Poems and Songs Read Online

– Eccles. ch. vii. vers. 16.

I

O Ye wha are sae guid yoursel,

Sac pious and sae holy,

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell

Your Neebours' fauts and folly!

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,

Supply'd wi' store o' water,

The heaped happer's ebbing still,

And still the clap plays clatter.

II

Hear me, ye 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.

III

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.

V

See Social-life and Glee sit down,

All joyous and unthinking,

Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown

Debauchery and Drinking:

O would they stay to calculate

Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded h–ll to state,

D–mnation of expences!

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,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

VII

Then gently scan your brother Man,

Still gentler sister Woman;

Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,

To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving Why they do it;

And just as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.

VIII

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord its various tone,

Each spring its various bias:

Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

The Ronalds of the Bennals

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,

And proper young lasses and a', man:

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,

They carry the gree frae them a', man.

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare't,

Braid money to tocher them a', man,

To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand

Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen

As bonie a lass or as braw, man,

But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,

And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,

The mair admiration they draw, man;

While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,

They fade and they wither awa, man.

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',

A hint o' a rival or twa, man,

The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,

If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,

For mair than a towmond or twa, man;

The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,

If he canna get her at a', man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,

The boast of our bachelors a', man:

Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,

She steals our affections awa, man.

If I should detail the pick and the wale

O' lasses that live here awa, man,

The faut wad be mine, if she didna shine

The sweetest and best o' them a', man.

I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,

My poverty keeps me in awe, man,

For making o' rhymes, and working at times,

Does little or naething at a', man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,

Nor hae 't in her power to say na, man,

For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,

My stomach's as proud as them a', man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,

And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,

I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,

Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,

O' pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man:

And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,

And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,

Twal'-hundred, as white as the snaw, man,

A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;

There are no mony poets sae braw, man.

I never had freens weel stockit in means,

To leave me a hundred or twa, man,

Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants

And wish them in hell for it a', man.

I never was cannie for hoarding o' money,

Or claughtin't together at a', man,

I've little to spend and naething to lend,

But devil a shilling I awe, man.

The Tarbolton Lasses

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,

Ye'll there see bonie Peggy:

She kens her father is a laird,

And she forsooth's a leddy.

There's Sophy tight, a lassie bright,

Besides a handsome fortune:

Wha canna win her in a night

Has little art in courtin.

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,

And tak a look o' Mysie;

She's dour and din, a deil within,

But ablins she may please ye.

If she be shy, her sister try,

Ye'll may be fancy Jenny:

If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense –

She kens hersel she's bonnie.

As ye gae up by yon hillside,

Spier in for bonnie Bessy:

She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,

And handsomely address ye.

There's few sae bonny, nane sae guid

In a' King George' dominion;

If ye should doubt the truth o' this –

It's Bessy's ain opinion.

Song –

Tune – Bonie Dundee –

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',

Their carriage and dress a stranger would guess,

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a':

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Murkland's divine,

Miss Smith she has wit and Miss Betty is braw;

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,

But ARMOUR'S the jewel for me o' them a'. –

O leave novels &c.

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,

Ye're safer at your spinning wheel;

Such witching books, are baited hooks

For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons

They make your youthful fancies reel;

They heat your brains, and fire your veins,

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;

A heart that warmly seems to feel;

That feelin heart but acks a part,

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

The frank address, the soft caress,

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel,

The frank address, and politesse,

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

A Fragment –

Tune, I had a horse and I had nae mair –

When first I came to Stewart Kyle

My mind it was nae steady,

Where e'er I gaed, where e'er I rade,

A Mistress still I had ay:

But when I came roun' by Mauchlin town,

Not dreadin' any body,

My heart was caught before I thought

And by a Mauchlin Lady –

Green grow the Rashes. A Fragment

Chorus

Green grow the rashes, O;

Green grow the rashes, O;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O.

I

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',

In ev'ry hour that passes, O:

What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

II

The warly race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, O;

An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Green grow, &c.

III

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my Dearie, O;

An' warly cares, an' warly men,

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

Green grow, &c.

