Poems and Songs Read Online

–

I bless and praise thy matchless might,

When thousands thou has left in night,

That I am here before thy sight,

For gifts and grace,

A burning and a shining light

To a' this place. –

What was I, or my generation,

That I should get such exaltation?

I, wha deserv'd most just damnation,

For broken laws

Sax thousand years ere my creation,

Thro' Adam's cause!

When from my mother's womb I fell,

Thou might hae plunged me deep in hell,

To gnash my gooms, and weep, and wail,

In burning lakes,

Where damned devils roar and yell

Chain'd to their stakes. –

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,

To shew thy grace is great and ample:

I'm here, a pillar o' thy temple

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a ruler and example

To a' thy flock. –

[O L–d thou kens what zeal I bear,

When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,

And singin' there, and dancin' here,

Wi' great an' sma';

For I am keepet by thy fear,

Free frae them a'. – ]

But yet–O L–d – confess I must –

At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;

And sometimes too, in warldly trust

Vile Self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defil'd wi' sin. –

O L–d – yestreen – thou kens – wi' Meg –

Thy pardon I sincerely beg!

O may't ne'er be a living plague,

To my dishonor!

And I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her. –

Besides, I farther maun avow,

Wi' Leezie's lass, three times – I trow –

But L–d, that friday I was fou

When I cam near her;

Or else, thou kens, thy servant true

Wad never steer her. –

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn

Buffet thy servant e'en and morn,

Lest he o'er proud and high should turn,

That he's sae gifted;

If sae, thy hand maun e'en be borne

Untill thou lift it. –

L–d bless thy Chosen in this place,

For here thou has a chosen race:

But G–d, confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,

Wha bring thy rulers to disgrace

And open shame. –

L–d mind Gaun Hamilton's deserts!

He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,

Yet has sae mony taking arts

Wi' Great and Sma',

Frae G–d's ain priest the people's hearts

He steals awa. –

And when we chasten'd him therefore,

Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,

And set the warld in a roar

O' laughin at us:

Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail and potatoes. –

L–d hear my earnest cry and prayer

Against that Presbytry of Ayr!

Thy strong right hand, L–d, make it bare

Upon their heads!

L–d visit them, and dinna spare,

For their misdeeds!

O L–d my G–d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken!

My very heart and flesh are quaking

To think how I sat, sweating, shaking,

And p–ss'd wi' dread,

While Auld wi' hingin lip gaed sneaking

And hid his head!

L–d, in thy day o' vengeance try him!

L–d visit him that did employ him!

And pass not in thy mercy by them,

Nor hear their prayer;

But for thy people's sake destroy them,

And dinna spare!

But L–d, remember me and mine

Wi' mercies temporal and divine!

That I for grace and gear may shine,

Excell'd by nane!

And a' the glory shall be thine!

AMEN! AMEN!

Epitaph on Holy Willie

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay

Taks up its last abode;

His saul has ta'en some other way,

I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is as sure's a gun,

Poor silly body see him;

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,

Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship I see

Has got him there before ye;

But ha'd your nine-tail cat a wee,

Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye have nane;

Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,

And mercy's day is gaen.

But hear me, Sir, de'il as ye are,

Look something to your credit;

A coof like him wou'd stain your name,

If it were kent ye did it.

Death and Doctor 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 whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,

Which lately on a night befel,

Is just as true's the Deil's in h–ll,

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,

I was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, 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 glowr

The distant Cumnock hills out-owre;

To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,

I set mysel,

But whether she had three or four,

I cou'd na tell.

I was come round about the hill,

And todlin down on Willie's mill,

Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;

Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,

I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something does forgather,

That pat me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch 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 mawin,

When ither folk are busy sawin1?«

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, »Friend, whare ye gaun,

Will ye go back?«

It spak right howe – »My name is Death,

But be na' fley'd.« – Quoth I, »Guid faith,

Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!«

»Gudeman,« quo' he, »put up your whittle,

I'm no design'd to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be 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« sae we're gree't;

We'll ease our shanks an« tak a seat,

Come, gies your news!

