You : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a woid I need na say : For prayin I liae little skill o't ; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o t; But I'sc repeat each poor man'spro^r, That kens or hears about you, Sir— " May ne'er misfortune's gowling hark, Howl lliro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart! May K******'s far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal llame, Till H*******'e, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' ablo To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the evening o' his days ; Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion : But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor ! But by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! While recollection's pow'r is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear, Should recognize my master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother ! TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owro gauze and lace ; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Dctosted, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 50 BURNS' POEMS. How daro ye set your fit upon her, Sac fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's harlot squattle ; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ithur kindred, jumpin cattle, In shoals and nations ; Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud yn there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight ; Na, faith ye yet ! ye*ll no be right Till ye've got on it, The vera tapmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your noso out, As plump and gray as onie grozet ; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum ! I wad na been surpris'd to spy Tou on an auld wife's flainen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat ; But Miss's fine Lunardi .' fie, How dare ye d'ot 1 O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread 1 Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin 1 Thao tciriks zndjinger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin ! O wad some pow'r the giftic gie us To see oursels as others see us ! It wad frae rnonie a blunder free us And foolish notion : What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'o us, And ev'n Devotion 1 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. EdiNa! Scotia's darling sent! All hail tl and tow'rs, Where once ; nonsuch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs '. From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendor rise ; Here justice, from her native skies, 1 li. Altho' the nighl were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie,0, I'd meet theo on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo ; BURNS' POEMS. 85 Gio mo tlie hour o' gloamin gray, Itmaksiny heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea-rig', My ain kind dearie, O. TO MARY. Tune — " Ewe-bughts, Marion." Will ye go to the Tndies, my Mary, And leave anld Scotia's shore ? Will ye go to the Indies my Mary, Across th' Atlantic's roar ? sweet grows the lime and the orange. And the apple on the pine ; But a' the charms o' the Indies, Can never equal thine. 1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When I forget my vow ! O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand ; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join, And curst be the cause that shall part us '. The hour, and the moment o' time !* MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee tiling, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And niest 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 bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't ; Wi' her I'll blithly bear it, And think my lot divine. •This Song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in his collection. It deserves, however, to be preserved. E. BONNIE LESLEY. O saw yc bonnie 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 ne'er made sic anither ! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee ; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, " I camia wrang thee." The Powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; Thou'rt like themselves 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 bonnie. HIGHLAND MARY Tune — " Catharine Ogie." Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, The castle o' 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 fareweel 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 ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; 86 BURNS' POEMS. But Oil ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower Bfce earlj 1 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 1 ail hac kiss'd sac fondly ! And closed tor ay, the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sac kindly '. And mouldering now in silent dost, Thai heart that lo'cd me dearly! Bui still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary. AULD ROB MORRIS. There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bomiie lassie, liis darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new bay : As blithe and as artless as the Iambs 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 must liide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it isgane : I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And 1 sigh as my heart it would burst in my breast. O, bad she been but of lower degree, I 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 ! DUNCAN GRAY. I (unoan Gtrai came hi re to I hi. Int. tin wooing o% On blythe yule night when we wercfou, Jin, hit, tltr rutting o'l. Maggie coost her head fa' high, 1 b 'd askleni and unco skeagh, Garl poor Duncan stand Jin, /in, tin wooing o't. Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; Jin, It a, kc. Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Iln, lm. ice. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his ecu baith bleer'1 and blin', Spak o' low pin owre a linn ; JJu, lm, ice. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, kc. Slighted love is sairto bide, llu, lm. ice. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die ? She may gae to — France for me ! Ha, ha, kc. How it comes let doctors tell, Jin. ha, ice. Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, Jht, Int. ice. iii her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; And O, her con. they spak sic tilings ! Ha, ha, kc. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, ice. Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, lui. kc. Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith. Ha, ha, kc. SONG. Tune — "I had a horse." O roORTiTH cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye ; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An' 'twere na for my Feanie, O why shouldfate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sac sweet a flower as love Depend bn Fortune's shining? BURNS' POEMS- 87 This warld's wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; Fie, fie on silly coward man. That he should be the slave o't. O why,&c. Her een sac bonnie blue betray, How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her o'crword ay, She talks of rank and fashion. O why, &c. O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him ? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am ? O tchy, Sec. How blest the humble cotter's fate ! He wooes his simple dearie ; The sillie bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. O why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining ? Or why sae sweet a flower as love, Depend on Fortune's sliming ? GALLA WATER. There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro' the blooming heather ; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws, Can match the lads o' Galla water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e 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 nae 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 1 mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! LORD GREGORY. O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar ; A waefu 1 wanderer seeks thy tow'r, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee ; At least some pity on me shaw, If lore it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not tho grove, By bonnie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied. How aftcn didst tliou pledge and vow, Thou wad for ay be mine '. And my fond heart, itscl sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast : Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest ! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see ! But spare, and pardon my fause love, His wranh,ifhe'sfailhless,an'rous gales, sails, To my arms their charge convey, My <](•;, r hid that's i'ar away. On the seat Sec. SONG Tune—" Ca' the Yowcs to the Knowes." Ca" the yours to the knmres, Co 1 them irhare the heather grows, Ca* tin m whare the burnie rows, My bonnic dearie. Hark, the mavis 1 evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods ainar.g; Then a-raulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie. CeC the, Sec. We'll gac down by Cloudcn side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves, that sweetly glide To the moon sac clearly. CV the, Sec. Yonder Cloudcn's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies danec sac cheery. CeC the, Sec. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; Thou'rt to love and heav'n sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thec near, My bonnic dearie. CeC the, Sec. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart ; 1 can die — but canna part, My bonnie dearie. CV the, Sec. SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall." Sae flaxen were her ringlets, I [er ej ebrows of a darker hue, Bewitehingly o'er-arching Twa laughing ecu o' bonnic blue. Her smiling sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; What pleasure, what treasure, I [lio thrse rOSJ lips tO 'TOW ! Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw ; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a 1 . BURNS' POEMS. 97 Like harmony her motion ; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion, Wad mak a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form, and gracefu' air ; Ilk feature — auld nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair : Hers aro the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon ; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon ; Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes her sang : There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a' I SAW YE MY PHELY. (Quasi dicat Phillis.) Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit." O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? O saw ye my dear, my Phely i She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, She winna come hame to her Willy. What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? What says she, my dearest, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,' And for ever disowns thee her Willy. O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. SONG. Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." How long and dreary is the night, When I am frae my dearie ; I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. H For oh, her lanely nights are lang And oh, her dreams are eerie ; And oh, her widow'd heart is suir, That's absent frae her dearie. When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee my dearie ; And now what seas between us roar, How can I be but/eerie? For oh, &.c. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; The joyless day how dreary ! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. For oh, Sec. SONG. Tune — " Duncan Gray.'' Let not woman e'er complain, Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain, Fickle man is apt to rove : Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove ? Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go. Why then ask of silly man, To oppose great Nature's plan ? We'll be constant while we can — You can be no more, you know. THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune—" Deil tak the Wars." Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- Rosy morn now lifts his eye, [ture Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy : Now thro' the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods, Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; The lintwhite hi his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower ; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, [day- While the sun and thou arise to bless the 98 BURNS' POEMS. Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; Such '" me my lovely maid. \'i en absenl frae my fair, The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; But when, in beauty's light, She meets iny ravish'd sight, When through my very heart I ter beaming glories dirt ; Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. THE AULD MAN. Bvt lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoie'd the day, Thro' gentle showers the laugliing flowers In double pride were gay : But now our joys are fled, On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May. in rich array, Again shall bring them a'. But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of age ; My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, Sinks in tune's wintry rage. Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain ! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why com'st thou not again ! SONG. Tune — " My Lodging is on the cold ground." My ('Moris, mark how rrrecn the groves, The primrose hanks how fair: The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy llaxen hair. The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, And o'er the cottage sings : For nature smiles as sweet I ween, To shepherds as to kings. Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string In lordly lighted ha': The shepherd stops his simple reed, Blithe, in the birken ehaw. The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; But are their hearts as light as ours Beneath the milk-white thorn? The shepherd, in the flowery glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo : The courtier tells a finer tale, But is Ins heart as true ? These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine : The courtiers' gems may witness love — But 'tis na love like mine. SONG, ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. It was the charming month of May, When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Cliloe ; From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the da mi, Youthful Chloc, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. The feathcr'd people, you might see Perch'd all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody, They hail the charming Chloc ; Till, painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe Lovely was she, Sec. LASSIE WP THE LINT- WHITE LOCKy. Tune — " Rothemurcliie's Rant." Lassie wV the lint-while locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou "(' mt It a! thrjlocks, Will thou In my dearie, O? BURNS' POEMS. 09 Now nature deeds tho flowery lea, And a 1 is young- and sweet like thee ; O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, And say thou'lt be my dearie, O? Lassie wi\ &c. And when the welcome simmer-shower, I Ins cheer'*! ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, O. Lassie wi\ kc. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way ; Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie, O. Lassie wi\ &c. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faitlifu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, O will thou wi" 1 me tent the flocks, J fill thou be my dearie, O ? DUET. SONG. Tune — " Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c. Farewell thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling ! mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling : Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover : The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, Betray the hapless lover. 