The Complete Works of Robert Burns Read Online
Tune— “Corn Rigs are bonie.”
IT was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;
The time flew by, wi’ tentless heed, 5
Till, ‘tween the late and early,
Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed
To see me thro’ the barley.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs,
An’ corn rigs are bonie: 10
I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi’ right good will, 15
Amang the rigs o’ barley:
I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain;
I lov’d her most sincerely;
I kiss’d her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o’ barley. 20
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.
I lock’d her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o’ barley! 25
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c. 30
I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, 35
Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.
30.
Tune— “I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, 5
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains; 10
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush, 15
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander: 20
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
The flutt’ring, gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, 25
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature; 30
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev’ry happy creature.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 35
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer! 40
31.
Tune— “My Nanie, O.”
BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
‘Mang moors an’ mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos’d,
And I’ll awa to Nanie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shill; 5
The night’s baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I’ll get my plaid an’ out I’ll steal,
An’ owre the hill to Nanie, O.
My Nanie’s charming, sweet, an’ young;
Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O: 10
May ill befa’ the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true;
As spotless as she’s bonie, O:
The op’ning gowan, wat wi’ dew, 15
Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An’ few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be,
I’m welcome aye to Nanie, O. 20
My riches a’s my penny-fee,
An’ I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’ my Nanie, O.
Our auld guidman delights to view 25
His sheep an’ kye thrive bonie, O;
But I’m as blythe that hands his pleugh,
An’ has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by;
I’ll tak what Heav’n will sen’ me, O: 30
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an’ love my Nanie, O.
32.
A Fragment
Chor. — Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
THERE’S nought but care on ev’ry han’, 5
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ‘twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
The war’ly race may riches chase, 10
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.
But gie me a cannie hour at e’en, 15
My arms about my dearie, O;
An’ war’ly cares, an’ war’ly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; 20
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 25
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
33.
Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay (Song)
Tune— “Lass, an I come near thee.”
“WHA is that at my bower-door?”
“O wha is it but Findlay!”
“Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be here:”
“Indeed maun I,” quo’ Findlay;
“What mak’ ye, sae like a thief?” 5
“O come and see,” quo’ Findlay;
“Before the morn ye’ll work mischief:”
“Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.
“Gif I rise and let you in” —
“Let me in,” quo’ Findlay; 10
“Ye’ll keep me waukin wi’ your din;”
“Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay;
“In my bower if ye should stay” —
“Let me stay,” quo’ Findlay;
“I fear ye’ll bide till break o’ day;” 15
“Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.
“Here this night if ye remain” —
“I’ll remain,” quo’ Findlay;
“I dread ye’ll learn the gate again;”
“Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay. 20
“What may pass within this bower” —
“Let it pass,” quo’ Findlay;
“Ye maun conceal till your last hour:”
“Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.
34.
OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev’ry other circumstance, the mind 5
Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 10
Of guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involvèd others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us;
Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments
There’s not a keener lash! 15
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 20
O happy, happy, enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
35.
Epitaph on William Hood, Senior
HERE Souter Hood in death does sleep;
To hell if he’s gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
He’ll haud it weel thegither.
36.
HERE lies Boghead amang the dead
In hopes to get salvation;
But if such as he in Heav’n may be,
Then welcome, hail! damnation.
37.
AN HONEST man here lies at rest
As e’er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth,
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d, 5
Few heads with knowledge so informed:
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
38.
Epitaph on my Ever Honoured Father
O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev’rence, and attend!
Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains,
The tender father, and the gen’rous friend;
The pitying heart that felt for human woe, 5
The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride;
The friend of man-to vice alone a foe;
For “ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.”
39.
Tune— “Killiecrankie.”
WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood
An’ did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 5
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An’ did nae less, in full congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man; 10
Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca’, man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa’, man,
Wi’ sword in hand, before his band, 15
Amang his en’mies a’, man.
Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
Was kept at Boston-ha’, man;
Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man; 20
Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,
Sir-Loin he hacked sma’, man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip, 25
Till Fraser brave did fa’, man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,
An’ did the Buckskins claw, man; 30
But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa’, man.
Then Montague, an’ Guilford too,
Began to fear, a fa’, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour, 35
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a’, man;
An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man. 40
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca’, man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise, 45
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an’ Fox united stocks,
An’ bore him to the wa’, man.
Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes,
He swept the stakes awa’, man, 50
Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads,
On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man;
An’ Scotland drew her pipe an’ blew, 55
“Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!”
Behind the throne then Granville’s gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous’d the class
Be-north the Roman wa’, man: 60
An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heav’nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi’ kindling eyes, cry’d, “Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?”
But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co. 65
Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man;
Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An’ Caledon threw by the drone,
An’ did her whittle draw, man; 70
An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
40.
Reply to an Announcement by J. Rankine
On His Writing to the Poet, That a Girl in That Part of the Country Was with Child to 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’, 5
Breaks a’ thegither.
I hae been in for’t ance or twice,
And winna say o’er far for thrice;
Yet never met wi’ that surprise
That broke my rest; 10
But now a rumour’s like to rise —
A whaup’s i’ the nest!
41.
Enclosing Some Poems
O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin!
There’s mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin 5
Straught to auld Nick’s.
Ye hae saw mony cracks an’ cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts,
An’ fill them fou; 10
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 — 15
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 20
O’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naething
To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware, 25
A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang ye’ll sen’t, wi’ cannie care,
And no neglect. 30
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, 35
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; 40
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne’er thinkin they wad fash me for’t; 45
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; 50
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, 55
An’ by my pouther an’ my hail,
An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail,
I vow an’ swear!
The game shall pay, o’er muir an’ dale,
For this, niest year. 60
As soon’s the clockin-time is by,
An’ the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I’se hae sporting by an’ by
For my gowd guinea,
Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye 65
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; 70
An’ baith a yellow George to claim,
An’ thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad’s a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair, 75
When time’s expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
42.
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; mishanter 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 5
Tyta or daddie.
Tho’ now they ca’ me fornicator,
An’ tease my name in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk, I’m kent the better,
E’en let them clash; 10
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, 15
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, 20
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 — ll.
Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint, 25
My funny toil is now a’ tint,
Sin’ thou came to the warl’ asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part’s be in’t
The better ha’f o’t. 30
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, 35
In a’ thy station.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,
An’ thy poor, worthless daddy’s spirit,
Without his failins, 40
‘Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
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, 45
The cost nor shame o’t,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o’t.
43.
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, 5
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; 10
That feeling heart but acts 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, 15
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
44.
The Mauchline Lady: A Fragment
Tune— “I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady;
Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade,
A mistress still I had aye.
But when I came roun’ by Mauchline toun, 5
Not dreadin anybody,
My heart was caught, before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
45.
My Girl she’s Airy: A Fragment
Tune— “Black Jock.”
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 humour’d, and free;
She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me; 5
I never am happy when out of her sight.
46.
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 Markland’s divine, 5
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’.
47.
BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes;
O Death, it’s my opinion,
Thou ne’er took such a bleth’rin bitch
Into thy dark dominion!
48.
AS father Adam first was fool’d,
(A case that’s still too common,)
Here lies man a woman ruled,
The devil ruled the woman.
49.
O DEATH, had’st thou but spar’d his life,
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged the wife,
And a’ been weel content.
Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff, 5
The swap we yet will do’t;
Tak thou the carlin’s carcase aff,
Thou’se get the saul o’boot.
50.
ONE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
When deprived of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he show’d her,
She reduc’d him to dust and she drank up the powder.
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff’rent complexion, 5
When called 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 expense!
51.
AS Tam the chapman on a day,
Wi’Death forgather’d by the way,
Weel pleas’d, he greets a wight so famous,
And Death was nae less pleas’d wi’ Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down his pack, 5
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. 10
52.
AE day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl’
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad —
Black gowns of each denomination, 5
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, 10
“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 d — d infernal clan!”
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 15
“L — d G — d!” quoth he, “I have it now;
There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”
And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.
53.
Written with the Supposed View of Being Handed to Rankine after the Poet’s Interment
HE who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
54.
Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge
WHEN chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step 5
Seem’d weary, worn with care;
His face furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
“Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?”
Began the rev’rend sage; 10
“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn 15
The miseries of man.
“The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling’s pride; — 20
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev’ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.
“O man! while in thy early years, 25
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours —
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn; 30
Which tenfold force gives Nature’s law.
That man was made to mourn.
“Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind, 35
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then Age and Want — oh! ill-match’d pair —
Shew man was made to mourn. 40
“A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land, 45
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
“Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame! 50
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, —
Man’s inhumanity to man 55
Makes countless thousands mourn!
“See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil; 60
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho’ a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
“If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave, 65
By Nature’s law design’d,
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn? 70
Or why has man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?
“Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind 75
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn! 80
“O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow 85
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!”
55.
The Twa Herds; or, The Holy Tulyie
An Unco Mournfu’ Tale
“Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,” — POPE.
O A’ ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs an’ crocks, 5
About the dykes?
The twa best herds in a’ the wast,
The e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast
These five an’ twenty simmers past —
Oh, dool to tell! 10
Hae had a bitter black out-cast
Atween themsel’.
O, Moddie, man, an’ wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle;
Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle, 15
An’ think it fine!
The L—’s cause ne’er gat sic a twistle,
Sin’ I hae min’.
O, sirs! whae’er wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 20
Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit
To wear the plaid;
But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.
What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank? — 25
Sae hale and hearty every shank!
Nae poison’d soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;
Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, drank, —
O, sic a feast! 30
The thummart, willcat, brock, an’ tod,
Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood,
He smell’d their ilka hole an’ road,
Baith out an in;
An’ weel he lik’d to shed their bluid, 35
An’ sell their skin.
What herd like Russell tell’d his tale;
His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale,
He kenn’d the L—’s sheep, ilka tail,
Owre a’ the height; 40
An’ saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub 45
Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o’er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.
Sic twa-O! do I live to see’t? —
Sic famous twa should disagree’t, 50
And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,”
Ilk ither gi’en,
While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin spite,
Say neither’s liein!
A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 55
There’s Duncan deep, an’ Peebles shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them, het an’ cauld,
Till they agree. 60
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 hope frae heav’n to see them yet 65
In fiery flame.
Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M’Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae,
And baith the Shaws, 70
That aft hae made us black an’ blae,
Wi’ vengefu’ paws.
Auld Wodrow lang has hatch’d mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief, 75
Ane to succeed him,
A chield wha’ soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.
And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain wad openly rebel, 80
Forby turn-coats amang oursel’,
There’s Smith for ane;
I doubt he’s but a grey nick quill,
An’ that ye’ll fin’.
O! a’ ye flocks o’er a, the hills, 85
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,
An’ get the brutes the power themsel’s
To choose their herds. 90
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An’ Learning in a woody dance,
An’ that fell cur ca’d Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banished o’er the sea to France: 95
Let him bark there.
Then Shaw’s an’ D’rymple’s eloquence,
M’Gill’s close nervous excellence
M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense,
An’ guid M’Math, 100
Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance,
May a’ pack aff.
56.
Epistle to Davie, A Brother Poet
January
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An’ bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,
An’ hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An’ spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, 5
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: 10
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.
It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r 15
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar’d;
How best o’ chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair’t; 20
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,” 25
Auld age ne’er mind a feg;
The last o’t, the warst o’t
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin, 30
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’ 35
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba’,
Has aye some cause to smile;
An’ mind still, you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’; 40
Nae mair then we’ll care then,
Nae farther can we fa’.
What tho’, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal’, 45
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, 50
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then,
We’ll sit an’ sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t, 55
An’ sing’t when we hae done.
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; 60
It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
An’ centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 65
But never can be blest;
Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye’s the part aye
That makes us right or wrang. 70
Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge an’ drive thro’ wet and dry,
Wi’ never ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 75
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! 80
Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It’s a’ an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce, 85
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some —
An’s thankfu’ for them yet. 90
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 an’ crosses 95
Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,
Ye’ll find nae other where.
But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 100
And flatt’ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
An’ joys that riches ne’er could buy,
An’ joys the very best.
There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart, 105
The lover an’ 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: 110
It heats me, it beets me,
An’ sets me a’ on flame!
O all ye Pow’rs who rule above!
O Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know’st my words sincere! 115
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, 120
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r;
Still take her, and make her 125
Thy most peculiar care!
All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this world’s thorny ways 130
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 — 135
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean! 140
O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank an’ file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus an’ the famous Nine 145
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he’s fairly het;
And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, an’ jimp,
And rin an unco fit: 150
But least then the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I’ll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen’d hide.
57.
“And send the godly in a pet to pray.” — POPE.
ARGUMENT.
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