This while2 ye hae been mony a gate,

At mony 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' sae maun Death.

Sax thousand years are near hand fled

Sin' I was to the butching bred,

And mony a scheme in vain's been laid,

To stap or scar me;

Till ane Hornbook's3 ta'en up the trade,

And faith, he'll waur me.

Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,

Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!

He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan4,

And ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin,

And pouk my hips.

See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart,

They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;

But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art

And cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a f–t,

D–n'd haet they'll kill!

Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,

I threw 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,

That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt,

Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart

Of a kail-runt.

I drew my scythe in sic a fury,

I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry,

But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

O' hard whin-rock.

Ev'n them he canna get attended,

Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it,

Just sh– in a kail-blade and send it,

As soon's he smells 't,

Baith their disease, and what will mend it,

At once he tells 't.

And then a' doctor's 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, earths, 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 mony mae.«

»Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole5 now,«

Quoth I, »if that thae news be true!

His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,

Sae white an« bonie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;

They'll ruin Johnie!«

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,

And says, »Ye needna yoke the pleugh,

Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,

Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh,

In twa-three year.

Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae-death,

»By loss o' blood, or want o' breath,

This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbooks skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,

By drap and pill.

An honest Wabster to his trade,

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

When it was sair;

The wife slade cannie to her bed,

But ne'er spak mair.

A countra Laird had ta'en the batts,

Or some curmurring in his guts,

His only son for Hornbook sets,

And pays him well,

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

Was Laird himsel.

A bonie lass, ye kend her name,

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame,

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,

In Hornbooks care;

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,

To hide it there.

That's just a swatch o' Hornbooks way,

Thus goes he on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

An's weel pay'd 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 speakin o't;

I'll nail the self-conceited Sot,

As dead's a herrin:

Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

He gets his 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 mysel,

And sae did Death.

1 This rencounter happened in seed-time 1785.

2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.

3 This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician.

4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

5 The grave-digger.

[On Tam the Chapman]

As Tam the chapman on a day

Wi' Death forgather'd by the way,

Weel pleased, he greets a wight sae famous,

And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas,

Wha cheerfully lays down his pack,

And there blaws up a hearty crack:

His social, friendly, honest heart

Sae tickled Death, they could na part;

Sae after viewing knives and garters,

Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.

Epistle to J. L*****k, An Old Scotch Bard

April 1st, 1785.

While briers an' woodbines budding green,

An' Paitricks scraichan loud at e'en,

And morning Poossie whiddan seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom, in an unknown frien',

I pray excuse.

On Fasteneen we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;

And there was muckle fun and jokin,

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin,

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,

Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,

That some kind husband had addrest,

To some sweet wife:

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,

A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,

What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;

Thought I, »Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark;«

They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgean-fain to hear 't,

An' sae about him there I spier't;

Then a' that kent him round declar'd,

He had ingine,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near 't,

It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale,

An' either douse or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches,

'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,

To hear your crack.

But first an' foremost, I should tell,

Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sel,

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae Poet, in a sense,

But just a Rhymer like by chance,

An' hae to Learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

Your Critic-folk may cock their nose,

And say, »How can you e'er propose,

You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To mak a sang?«

But by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your Schools,

Your Latin names for horns an' stools;

If honest Nature made you fools,

What sairs your Grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,

Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited Hashes,

Confuse their brains in Colledge-classes!

They gang in Stirks, and come out Asses,

Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,

That's a' the learning I desire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, tho' hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' ALLAN'S glee,

Or FERGUSON'S, the bauld an' slee,

Or bright L*****K'S, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,

Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few,

Yet, if your catalogue be fow,

I'se no insist;

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel,

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends an' folk that wish me well,

They sometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still,

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

I like the lasses – Gude forgie me!

For monie a Plack they wheedle frae me,

At dance or fair:

Maybe some ither thing they gie me

They weel can spare.

But MAUCHLINE Race or MAUCHLINE Fair,

I should be proud to meet you there;

We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,

If we forgather,

An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware,

Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,

An' kirs'n him wi' reekin water;

Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,

To chear our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better

Before we part.

