Poems and Songs Read Online

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Wheel carriages I ha'e but few,

Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;

Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,

Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken;

I made a poker o' the spin'le,

An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischievous boys,

Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise;

A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,

Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.

I rule them as I ought, discreetly,

An' aften labour them compleatly.

An' ay on Sundays duly nightly,

I on the questions targe them tightly;

Till faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg,

Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,

He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,

As fast as ony in the dwalling. –

I've nane in female servan' station,

(L–d keep me ay frae a' temptation!)

I ha'e nae wife; and that my bliss is,

An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;

An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me,

I ken the devils dare na touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,

Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted.

My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess,

She stares the daddy in her face,

Enough of ought ye like but grace;

But her, my bonny sweet wee lady,

I've paid enough for her already,

An' gin ye tax her or her mither,

B' the L–d! ye'se get them a' thegither.

And now, remember Mr. A–k–n,

Nae kind of licence out I'm takin';

Frae this time forth, I do declare,

I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;

My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,

I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. –

The Kirk an' you may tak' you that,

It puts but little in your pat;

Sae dinna put me in your buke,

Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it,

Day an' date as under notit,

Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Subscripsi huic,

ROBERT BURNS.

Mossgeil, February 22d, 1786.

1 The fore horse on the left-hand in the plough.

2 The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.

3 Kilmarnock.

4 The same on the right-hand in the plough.

To Mr. John Kennedy

Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786.

Now Kennedy if foot or horse

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss,

L–d man there's lasses there wad force

A hermit's fancy,

And down the gate in faith they're worse

And mair unchancy.

But as I'm sayin, please step to Dow's

And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,

Till some bit callan bring me news

That you are there,

And if we dinna hae a bouze

Ise ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow

Then like a swine to puke an' wallow,

But gie me just a true good fallow

Wi' right ingine,

And spunkie ance to make us mellow,

And then we'll shine.

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,

Wha rate the wearer by the cloak

An' sklent on poverty their joke

Wi' bitter sneer,

Wi' you no friendship I will troke

Nor cheap nor dear.

But if as I'm informed weel

Ye hate as ill's the vera de'il

The flinty heart that canna feel –

Come Sir, here's tae you:

Hae there's my haun', I wiss you weel

And Gude be wi' you.

Adam A–'s Prayer

Gude pity me, because I'm little,

For though I am an elf o' mettle,

And can, like ony wabster's shuttle,

Jink there or here;

Yet, scarce as lang 's a gude kail whittle,

I'm unco queer.

And now thou kens our waefu' case,

For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace,

Because we've stang'd her through the place,

And hurt her spleuchan,

For which we darena show our face

Within the clachan.

And now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,

And hunted as was William Wallace,

Wi' Constables, those blackguard fallows,

And Sodgers baith;

But gude preserve us frae the gallows,

That shamefu' death!

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sell;

Oh, shake him o'er the mouth o' hell,

There let him hing, and roar, and yell,

Wi' hideous din,

And if he offers to rebel,

Then heave him in.

When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink,

And tips auld druken Nanz the wink,

May Satan gie her a– a clink

Within his yet,

And fill her up wi' brimstone drink

Red, reeking, het.

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny,

Some Devil seize them in a hurry,

And waff them in th' infernal wherry

Straught through the lake,

And gie their hides a noble curry,

Wi'oil of aik.

As for the Jurr, poor worthless body,

She's got mischief enough already,

Wi' stanged hips, and buttocks bloody,

She's suffer'd sair;

But may she wintle in a woodie,

If she w–e mair.

Song. On Miss W.A.