IV

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:

The wisest Man the warl' saw,

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

V

Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears

Her noblest work she classes, O:

Her prentice han' she try'd on man,

An' then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

Song –

Tune: Black Joke –

My girl she's airy, she's buxom and gay,

Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;

A touch of her lips it ravishes quite.

She's always good natur'd, good humor'd and free;

She dances, she glances, she smiles with a glee;

Her eyes are the lightenings of joy and delight:

Her slender neck, her handsome waist,

Her hair well buckl'd, her stays well lac'd,

Her taper white leg with an et, and a, c,

For her a, b, e, d, and her c, u, n, t,

And Oh, for the joys of a long winter night!!!

Epistle to J. R******, Enclosing some Poems

O rough, rude, ready-witted R******,

The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!

There's monie godly folks are thinkin,

Your dreams1 an' tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin,

Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,

And in your wicked, druken rants,

Ye mak a devil o' the Saunts,

An' fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws an' wants,

Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, O dinna tear it!

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,

The lads in black!

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,

Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:

It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing,

O' Saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething,

To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate Heathen,

Like you or I.

I've sent you here, some rhymin ware,

A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;

Sae when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect,

Yon Sang2 ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!

My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing:

I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,

At Bunker's hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,

I gaed a rovin wi' the gun,

An' brought a Paitrick to the grun',

A bonie hen,

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor, wee thing was little hurt;

I straiket it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkan they wad fash me for't;

But, Deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the Poacher-Court,

The hale affair.

Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,

That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie;

So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But by my gun, o' guns the wale,

An' by my pouther an' my hail,

An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!

The Game shall Pay, owre moor an' dail,

For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,

An' the wee powts begun to cry,

L–d, I' se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea;

Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

For't, in Virginia!

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!

'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,

But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers;

An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad's a hare;

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;

But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.

2 A Song he had promised the Author.

Lines Addressed to Mr. John Ranken

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,

Was driving to the tither warl',

A mixie-maxie motely squad,

And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;

Black gowns of each denomination,

And thieves of every rank and station,

From him that wears the star and garter

To him that wintles in a halter:

Asham'd himself to see the wretches,

He mutters, glow'ring at the bitches,

»By G–d I'll not be seen behint them,

Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,

Without, at least, ae honest man,

To grace this damn'd infernal clan.«

By Adamhill a glance he threw,

»L–d, G–d!« quoth he, »I have it now,

There's just the man I want, in faith,«

And quickly stopped Ranken's breath.

Verses

Addressed to the above J. Ranken, on his writing to the Poet, that a girl in that part of the country was with child by him.

I am a keeper of the law

In some sma' points, altho' not a';

Some people tell me gin I fa',

Ae way or ither,

The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',

Breaks a' thegither.

I hae been in for't ance or twice,

And winna say o'er far for thrice,

Yet never met with that surprise

That broke my rest,

But now a rumour's like to rise,

A whaup 's i' the nest.

Lines

Wrote by Burns, while on his death-bed, to J–n R–k–n, Ayrshire, and forwarded to him immediately after the Poet's death.

He who of R–k–n sang, lies stiff and dead,

And a green grassy hillock hides his head;

Alas! Alas! a devilish change indeed.

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet

January –

I

While winds frae off 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 verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely, westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the Great-folk's 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 pow'r,

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd;

How best o' chiels are whyles 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,«1

Auld age ne'er mind a feg;

The last o't, the warst o't,

Is only but to beg.

III

To lye 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,

However 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 we can fa'.

IV

What tho', like Commoners of air,

We wander out, we know not where,

But either house or hal'?

Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods,

The 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 and sowth a tune;

Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,

And sing'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 center 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 thro' 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 Heaven or Hell;

Esteeming, and deeming,

It a' an idle tale!

VII

Then let us chearfu' acquiesce;

Nor make our scanty Pleasures less,

By pining at our state:

And, ev'n should Misfortunes come,

I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,

An's thankfu' for them yet.

They gie the wit of Age to Youth;

They let us ken oursel;

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill.

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 me, DAVIE, Ace o' Hearts!

(To say 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' the Heart,

The Lover and the Frien';

Ye hae your MEG, your dearest part,

And I my darling JEAN!

It warms me, 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 THOU, 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!