Awa ye selfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense an' grace,

Ev'n love an' friendship should give place

To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms,

Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

»Each aid the others,«

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But to conclude my lang epistle,

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing, or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

To the Same

April 21st, 1785.

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake,

An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,

This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor,

To honest-hearted, auld L*****K,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs,

Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,

Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten-hours bite,

My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs,

I would na write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,

She's saft at best an' something lazy,

Quo' she, »Ye ken we've been sae busy

This month an' mair,

That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,

An' something sair.«

Her dowf excuses pat me mad;

»Conscience,« says I, »ye thowless jad!

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

Shall bauld L*****k, the king o' hearts,

Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,

Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts

An' thank him kindly?«

Sae I gat paper in a blink,

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:

Quoth I, »Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!«

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether

In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,

Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;

But I shall scribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,

Tho' Fortune use you hard an' sharp;

Come, kittle up your moorlan harp

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how Fortune waft an' warp;

She's but a b–tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,

Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But by the L–d, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,

As lang 's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer,

I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city-gent,

Behint a kist to lie an' sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent,

An' muckle wame,

In some bit Brugh to represent

A Baillie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,

Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin cane,

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,

While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks?

»O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!

Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

In a' their pride!«

Were this the charter of our state,

»On pain o' hell be rich an' great,«

Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal Mandate ran,

When first the human race began,

»The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

And none but he.«

O Mandate, glorious and divine!

The followers o' the ragged Nine,

Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine

In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line

Are dark as night!

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,

Their worthless nievefu' of a soul,

May in some future carcase howl,

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

Then may L*****K and B**** arise,

To reach their native, kindred skies,

And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,

In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each passing year!

To W. S*****n, Ochiltree

May – 1785.

I Gat your letter, winsome Willie;

Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;

Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,

An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billie,

Your flatterin strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,

I sud be laith to think ye hinted

Ironic satire, sidelins sklented,

On my poor Musie;

Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,

I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,

Should I but dare a hope to speel,

Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes o' fame;

Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

(O Ferguson! thy glorious parts,

Ill-suited law's dry, musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh Gentry!

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes

Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,

Or lasses gie my heart a screed,

As whiles they're like to be my dead,

(O sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.

Auld COILA, now, may fidge fu' fain,

She's gotten Bardies o' her ain,

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise.

Nae Poet thought her worth his while,

To set her name in measur'd style;

She lay like some unkend-of isle

Beside New Holland,

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an' famous Ferguson

Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;

Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Aire an' Doon,

Naebody sings.

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames an' Seine,

Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line;

But Willie set your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest,

We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine

Up wi' the best.

We'll sing auld COILA'S plains an' fells,

Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,

Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,

Where glorious WALLACE

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae Suthron billies.

At WALLACE' name, what Scottish blood,

But boils up in a spring-tide flood!

Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By WALLACE' side,

Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,

Or glorious dy'd!

O sweet are COILA'S haughs an' woods,

When lintwhites chant amang the buds,

And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,

Their loves enjoy,

While thro' the braes the cushat croods

With wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,

When winds rave thro' the naked tree;

Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Dark'ning the day!

O NATURE! a' thy shews an' forms

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!

Whether the Summer kindly warms,

Wi' life an' light,

Or Winter howls, in gusty storms,

The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her,

Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,

Adown some trottin burn's meander,

An' no think lang;

O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder

A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive,

Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive,

Let me fair NATURE'S face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the busy, grumbling hive

Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, »my rhyme-composing brither!«

We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither:

Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal:

May Envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes;

While moorlan herds like guid, fat braxies;

While Terra firma, on her axis,

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

In ROBERT BURNS.

Postscript

My memory's no worth a preen;

I had amaist forgotten clean,

Ye bad me write you what they mean

By this new-light,1

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been

Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans,

At Grammar, Logic, an' sic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance,

Or rules to gie,

But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,

Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the Moon,

Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

Woor by degrees, till her last roon

Gaed past their viewin,

An' shortly after she was done

They gat a new ane.