Tune, Ettrick banks

'Twas ev'n, the dewy fields were green,

On ev'ry blade the pearls hang,

The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean,

And bore its fragrant sweets alang;

In ev'ry glen the Mavis sang,

All nature list'ning seem'd the while;

Except where greenwood Echos rang

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,

My heart rejoic'd in Nature's joy,

When, musing in a lonely glade,

A Maiden fair I chanc'd to spy:

Her look was like the Morning's eye,

Her air like Nature's vernal smile,

The lilies' hue and roses' die

Bespoke the Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Fair is a morn in flow'ry May,

And sweet an ev'n in Autumn mild;

When roving through the garden gay,

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild;

But Woman, Nature's darling child,

There all her charms she does compile,

And all her other works are foil'd

By th' bony Lass o' Ballochmyle.

O if she were a country Maid,

And I the happy country Swain!

Though shelt'red in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotia's plain:

Through weary Winter's wind and rain,

With joy, with rapture I would toil,

And nightly to my bosom strain

The bony Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then Pride might climb the slipp'ry steep

Where fame and honors lofty shine:

And Thirst of gold might tempt the deep

Or downward seek the Indian mine:

Give me the Cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And ev'ry day has joys divine

With th' bony Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Letter to J–s T–t, Gl–nc–r

Auld com'rade dear and brither sinner,

How 's a' the folk about Gl–nc–r;

How do ye this blae eastlin win',

That's like to blaw a body blin':

For me my faculties are frozen,

My dearest member nearly dozen'd:

I've sent you here by Johnie Simson,

Twa sage Philosophers to glimpse on!

Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,

An' Reid, to common sense appealing.

Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,

An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,

Till with their Logic-jargon tir'd,

An' in the depth of science mir'd,

To common sense they now appeal,

What wives an' wabsters see an' feel;

But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,

Peruse them an' return them quickly;

For now I'm grown sae cursed douse,

I pray an' ponder butt the house,

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin,

Perusing Bunyan, Brown and Boston;

Till by an' by, if I haud on,

I'll grunt a real Gospel groan:

Already I begin to try it,

To cast my een up like a Pyet,

When by the gun she tumbles o'er,

Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:

Sae shortly you shall see me bright,

A burning an' a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,

The ace an' wale of honest men;

When bending down with auld gray hairs,

Beneath the load of years and cares,

May he who made him still support him,

An' views beyond the grave comfort him.

His worthy fam'ly far and near,

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear.

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,

The manly tar, my mason billie,

An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy;

If he's a parent, lass or boy,

May he be dad, and Meg the mither,

Just five and forty years thegither!

An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,

I'm tauld he offers very fairly,

An' L–d, remember singing Sannock,

Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence an' a bannock;

An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,

Since she is fitted to her fancy;

An' her kind stars hae airted till her,

A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller:

My kindest, best respects I sen' it,

To cousin Kate an' sister Janet,

Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious;

For, faith, they'll ablins fin' them fashious:

To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil!

An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,

May guardian angels tak a spell,

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell;

But first, before you see heav'ns glory,

May ye get mony a merry story,

Mony a laugh and mony a drink,

An' ay aneugh o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye well, an' joy be wi' you,

For my sake this I beg it o' you,

Assist poor Simson a' ye can,

Ye'll fin' him just an honest man:

Sae I conclude and quat my chanter,

Yours, saint or sinner,

RAB THE RANTER.

[To Mrs. C–]

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind

Still may thy pages call to mind

The dear, the beauteous donor:

Though sweetly female every part

Yet such a head, and more the heart,

Does both the sexes honor.

She showed her taste refined and just

When she selected thee,

Yet deviating own I must,

For so approving me.

But kind still, I mind still,

The giver in the gift;

I'll bless her and wiss her

A Friend aboon the Lift.

To a Mountain-Daisy, On turning one down, with the Plough, in April – 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,

The bonie Lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi's spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet chearfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the Parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our Gardens yield,

High-shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,

Sweet flow'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

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

To Mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but HEAV'N,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

That fate is thine – no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

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 Woe!

Home.

I

O Thou pale Orb, that silent shines,

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!

Thou seest a wretch, who inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep!

With Woe 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!

III

No idly-feign'd, poetic pains,

My sad, lovelorn lamentings claim:

No shepherd's pipe – Arcadian strains;

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame.