1 know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me. The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, Till fears no more had sav'd mo : Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing; 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin. Tune— "The Sow's Tail. -O Fjuj.ly, happy be that day When roving through the irather'd hay My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly. -O Willy, ay I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love, Whilst thou did pledge the Powers above To be my ain dear Willy. he — As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly. she — As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes, and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. he — The milder sun and bluer sky, That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly. she — The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' my Willy. he — The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly. she — The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' Willy. he — Let fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tine, and knaves may win ; My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly. SHE _What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! I care nae wealth a single flie ; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear Willy. 100 BURNS' POEMS. SONG. Tune — " Lumps o' Pudding. Con n.NTF.n wi 1 little, and cantio wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi 1 sorrow and care, I L r ic thcin a skolp, as they're creepin alang, Wi 1 a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. troublesome I whvles claw the elbow Thought ; But man is a soger, and life is a faught : My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way ; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gao : Coino case, or come travail ; come pleasure, or pain, My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome asrain !" CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? Tune— "Roy's wife." Canst thou leave me thus, my Kali/? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Will thou know'st my aching heart, Jlnd canst thou leave mc thus for pity? Is I his thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is lliis thy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy? Canst thou, ke. Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- But not a love like mine, my Katy. Canst tlvou, See. MY NANNIE'S AWA. Tune — " There'll never be peace" &c. Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, And listens tho lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, [shaw ; While birds warble welcome in ilka green But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. Tho snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weot o' the morn : They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shephord to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa' Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray* And sooth me wi' tiding o' nature's decay : The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a 1 that ! For a' that, and a' that, Our toil's obscure, and a' that, Tho rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's tho gowd for a' that. Wliat tho' on hainely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a' th:it ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine A man's a man for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that ; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that Ye see yon birkic, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; Tho' hundreds worship at Ins word, He's but a coof for a' that : BURNS' POEMS. 101 For a' that, and a that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he.mauna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a 1 that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. SONG. Tune — Craigie-burn-wood. Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blithe awakes the morrow, But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing : But what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing ? Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet dare na for your anger ; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frao the tree, Around my grave they'll wither. SONG. Tune — " Let me in this ae night." O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? Or art thou wakin, I would wit ? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. 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 hears't 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, Sec. 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, &c HER ANSWER. O tell 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. J tell you now this ae night. This ae, ax, ae night ; And ancefor 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. / tell you now, &c. 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, J tell you now, &c. 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, kc. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. Tune—" Where'll bonnie Ann lie." Or, " Loch- Eroch Side." O stay, sweet warbling wood -lark stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 102 BURNS' POEMS. A hapless lover courts lliy lay. Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art ; For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha lulls me wi' disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind ? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' wo could wauken. Thou tells o' never-ending care ; O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mail ! Or my poor heart is broken ! ON CIILORIS BEING ILL. Tune — " Ay wakin O." Lone, long the night, I feavy amies the morrow, While mi/ smil's delight, Is on htr bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish. While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish? Long, kc. Every hope is fled. Every fear is terror ; Slumber even I dread, Every dream is horror. Long, &c. Hear me, Powr's divine ! Oh, in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me ! Long, &e. SONG. Tune — " Humours of Glen." Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, [perfume, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the Far dearer to me yon lone glen o'jgreen breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Fa r dearer to mc arc yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : [flowers, For there, lightly tripping aiming the wild A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny val- leys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; Their sweet-scented "woodlands that skirt the proud palace, [slave ! What are they f The haunt of the tyrant and Tho slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- tains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. SONG. Tune — " Laddie, lie near mc." 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 'Twas the dear smile when nacbody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; Hut tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, — And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest, And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, Sooner the sun in liis motion would falter. ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. Tune — " John Anderson my jo." How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And to the. wealthy booby. Poor woman sacrifice. Meanwhile the hapless daughter I las but a choice of strife ; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched will'. The ravening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus Hies, To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries, BURNS' POEMS. 103 Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet. SONG. Tune—" Deil tak the Wars." Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion, Poor is all that princely pride. What arc the showy treasures? What are the noisy pleasures ? The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array ; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. O then, the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. SONG. Tone — This is no my ain House. this is no my ain lassie, ■ Fair tho' the lassie be ; weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. t see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no, && She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall And lang has had my heart in thrall ; And ay it charms my very said, The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no, kc. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the o'e, O this is no, &c. I may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no, &c. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. SCOTTISH SONG. Now spring has clad the groves in green, And strew'd the lea wr flowers ; The furrow'd, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers ; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of wo ! The trout within yon wimplin burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art : My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliff" that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom, And now beneath the withering blast My youth and joys consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blithe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flowery snare O' witching love, in luckless hour Made me the thrall o' care. 104 BURNS' POEMS. O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric\s burning 1 zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, So l"eggy ne'er I'd known? The wrcirli whase doomis, " hope nao mair," What tongue his woes can tell! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. SCOTTISH SONG. O bonnie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frac haunt o' man ; And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! It shaded frae the e'enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green ; But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. WRITTEN on a blank leaf of a copy of hi* Poems presented to a Lady, whom he fiad often celebrated under the name of Chloris. Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair Friend, Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing muse. Since, thou, in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the world adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) To join the friendly few. Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lower : (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind ; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, The comforts of the mind! Thine is the self-approving glow, On conscious honour's part ; And, dearest gift of heaven below Thine friendship's truest heart. The joys refin'd of sense and taste, With every muse to rove : And doubly wero the poet blest These joys could he improve. ENGLISH SONG. Tune — " Let me in this ae night. Fori.ohn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou, lone, but near me, But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheering, And mingle sig/is with mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; And shelter, shade, nor home have 1, Save in those arms of thine, love. O wert, Sec. Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, To poison fortune's ruthless dart- Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love. O wcrt, &c. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think wc yet shall meet! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. O wert, Sec. SCOTTISH BALLAD. Tune— "The 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 naetiiingl hated like men, Tho deuce gao wi'm, to believe me, believe me, The deuce gao wi'm, to believe me BURNS' POEMS. 105 He spak o' tho darts in my bonnie black e'en, 1 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 wcel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, And marriage aft-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, But thought I might hao waur offers, waur offers, But thaught 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, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, I gafcd to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlockja warlock, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlockw But owre my left shouther I gae 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 bis dear lassie. I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover'd her hearin, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for Gudesake ! 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-mor- row, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. FRAGMENT. Tune— "Tho Caledonian Hunt's Delight." Why, why tell thy lover, Bliss he never must enjoy ! Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie ? O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme ; Why, why wouldst thou cruel, Wake thy lover from his dream ? H2 HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. Tune — " Balinamona ora." Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: O, gie me tho lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie mo the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. Then hey, for a lass wi? a loclier, then hey for a lass wV a tocher, TJien hey, for a lass to' a tocher ; the nice yellow guineas for me. Your beauty's a flower, in tho morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, Ek spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. Then hey, Sec. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, [sest ; The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- prest, The langer ye hae them — 'the mair they're carest. Then hey, &c. SONG. Tune — " Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney." Here's a health to ant I fo'e dear, Here's a health to ane I We dear Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! Here's a health, See. I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! Here's a health, Sec. 106 BURNS' POEMS. I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy ! Here's a health, Sec. SONG. Tune — " Rothcrmurchies's Rant." Fairest maid on Devon banks, I ystaH, Dt von, winding Devon, 7/7,7 thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do ? Fltl well thou know'st I love thee dear, Couldsl thou to malice lend an car ! O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so ?" Fairest maid, kc. Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but tliinc my heart shall know. Fairest maid, kc. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldy ? Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come let us spend the lightsome days, In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, Sec. While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythly sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, kc. The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, The Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, Sec. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi" flowers, While o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The Birks, of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, kr. Let fortune's irifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish fraeme, Supremely blest wi' love and thee, hi the Birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, kc. STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME ? Tune—" An Gille dubh ciar-dhubh." Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! Well you know how much you grieve me ; Cruel charmer, can you go? Cruel charmer, can you go? By my love so ill requited ; By the faith yon fondly plighted ; * By the pffl^s of lovers slighted ; Do uotplfi not leave me so ! Do not, do not leave me so ! STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling Howling tempests o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets, gently flowing Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaped, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend ! THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER Tune—" Morag." Loun blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on nie seizes, Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. BURNS' POEMS. 