This past for certain, undisputed;

It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,

Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,

An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,

Baith loud an' lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,

Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;

For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a newk

An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;

The herds an' hissels were alarm'd;

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,

That beardless laddies

Should think they better were inform'd,

Than their auld dadies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;

Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;

An' monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt;

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

Were hang'd an' brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands,

An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,

That faith, the youngsters took the sands

Wi' nimble shanks,

Till Lairds forbad, by strict commands,

Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,

Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe,

Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

An' some, their New-light fair avow,

Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatan;

Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatan;

Mysel, I've ev'n seen them greetan

Wi' girnan spite,

To hear the Moon sae sadly lie'd on

By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!

Some auld-light herds in neebor towns

Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,

To tak a flight,

An' stay ae month amang the Moons

An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

An' when the auld Moon's gaun to lea'e them,

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,

Just i' their pouch,

An' when the new-light billies see them,

I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter

Is naething but a »moonshine matter«;

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter

In logic tulzie,

I hope we, Bardies, ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.

1 A cant-term for those religious opinions, which Dr. TAYLOR of Norwich has defended so strenuously.

A Poet's Welcome to his love-begotten Daughter; the first instance that entitled him to the venerable appellation of Father –

Thou's welcome, Wean! Mischanter fa' me,

If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy Mamie,

Shall ever daunton me or awe me,

My bonie lady;

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tyta, or Daddie. –

Tho' now they ca' me, Fornicator,

And tease my name in kintra clatter,

The mair they talk, I'm kend the better;

E'en let them clash!

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter

To gie ane fash. –

Welcome! My bonie, sweet, wee Dochter!

Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for;

And tho' your comin I hae fought for,

Baith Kirk and Queir;

Yet by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,

That I shall swear!

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,

As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,

As dear and near my heart I set thee,

Wi' as gude will,

As a' the Priests had seen me get thee

That's out o' h – . –

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,

My funny toll is no a' tint;

Tho' ye come to the warld asklent,

Which fools may scoff at,

In my last plack your part's be in't,

The better half o't. –

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,

Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,

And thy young years as nicely bred

Wi' education,

As ony brat o' Wedlock's bed,

In a' thy station. –

[Lord grant that thou may ay inherit

Thy Mither's looks an' gracefu' merit;

An' thy poor, worthless Daddie's spirit,

Without his failins!

'Twad please me mair to see thee heir it

Than stocked mailins!]

For if thou be, what I wad hae thee,

And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,

I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee,

The cost nor shame o't,

But be a loving Father to thee,

And brag the name o't. –

The Fornicator. A New Song –

Tune, Clout the Caldron

Ye jovial boys who love the joys,

The blissful joys of Lovers;

Yet dare avow with dauntless brow,

When th' bony lass discovers;

I pray draw near and lend an ear,

And welcome in a Frater,

For I've lately been on quarantine,

A proven Fornicator.

Before the Congregation wide

I pass'd the muster fairly,

My handsome Betsey by my side,

We gat our ditty rarely;

But my downcast eye by chance did spy

What made my lips to water,

Those limbs so clean where I, between,

Commenc'd a Fornicator.

With rueful face and signs of grace

I pay'd the buttock-hire,

The night was dark and thro' the park

I could not but convoy her;

A parting kiss, what could I less,

My vows began to scatter,

My Betsey fell – lal de dal lal lal,

I am a Fornicator.

But for her sake this vow I make,

And solemnly I swear it,

That while I own a single crown,

She's welcome for to share it;

And my roguish boy his Mother's joy,

And the darling of his Pater,

For him I boast my pains and cost,

Although a Fornicator.

Ye wenching blades whose hireling jades

Have tipt you off blue-boram,

I tell ye plain, I do disdain

To rank you in the Quorum;

But a bony lass upon the grass

To teach her esse Mater,

And no reward but for regard,

O that's a Fornicator.

Your warlike Kings and Heros bold,

Great Captains and Commanders;

Your mighty Cèsars fam'd of old,

And Conquering Alexanders;

In fields they fought and laurels bought

And bulwarks strong did batter,

But still they grac'd our noble list

And ranked Fornicator!!!