The plighted faith; the mutual flame;

The oft-attested Powers above;

The promis'd Father's tender 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 her's alone!

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?

V

Oh! can she bear so base a heart,

So lost to Honor, lost to Truth,

As from the fondest lover part,

The plighted husband of her youth?

Alas! Life's path may be unsmooth!

Her way may lie thro' rough distress!

Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe,

Her sorrows share and make them less?

VI

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!

VII

The morn that warns th' approaching day,

Awakes me up to toil and woe:

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.

VIII

And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore-harass'd out, with care and grief,

My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,

Keep watchings with the nightly thief:

Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief,

Reigns, hagard-wild, in sore afright:

Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief,

From such a horror-breathing night.

IX

O! thou bright Queen, who, o'er th' expanse,

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway!

Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, 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 I burn!

From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';

And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn

A faithless woman's broken vow.

Despondency, an Ode

I

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,

I set 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!

What 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 justling,

Forget each grief and pain;

I, listless, yet restless,

Find ev'ry 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-gather'd fruits,

Beside his crystal well!

Or haply, to his ev'ning thought,

By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,

A faint-collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heaven on high,

As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.

IV

Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd

Where never human footstep trac'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 ah! those pleasures, Loves and Joys

Which I too keenly taste,

The Solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not,

Or human love or hate;

Whilst I here, must cry here,

At perfidy ingrate!

V

Oh, enviable, early days,

When dancing 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!

Jeremiah 15th Ch. 10 V.

Ah, woe is me, my Mother dear!

A man of strife ye've born me:

For sair contention I maun bear,

They hate, revile and scorn me. –

I ne'er could lend on bill or band,

That five per cent might blest me;

And borrowing, on the tither hand,

The de'il a ane wad trust me. –

Yet I, a coin-denied wight,

By Fortune quite discarded,

Ye see how I am, day and night,

By lad and lass blackguarded. –

Epitaph on a Henpecked Country Squire

As father Adam first was fool'd,

A case that's still too common,

Here lyes a man a woman rul'd,

The devil rul'd the woman.

Epigram on said Occasion

O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life,

Whom we, this day, lament!

We freely wad exchang'd the wife,

An' a' been weel content.

Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,

The swap we yet will do 't;

Tak thou the Carlin's carcase aff,

Thou 'se get the saul o' boot.

Another

One Queen Artemisa, as old stories tell,

When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well,

In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her,

She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank up the Powder.

But Queen N**********, of a diff'rent complexion,

When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction,

Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,

Not to show her respect, but – to save the expence.

Extempore – to Mr Gavin Hamilton

To you, Sir, this summons I've sent,

Pray whip till the pownie is fraething;

But if you demand what I want,

I honestly answer you, naething. –

Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me,

For idly just living and breathing,

While people of every degree

Are busy employed about – naething. –

Poor Centum per centum may fast,

And grumble his hurdies their claithing;

He'll find, when the balance is cast,

He's gane to the devil for – naething. –

The Courtier cringes and bows,

Ambition has likewise its plaything;

A Coronet beams in his brows,

And what is a Coronet? naething. –

Some quarrel the presbyter gown,

Some quarrel Episcopal graithing,

But every good fellow will own

Their quarrel is all about – naething. –

The lover may sparkle and glow,

Approaching his bonie bit gay thing;

But marriage will soon let him know,

He's gotten a buskit up naething. –

The Poet may jingle and rhyme,

In hopes of a laureate wreathing,

And when he has wasted his time,

He's kindly rewarded with naething. –

The thundering bully may rage,

And swagger and swear like a heathen;

But collar him fast, I'll engage

You'll find that his courage is naething. –

Last night with a feminine whig,

A Poet she could na put faith in,

But soon we grew lovingly big,

I taught her, her terrors were naething. –

Her whigship was wonderful pleased,

But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing;

Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,

And kissed her and promised her – naething. –

The Priest anathemas may threat,

Predicament, Sir, that we're baith in;

But when honor's reveillé is beat,

The holy artillery's naething. –

And now I must mount on the wave,

My voyage perhaps there is death in;

But what of a watery grave!