When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief,

And solace to my breast.

Thou BEING, Allseeing,

O hear my fervent pray'r!

Still take her, and make her,

THY most peculiar care!

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 blest me with a friend,

In ev'ry care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,

A tye 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 skelpan, rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,

As Phœbus and the famous Nine

Were glowran owre my pen.

My spavet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

And 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.

1 Ramsay.

The Holy Tulzie –

Blockheads with reason wicked Wits abhor,

But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war. –

POPE –

O a' ye pious, godly Flocks

Weel fed in pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

Or worryin tykes?

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks

About the dykes?

The twa best Herds in a' the west

That e'er gae gospel horns a blast

This five and fifty simmers past,

O dool to tell!

Hae had a bitter, black outcast

Atween themsel. –

O Moodie man, and wordy Russel,

How could ye breed sae vile a bustle?

Ye'll see how New-light Herds will whistle,

And think it fine!

The L–d's cause gat na sic a twissle

Since I hae min'. –

O Sirs! wha ever wad expeckit

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit?

You wha was ne'er by Lairds respeckit,

To wear the Plaid;

But by the vera Brutes eleckit

To be their Guide. –

What Flock wi' Moodie's Flock could rank,

Sae hale and hearty every shank?

Nae poison'd Ariminian stank

He loot them taste;

But Calvin's fountain-head they drank,

That was a feast!

The Fulmart, Wil-cat, Brock and Tod

Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood;

He knew their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in:

And liked weel to shed their blood,

And sell their skin. –

And wha like Russel tell'd his tale;

His voice was heard o'er moor and dale:

He kend the L–d's sheep ilka tail,

O'er a' the height;

And tell'd gin they were sick or hale

At the first sight. –

He fine a maingie sheep could scrub,

And nobly swing the Gospel-club;

Or New-light Herds could nicely drub,

And pay their skin;

Or hing them o'er the burning dub,

Or shute them in. –

Sic twa – O, do I live to see't,

Sic famous twa sud disagree't!

And names like, »Villain, Hypocrite,«

Each other giein;

While enemies wi' laughin spite

Say, »Neither's liein.« –

O ye wha tent the Gospel-fauld,

Thee, Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul,

And chiefly great Apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them het and cauld

To gar them gree. –

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset;

There's scarce a new Herd that we get

But comes frae 'mang that cursed Set,

I winna name:

I trust in Heaven, to see them het

Yet in a flame. –

There's D'rymple has been lang our fae;

Mcgill has wrought us meikle wae;

And that curst rascal ca'd Mcguhey;

And baith the Shaws,

Wha aft hae made us black and blae

Wi' vengefu' paws. –

Auld Wodrow lang has wrought mischief,

We trusted death wad bring relief;

But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him;

A chap will soundly buff our beef

I meikle dread him. –

And mony mae that I could tell

Wha fair and openly rebel;

Forby Turn-coats amang oursel,

There's Smith for ane;

I doubt he's but a Gray-neck still

And that ye'll fin'. –

O a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,

By mosses, meadows, moors and fells,

Come join your counsels and your skills

To cowe the Lairds,

And get the Brutes the power themsels

To chuse their Herds. –

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,

And Learning in a woody dance;

And that curst cur ca'd Common Sense

Wha bites sae sair,

Be banish'd o'er the seas to France,

Let him bark there. –

[Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence,

M'–ll's close nervous excellence,

M'Q–e's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'–h,

Wi' S–th wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.]

Holy Willie's Prayer –

And send the Godly in a pet to pray –

POPE

.

Argument.

Holy Willie was a rather oldish batchelor Elder in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering which ends in tippling Orthodoxy, and for that Spiritualized Bawdry which refines to Liquorish Devotion. – In a Sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline, a Mr. Gavin Hamilton, Holy Willie, and his priest, father Auld, after full hearing in the Presbytry of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Rob Aiken, Mr. Hamilton's Counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the country. – On losing his Process, the Muse overheard him at his devotions as follows –

O Thou that in the heavens does dwell!

Wha, as it pleases best thysel,

Sends ane to heaven and ten to h–ll,

A' for thy glory!

And no for ony gude or ill

They've done before thee.