107 Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May Heaven be liis warden : Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! The trees now naked groaning, Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blithly singing, And every flower be springing. Sac I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, When by Ins mighty warden My youth's return'a to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon. RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. Tune — " M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament.' Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray 'd deploring. " Farewell, hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow. " O'er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes, Life, thou soul of every blessing, Load to misery most distressing, O how gladly I'd resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee!" MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Tune — "Druimion dubh." Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me ; Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, For his weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law ; Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that's far aw a. Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend mo ; Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of him that's far avva! BLITHE WAS SHE. Blifhe, blithe and merry teas she, Blithe in/s she, hut and hen: Blithe by the banks of Em, And blithe in Glenlurit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blithe, Sec. Her looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn : She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn. Blithe, Sec. Her bonnie 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. Blithe, Sec. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blithest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blithe, Sec. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. A rose-bud by my early walk, A down a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn arc fled, In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. 103 BURNS' POEMS. Sho soon shall sec her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Among the fresh green leaves bedew'd, Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning. WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. Tune— "N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." Where braving angry winter's storms, The lofty Ochils rise, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes. As one by whom some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, Astonished, doubly marks its beam, Willi art's most polish'd blaze. Blest be the wild, sequester 'd shade, And blest the day and hour, Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, When first I felt their pow'r ! The tyrant death with grim control May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune — " Invercald's Reel." O Tibbie, I hat seen the day, Ye would nae been sae shy ; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But, troulh, I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : Ye geek at mo because I'm poor, But feint a hair care I. O Tibbie, I hae, kc. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try. O Tibbie, I lute, kc. But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high. Tibbie, I hae, kc. Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry. O Tibbie, I liae, Sec. But if he hae (he name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, Be better than the kye. O Tibbie, I hae, kc. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice : The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I. O Tibbie, I lute, kc. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark, For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark : Ye need na look sae high. O Tibbie, I hae, kc. CLARINDA. Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy. Wo part — but by these precious drops That fill thy lovely eyes! N<> olhcr light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, I Fas blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? BURNS' POEMS 109 THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune — " Seventh of November." The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more — it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give ; While joys above, my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live ! When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part ; The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. THE LAZY MIST. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- pear As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown ; Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- sues; How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain : How little of life's scanty span may remain : What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ; What tics, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! And downward, how weaken'd, howdarken'd, how pain'd ! This life's not worth having with all it can give, For something beyond it poor man sure must live. O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL ! Tune—" My love is lost to me." O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! Or had of Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing; how dear I love thee. But Nitli maun be my muse's well, My muse maun be thy bonnie sol ; On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, And write how dear I love thee. Then como, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! For a' the loe-lang simmer's day, I coudna sing, I coudna say, How much, how dear I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sac clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — By heaven and earth I love thee 1 By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; And ay I muse and sing thy name, I only live to love thee. Tho'I were doom'd to wander on, Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run ; Till then — and then I love thee. I LOVE MY JEAN. Tune— "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie fives, 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 bonnie flower that springs, By fountain, shavv, or green, There's not a boimie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 110 BURNS' POEMS. Thro' faded grove Maria sang, I [crsel in beauty's bloom the while, And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, Fare wocl the braeso' Ballochmyle. Low in your wintry beds, yc flowers, Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in with 'ring bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nac mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweeljfarcwcel ! sweet Ballochmyle. WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. O, willie brew'd a peck o' maut," And Rob and Allan came to see ; Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are nafou, we're na ihalfou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw And ay ice'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 ! Il'e are nafou, Sec. It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's hlinkin in the lift sac hie ; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! We are naefou, &c. Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loon is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', lie is the king amang us tliree I We are nafou, &c.° THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. I gaed a wacfu' gate, yestreen, A ' is a pity ; But what will I do wi' Tarn Gleu ? BURNS' POEMS. Ill I'm thinkin, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might male a fen' ; What care I in riches to wallow, If I mauiina marry Tam Glen ? There's Lowrio the laird o' Prummeller, " Guid day to you, brute," he comes ben : He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will ho dance like Tam Glen ? My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? My daddio says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou gicd a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And tlirice it was written, Tam Glen ! The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleevc, as ye ken His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. O MBIKIE thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; But little thinks my luve [ ken brawlie, My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; Mv laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He carina hae luve to spare for me. Your proffer o' luve's an airl-pcnny, My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune may try. Yc'rc like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye'rc like to the bark o' you rotten tree, Ye'll slip fYae mo like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN, Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for fautc o' light, For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun. Then guidwifc count the lawin, the lawin, tha law in, Then guid wife count the lawin, and bring a coggie mair. 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 gudewife count, Sec. 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, &c. WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN AULD MAN? What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 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' ! Bad luck on the pennie, &c. He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; He's doylt and he's dozen, his bluid it is fro- frozen, O, deary's the night wi' a crazy auld man I lie hums and he hankers, he frets and he can- kers, I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fel- lows : O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! My auld auntie Katie upon me taks 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. 112 BURNS' POEMS. THE BONNIE WEE THING. Bonnie wee thin"-, canine wee thing, Lovely wee thing, W*st thou mine, wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee tiling be na mine. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee, Sec. O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! Tune—" The Moudiewort." An O,for ane and ticenty, Tam ! An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! ril learn my kin a ratllin sang, An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. They snool me sair, and haud me down, And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn 1 But three short years will soon wheel rc-un', And then comes ane and twenty, Tam ! An O,for ane, Sec. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; At kith or kin I needna spier, An I saw ane and twenty, Tam ! An O,for ane, Sec. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I rnysel' hae plenty, Tam ; But hcar'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An O, for ane, Sec. BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. O i.eeze me on my spinning wheel, O leeze me on my rock and reel ; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! [11 set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — Leeze me on my spinning" wheel. On ilka hand the bumics trot. And meet below my theckit 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 bieP, Where blithe I turn my spinning wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And echo cons thee doolfu' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the claver hay, Tho paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinning 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 spinning wheel ? COUNTRY LASSIE. In simmor when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o'er the lea, And roses blaw in ilka bield ; Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will ; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, " O' guid advisement comes nac ill. " It's yc hae wooers mony ane, And lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routine but, a routine ben : There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glcn, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, It's plenty beets the luver's fire." For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie ; He lo'ea sac well his craps and kye, Ho h;is nac luve to spare for mo : But blithe's the blink o' Robie'se'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : Ac blink o' him I wad na gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. BURNS' POEMS. 113 " O thoughtless lassio, life's a faught ; The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; But ay fix' han't is feehlin best, A hungry care's an unco care: But some will spend, and some will spare, An' will'ii' folk maun hae their will; Sync as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yihV O, gear will buy mo rigs o' land, And <^ear will buy me sheep and kye ; But the tender heart o' leesome luvc, The gowd and siller carina buy : We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luvc lays on; Content and luve brings peace and joy, What mair hae queens upon a throne ? FAIR ELIZA. A GAELIC AIR. Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rew on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? The offence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine wad gladly die ? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sinny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon ; Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens on his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me. THE POSIE. O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; T But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posio to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o 1 the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose when riicebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou ; The hyacinth 's for constancy wi' its unchang- ing blue, And a 1 to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, But the songster's nest witlun the bush I win- na tak away ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear : The violet 's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of luve, And FU place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresli 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. 114 BURNS' POEMS. Oft hae T rov'd by bonnie Doon, To sec the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sac did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome hear! I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tn e : But my fause luver stole my rose, Bui ah 1 ho left the thorn wi' me. SONG. Tune — " Catharine Ogie." Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How ran ye Illume sae fair, How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care 1 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fausc luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sac I sat, and sae 1 sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the wood-bine twine, And ilka bird san^ o' its love, And sae did 1 o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree, And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca'dit Linkumdoddie, Willie was a wabster guid, Cou'd sto.vn a clue wi' ony bodie ; He had a wife was dour and din, O Tinkler Madgic was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. She has an e'e, she has but ane, T!i' cat lias twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbyea stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whisken beard about her mou, Her nose and chin they threaten ither; Sic a wife, Sec. She's bow-hongh'd, she's hein-shinn'd, Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; She 's twisted right, she 's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouthor; Sic a wife, &c Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushionj Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water : Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. GLOOMY DECEMBER. Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Partinir wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for i Is anguish untningled and agony pure. Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; Still as 1 hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me re- member, Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? Wilt thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? By the treasure of my soul, And that 's the love I bear thee ! I swear and vow, that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. ( >nl\- thou, 1 swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, sav thou lo'cs me; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me : Lf it wiiuia, canna be, BURNS' TOEMS. 115 Thou for thine may chooso me ; Let me, lassie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es mo. SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. She's fair and fausc that causes my smart, 1 lo'ed her meikle and lang ; She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, And I may e'en gae hang. A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear, But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonnie lass gang. Whoe'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind : O woman lovely, woman fair ! An angel's form 's faun to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, I mean an angel mind. AFTON WATER. r Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, 111 sing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds tliro' the glen, Ye wild wliistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd wi' the courses of clear, winding rills ; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blew ; There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and mp Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lofty it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; How wanton thy waters her snowy ieet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. BONNIE BELL. The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, And surly winter grimly flies : Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; All creatures joy in the sun's returning And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. The flowery spring leads sunny summer, And yellow autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, Till smiling spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and nature their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging I adore my bonnie Bell. THE GALLANT WEAVER. Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; And I was fear'd my heart would tine, And I gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign'd my tocher-band To gie the lad that has the land ; But to my heart I'll add my hand, And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver. 116 BURNS' POEMS. LOUIS WHAT RECK I BY THEE ? Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean ? Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 1 reign in Jeanie's bosom. Let her crown my love Iior law, And in her breast enthrone me : Kings and nations, swith awa ! Reif randies, I disown ye ! FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 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 1 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 of somebody ! THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e 1 en and morn she cries, alas ! And ay the saut tear Wins her e'e : Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu 1 day it was to me ; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and bretliren three. Tluir winding sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves arc growing green to see; And by them lies the deares I lad That ever Most m woman's e'e ! .Now wae to thee, thou i rue! lord, A bluidy man 1 trow thou bo ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Tune — " Finlayston House." Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd my darling's heart : And with him all the joys are fled Life can to mo impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes, My age's future shade. The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young ; So I, for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live-day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now fond 1 bare my breast, O, do thou kindly lay me low With liiiu I love, at rest I O MAY, THY MORN. O May, 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 1 will ay remember. And dear, Sec. And here's to them, that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum ; And here's to them that wish us wcel, 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, &cc. O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN? O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 'i e see the e'enin sun upon ? The fairest dame 's in yon town, That e'enin sun is shining on. Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree : How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! BURNS' POEMS. 117 How blost ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year 1 And doubly welcome be Ibe spring, The season to my Lucy dear. The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnic braes of Ayr ; But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms O' Paradise could yield ine joy ; But gio me Lucy in my anus, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air ; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. O, sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ! A fairer than's in } r on town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she — as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart. A RED, RED ROSE. O, my hive's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June : O, my hive's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in hive am I : And I will hive 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 : I will hive thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. A VISION. As I stood by yon rootless tower, Where the wa'-tlowcr scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, Tho stars they shut along the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply Tho stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, And by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me : And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy — Libertie 1 And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear ; But oh, it was a tale of wo, As ever met a Briton's ear ! He sang wi' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur't in my rhymes. COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, With the present of the Bard's Picture. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected. 118 BURNS' POEMS. Tho something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand 'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name havo rever'd on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoflingly slight it. Still in prayers for K — G — I most heartily join, The Q — , and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country. But why of this epocha make such a fuss, ***** * * * * But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground, ■Who knows how the fashions may after? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter. I send you a triflo, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night ; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. CALEDONIA. Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." There was once a day, but old Time then was young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern .Lilies sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, Andpledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride other kindred the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, " Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue !" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rust- ling corn ? But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken 'd the air, and they plunder'd the land : Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : O'er countries and kingdoms the fury pre- vail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. Tho Chameleon-savage disturb 'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife, Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- ver flood ; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in liis own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconqucr'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run, For brave Caledonia immortal must be; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as tho sun; Rectangle-triangle, tho figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them alwavs. BURNS' POEMS. 