The drowning a Poet is naething. –

And now as grim death's in my thought,

To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing:

My service as lang as ye 've ought,

And my friendship, by G–, when ye 've naething. –

On a Scotch Bard Gone to the West Indies

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink,

A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,

A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' me!

Our billie's gien us a' a jink,

An' owre the Sea.

Lament him a' ye rantan core,

Wha dearly like a random-splore;

Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,

In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the Sea!

The bonie lasses weel 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 him

That's owre the Sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!

Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,

Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,

'Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as onie 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:

He was her Laureat 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,

Ill 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, independant stomach,

Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,

An' owre the Sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,

Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;

Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin;

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 biel:

Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,

An' fou o' glee:

He wad na wrang'd the vera Diel,

That's owre the Sea,

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!

Your native soil was right ill-willie;

But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the Sea!

[Second Epistle to Davie]

AULD NIBOR,

I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor,

For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;

Tho' I maun say 't, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sac fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;

Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,

Tae cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war'ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;

I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink,

Rivan the words tae gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

Commen' me to the Bardie clan;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They never think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',

Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin':

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure,

My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

At hame, a-fiel, at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie:

The warl' may play you [monie] a shavie;

But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie

Frae door tae door.

[To] Mr Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty

To warn you how that Master TOOTIE,

Alias, Laird Mcgawn,

Was here to hire yon lad away

'Bout which ye spak the ither day,

An' wad hae done't aff han':

But lest he learn the callan tricks,

As faith I muckle doubt him,

Like scrapin out auld Crummies' nicks,

An' tellin lies about them;

As lieve then I'd have then,

Your CLERKSHIP he should sair;

If sae be ye may be

Not fitted otherwhere. –

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,

An' 'bout a HOUSE that's rude an' rough,

The boy might learn to SWEAR;

But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught,

An' get sic fair EXAMPLE straught,

I hae na ony fear.

Ye'll catechize him, ev'ry quirk,

An' shore him weel wi' HELL;

An' gar him follow to the kirk –

– Ay, when ye gang YOURSEL.

If ye then maun be then

Frae hame, this comin Friday,

Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir,

The orders wi' your LADY. –

My word of HONOR I hae gien,

In PAISLEY JOHN'S, that night at een,

To meet the WARLD'S WORM;

To try to get the twa to gree,

An' name the airles, an' the fee,

In legal mode an' form:

I ken, he weel a SNICK can draw,

When simple bodies let him;

An' if a DEVIL be at a',

In faith, he's sure to get him. –

To phrase you, an' praise you,

Ye ken your LAUREAT scorns:

The PRAY'R still, you share still,

Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

Mossgaville

Wednesday 3d May

1786

A Dedication To G**** H******* Esq;

Expect na, Sir, in this narration,

A fleechan, fleth'ran Dedication,

To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,

An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid;

Because ye're sirnam'd like His Grace,

Perhaps related to the race:

Then when I'm tir'd – and sae are ye,

Wi' monie 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 need na bow,

For, LORD be thanket, I can plough;

And when I downa yoke a naig,

Then, LORD be thanket, 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 ance he says, he winna break it;

Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,

Till aft his guidness is abus'd;

And rascals whyles that do him wrang,

Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:

As Master, Landlord, Husband, Father,

He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae 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'll get the best o' moral works,

'Mang black Gentoos, and Pagan Turks,

Or Hunters wild on Ponotaxi,

Wha never heard of Orth–d–xy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need,

The GENTLEMAN in word and deed,

It's no through terror of D–mn–t–n;

It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!