The Vision

Duan First1

The sun had clos'd the winter-day,

The Curlers quat their roaring play,

And hunger'd Maukin taen her way

To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.

The Thresher's weary flingin-tree,

The lee-lang day had tir'd me;

And when the Day had clos'd his e'e,

Far i' the West,

Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie,

I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,

I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,

That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,

The auld, clay biggin;

And heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime,

I backward mus'd on wasted time,

How I had spent my youthfu' prime,

An' done nae-thing,

But stringing blethers up in rhyme

For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harket,

I might, by this, hae led a market,

Or strutted in a Bank and clarket

My Cash-Account;

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarket,

Is a' th' amount.

I started, mutt'ring blockhead! coof!

And heav'd on high my wauket loof,

To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath –

When click! the string the snick did draw;

And jee! the door gaed to the wa';

And by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Now bleezan bright,

A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw,

Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;

The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;

I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht,

In some wild glen;

When sweet, like modest Worth, she blusht,

And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad Holly-boughs

Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows,

I took her for some SCOTTISH MUSE,

By that same token;

And come to stop those reckless vows,

Would soon been broken.

A »hare-brain'd, sentimental trace«

Was strongly marked in her face;

A wildly-witty, rustic grace

Shone full upon her;

Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,

Beam'd keen with Honor.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,

Till half a leg was scrimply seen;

And such a leg! my bonie JEAN

Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight and clean,

Nane else came near it.

Her Mantle large, of greenish hue,

My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw

A lustre grand;

And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,

A well-known Land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

There, mountains to the skies were tost:

Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,

With surging foam;

There, distant shone, Art's, lofty boast,

The lordly dome.

Here, DOON pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;

There, well-fed IRWINE stately thuds:

Auld, hermit AIRE staw thro' his woods,

On to the shore;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,

With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,

An ancient BOROUGH rear'd her head;

Still, as in Scottish Story read,

She boasts a Race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,

And polish'd grace.

By stately tow'r, or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of Heroes, here and there,

I could discern;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,

With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,

To see a Race2 heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel

In sturdy blows;

While back-recoiling seem'd to reel

Their Suthron foes.

His COUNTRY'S SAVIOUR3, mark him well!

Bold RICHARDTON'S4 heroic swell;

The Chief on Sark5 who glorious fell,

In high command;

And He whom ruthless Fates expel

His native land.

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish6 shade

Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,

I mark'd a martial Race, pourtray'd

In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd

They strode along.

7Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,

Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove,

(Fit haunts for Friendship or for Love,

In musing mood)

An aged Judge, I saw him rove,

Dispensing good.

8With deep-struck, reverential awe,

The learned Sire and Son I saw,

To Nature's God and Nature's law

They gave their lore,

This, all its source and end to draw,

That, to adore.

BRYDON'S brave Ward9 I well could spy,

Beneath old SCOTIA'S smiling eye;

Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,

To hand him on,

Where many a Patriot-name on high

And Hero shone.

Duan Second

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare,

I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair;

A whisp'ring throb did witness bear

Of kindred sweet,

When with an elder Sister's air

She did me greet.

»All hail! my own inspired Bard!

In me thy native Muse regard!

Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,

Thus poorly low!

I come to give thee such reward,

As we bestow.

Know, the great Genius of this Land,

Has many a light, aerial band,

Who, all beneath his high command,

Harmoniously,

As Arts or Arms they understand,

Their labors ply.

They SCOTIA'S Race among them share;

Some fire the Sodger on to dare;

Some rouse the Patriot up to bare

Corruption's heart:

Some teach the Bard, a darling care,

The tuneful Art.

'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,

They ardent, kindling spirits pour;

Or, mid the venal Senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,

To mend the honest Patriot-lore,

And grace the hand.

And when the Bard, or hoary Sage,

Charm or instruct the future age,

They bind the wild, Poetic rage

In energy,

Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.