119 THE following Poem was written to a Gentle- man, who had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense. Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin ; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; That vile doup-skelpcr, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off ; Or how the collicshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the twalt : If Denmark, any body spak o't ; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin, How libbet Italy was singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin or takin aught amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game : How P&yal Oeorge, the Lord leuk o'er him ! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser, A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despaired of. So gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you. EUisland, Monday Morning, 1790. POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. Hail, Poesie '. thou Nymph reserv'd ! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Man:'- heaps o' clavers; And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, Mid a' thy favours ! Say, Lassie, why thy train aiiwnn, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage ; Scarce ane lias tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage ? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives Eschylus' pen Will Shakspcare drives ; Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters : I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and lea. Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly, in its native air And rural grace ; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share A rival place ? Yes ! there is ane — a Scottish callan ! There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever ; The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou 's for ever. Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell I In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin love, That charm that can the strongest quell ; The sternest move. 120 BURNS' POEMS. BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, Between the Duko of Argyle and the Earl of Mar. " O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd tie sheep \vi' me, man ? Or were ye at the sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man ?" I saw the battle, sair and tough, And reckin-red ran mony a sheugh, My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, = O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wiia glaum 'd at kingdoms tliree, man. The red-coat lads wi' black cockades To meet them were na slaw, man ; They rush'd and push'd, and blude outo-ush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man : The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles : They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, J'ill fey-men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets oppos'd the targe, And thousands hasten'd to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, They lied like frighted doos, man. " O how deil, Tarn, can that be true ? The chase gaed frae the north, man : I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen hark to Forth, man ; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They look the bri ir might, And straught to Stilling wing'd their flight ; But, cursed lot ! the gates wen: shut, And mony a huntit, poorred-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man.' 1 My sister Kntc cam up the gato Wi' erowdie unto me. man ; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : Their [gft-hand general had nae skill. The Angus lads had nae good will That day their neebors' blood to spill ; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, And so it goes you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man; I fear my lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; But mony bade the world guid-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi' dying yell the tories fell, And wings to hell did llee, man. SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR'S DAY. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Tins day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again : I see the old, bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine. The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer, Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coila 's fair Rachel's care to-day, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow — — That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow And join with me a-moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver ? " Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion ? " The passing moment "s ;ill we rest on !" lies) on — for what : what do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will Time,amus'd with proverb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more ? A lew days may — a few years must — Repose us in the silent diisl. Then is it wise to damp our bliss? Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! The voire of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies: That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight ; That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone ; BURNS' POEMS. 121 Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woful night. — Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, On this poor being all depends ; Let us th' important now employ, And live as those that never die. Tlio' you, with day and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, \ sight life's sorrows to repulse, A sight pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard : Yourself, you wait your bright reward. EXTEMPOR E, on the late Mr. William Smel- lie, Author of the Philosophy of Natural His- tory, and Member of the Antiquarian and Royal Societies of Edinburgh. To Crochallan came The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same ; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving- night, His uncomlit (1 grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd, A head for thought profound and clear, un- match'd ; Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. POETICAL INSCRIPTION^ an Altar to\ Independence, at Kcrroughlry, the Seal ofMr.i Heron ; written in summer, 1795. Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; Frepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach tliis shrine, and worsliip here. SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, Esa. OF GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul ; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- dant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. I 2 How can yo charm, yc flow'rs with all your dyes ? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ; How can 1 to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round lh' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : The Man of Worth, and has not lefl his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. MONODY LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouo-e lately glisten'd ! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis- ten'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection re- mov'd ; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd, Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam tliro' the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach 'd her but ru'd the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot tyre ; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 122 BURNS' POEMS. TIIE EriTAPII. Here lies, now a prey to insulting- neo-lect \\ hat once was a butterfly, °gay in life's beam : Waul only of wisdmn denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor of the Windows, Carriages,