Vain is his hope, whase stay an' trust is,

In moral Mercy, Truth and Justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;

Abuse a Brother to his back;

Steal thro' the winnock frae a wh–re,

But point the Rake that taks the door;

Be to the Poor like onie whunstane,

And haud their noses to the grunstane;

Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;

No matter-stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces,

Wi' weel spread looves, an' lang, wry faces;

Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,

And 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 o' 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 his sweeping besom,

Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him;

While o'er the Harp pale Misery 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, you see 'twas nae daft vapour,

But I maturely thought it proper,

When a' my works I did review,

To dedicate them, Sir, to You:

Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronize them wi' your favor,

And your Petitioner shall ever –

I had amaist said, ever pray,

But that's a word I need na say:

For prayin I hae little skill o't;

I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,

That kens or hears about you, Sir –

»May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark,

Howl thro' the dwelling o' the CLERK!

May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart,

For that same gen'rous spirit smart!

May K******'s far-honor'd name

Lang beet his hymeneal flame,

Till H*******'s, at least a diz'n,

Are frae their nuptial labors risen:

Five bonie Lasses round their table,

And sev'n braw fellows, stout an' able,

To serve their King an' Country weel,

By word, or pen, or pointed steel!

May Health and Peace, with mutual rays,

Shine on the ev'ning o' his days;

Till his wee, curlie Johns ier-oe,

When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,

The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!«

I will not wind a lang conclusion,

With 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 giv'n,

If, in the vale of humble life,

The victim sad of Fortune's strife,

I, through the tender-gushing tear,

Should recognise my Master dear,

If friendless, low, we meet together,

Then, Sir, your hand – my FRIEND and BROTHER.

A Bard's Epitaph

Is there a whim-inspir'd fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;

And o'er this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a Bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crouds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,

Here pause – and thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader attend – whether thy soul

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,

Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit,

Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul

Is Wisdom's root.

Epistle to a Young Friend

May – 1786.

I

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A Something to have sent you,

Tho' it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine;

Perhaps it may turn out a Sang;

Perhaps, turn out a Sermon.

II

Ye'll try the world soon my lad,

And ANDREW dear believe me,

Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:

For care and trouble set your thought,

Ev'n when your end's attained;

And a' your views may come to nought,

Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III

I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked:

But Och, mankind are unco weak,

An' little to be trusted;

If Self the wavering balance shake,

It's rarely right adjusted!

IV

Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife,

Their fate we should na censure,

For still th' important end of life,

They equally may answer:

A man may hae an honest heart

Tho' Poortith hourly stare him;

A man may tak a neebor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V

Ay free, aff han', your story tell,

When wi' a bosom crony;

But still keep something to yoursel

Ye scarcely tell to ony.

Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;

But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

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' the sin;

The hazard of concealing;

But Och! it hardens a within,

And petrifies the feeling!

VII

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile,

That's justify'd by Honor:

Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train-attendant;

But for the glorious priviledge

Of being independent.

VIII

The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip,

To haud the wretch in order;

But where ye feel your Honor grip,

Let that ay be your border:

It's slightest touches, instant pause –

Debar a' side-pretences;

And resolutely keep it's laws,

Uncaring consequences.

IX

The great CREATOR to revere,

Must sure become the Creature;

But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with Wits prophane to range,

Be complaisance extended;

An atheist-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-fling,

It may be little minded;

But when on Life we're tempest-driven,

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 ye better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' Adviser!

[Lines written on a Bank-note]

Wae worth thy pow'r, thou cursed leaf!

Fell source of all my woe and grief!

For lake o' thee I've lost my lass;

For lake o' thee I scrimp my glass;

I see the children of Affliction

Unaided, thro' thy curst restriction;

I've seen th' Oppressor's cruel smile

Amid his hapless victim's spoil;

And for thy potence vainly wish'd

To crush the Villain in the dust:

For lake o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,

Never perhaps to greet old Scotland more!

R.B. – Kyle.

Highland Lassie O –

To its own tune –

Nae gentle dames tho' ne'er sae fair

Shall ever be my Muse's care;

Their titles a' are empty show,

Gie me my Highland Lassie, O. –

Chorus –

Within the glen sae bushy, O,

Aboon the plain sae rashy, O,

I set me down wi' right gude will

To sing my Highland Lassie, O.