Hence, FULLARTON, the brave and young;

Hence, DEMPSTER'S truth-prevailing tongue;

Hence, sweet harmonious BEATTIE sung

His ›Minstrel lays;‹

Or tore, with noble ardour stung,

The Sceptic's bays.

To lower Orders are assign'd,

The humbler ranks of Human-kind,

The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind,

The Artisan;

All chuse, as, various they're inclin'd,

The various man.

When yellow waves the heavy grain,

The threat'ning Storm, some, strongly, rein;

Some teach to meliorate the plain,

With tillage-skill;

And some instruct the Shepherd-train,

Blythe o'er the hill.

Some hint the Lover's harmless wile;

Some grace the Maiden's artless smile;

Some soothe the Lab'rer's weary toil,

For humble gains,

And make his cottage-scenes beguile

His cares and pains.

Some, bounded to a district-space,

Explore at large Man's infant race,

To mark the embryotic trace,

Of rustic Bard;

And careful note each op'ning grace,

A guide and guard.

Of these am I – COILA my name;

And this district as mine I claim,

Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,

Held ruling pow'r:

I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame,

Thy natal hour.

With future hope, I oft would gaze,

Fond, on thy little, early ways,

Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase,

In uncouth rhymes,

Fir'd at the simple, artless lays

Of other times.

I saw thee seek the sounding shore,

Delighted with the dashing roar;

Or when the North his fleecy store

Drove thro' the sky,

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar,

Struck thy young eye.

Or when the deep-green-mantl'd Earth,

Warm-cherish'd ev'ry floweret's birth,

And joy and music pouring forth,

In ev'ry grove,

I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth

With boundless love.

When ripen'd fields, and azure skies,

Call'd forth the Reaper's rustling noise,

I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys,

And lonely stalk,

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise,

In pensive walk.

When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong,

Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,

Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,

Th' adored Name,

I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.

I saw thy pulse's maddening play,

Wild-send thee Pleasure's devious way,

Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,

By Passion driven;

But yet the light that led astray,

Was light from Heaven.

I taught thy manners-painting strains,

The loves, the ways of simple swains,

Till now, o'er all my wide domains,

Thy fame extends;

And some, the pride of Coila's plains,

Become thy friends.

Thou canst not learn, nor I can show,

To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow;

Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

With Shenstone's art;

Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow,

Warm on the heart.

Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd Rose,

The lowly Daisy sweetly blows;

Tho' large the forest's Monarch throws

His army shade,

Yet green the juicy Hawthorn grows,

Adown the glade.

Then never murmur nor repine;

Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;

And trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor King's regard,

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,

A rustic Bard.

To give my counsels all in one,

Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;

Preserve the dignity of Man,

With Soul erect;

And trust, the UNIVERSAL PLAN

Will all protect.

And wear thou this« – She solemn said,

And bound the Holly round my head:

The polish'd leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play;

And, like a passing thought, she fled,

In light away.

1 Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive Poem. See his Cath-Loda, Vol. 2. of M'Pherson's Translation.

2 The Wallaces.

3 William Wallace.

4 Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal Preserver of Scottish Independence.

5 Wallace Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.

6 Coilus King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial place is still shown.

7 Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice Clerk.

8 Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor Stewart.

9 Colonel Fullarton.

Epistle to John Goldie in Kilmarnock, Author of, The Gospel recovered –

August – 1785

O gowdie, terror o' the whigs,

Dread o' black coats and reverend wigs!

Sour Bigotry on his last legs

Girns and looks back,

Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues

May sieze you quick. –

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition!

Waes me, she's in a sad condition:

Fye! bring Black Jock1 her state-physician,

To see her water:

Alas! there's ground for great suspicion,

She'll ne'er get better. –

Enthusiasm's past redemption,

Gane in a gallopin consumption:

Not a' her quacks wi' a' their gumption

Can ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,

She'll soon surrender. –

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple

For every hole to get a stapple;

But now, she fetches at the thrapple

And fights for breath;

Haste, gie her name up in the Chapel2

Near unto death.