— Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline — a Mr.Gavin Hamilton — Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton’s counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton’s being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him [Holy Willie] at his devotions, as follows: —
O THOU, who in the heavens does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best Thysel’,
Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell,
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude or ill 5
They’ve done afore Thee!
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore Thy sight,
For gifts an’ grace 10
A burning and a shining light
To a’ this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve most just damnation 15
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s cause?
When frae my mither’s womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 20
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin lakes,
Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chain’d to their stakes.
Yet I am here a chosen sample, 25
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a’ Thy flock. 30
O L — d, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an’ swearers swear,
An’ singin there, an’ dancin here,
Wi’ great and sma’;
For I am keepit by Thy fear 35
Free frae them a’.
But yet, O L — d! confess I must,
At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust:
An’ sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in: 40
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 livin plague 45
To my dishonour,
An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi’ Leezie’s lass, three times I trow — 50
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 55
Buffet Thy servant e’en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high shou’d turn,
That he’s sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne,
Until Thou lift it. 60
L — d, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But G — d confound their stubborn face,
An’ blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace 65
An’ public shame.
L — d, mind Gaw’n Hamilton’s deserts;
He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin arts,
Wi’ great and sma’, 70
Frae G — d’s ain priest the people’s hearts
He steals awa.
An’ when we chasten’d him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
An’ set the warld in a roar 75
O’ laughing at us; —
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an’ potatoes.
L — d, hear my earnest cry and pray’r,
Against that Presbyt’ry o’ Ayr; 80
Thy strong right hand, L — d, make it bare
Upo’ their heads;
L — d visit them, an’ dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O L — d, my G — d! that glib-tongu’d Aiken, 85
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin,
An’ p—’d wi’ dread,
While he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snakin,
Held up his head. 90
L — d, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him,
L — d, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in Thy mercy by ‘em,
Nor hear their pray’r,
But for Thy people’s sake, destroy ‘em, 95
An’ dinna spare.
But, L — d, remember me an’ mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral an’ divine,
That I for grace an’ gear may shine,
Excell’d by nane, 100
And a’ the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
58.
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, 5
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; 10
But haud 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, 15
And mercy’s day is gane.
But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it. 20
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
59.
Death and Dr. Hornbook
A True Story
SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times to vend, 5
And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell
Or Dublin city: 10
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 whiles, but yet too tent aye 15
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye
Frae ghaists an’ witches.
The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: 20
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, 25
An’ todlin down on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whiles, against my will,
I took a bicker. 30
I there wi’ Something did 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 35
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, 40
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 sawin!”
I seem’d to make a kind o’ stan’ 45
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, 50
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, 55
I’m no designed 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.” 60
“Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t;
Come, gie’s your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our shanks an tak a seat —
Come, gie’s your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 65
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: 70
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,
An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid, 75
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,
And faith! he’ll waur me.
“Ye ken Hornbook i’ the clachan,
Deil mak his king’s-hood in spleuchan! 80
He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
An’ pouk my hips.
“See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s dart, 85
They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
An’ cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f — t,
D — n’d haet they’ll kill! 90
“‘Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
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, 95
But did nae mair.
“Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,
An’ had sae fortify’d the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt, 100
Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart
Of a kail-runt.
“I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary 105
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O’ hard whin rock.
“Ev’n them he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it, 110
Just —— in a kail-blade, an’ sent 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 an’ whittles, 115
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,
A’ kind o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,
He’s sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C. 120
“Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o’ the seas;
The farina of beans an’ pease,
He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 125
He can content ye.
“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons;
Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per se; 130
Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae.”
“Waes me for Johnie Ged’s-Hole now,”
Quoth I, “if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 135
Sae white and 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, 140
Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They’ll be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh,
In twa-three year.
“Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death, 145
By loss o’ blood or want of breath
This night I’m free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith,
By drap an’ pill. 150
“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, 155
But ne’er spak mair.
“A country laird had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An’ pays him well: 160
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, 165
In Hornbook’s care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.
“That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;
Thus goes he on from day to day, 170
Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,
An’s weel paid for’t;
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’ his d — n’d dirt:
“But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot, 175
Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,
As dead’s a herrin;
Neist time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!” 180
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’, 185
And sae did Death.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
60.
Epistle on J. Lapraik
An Old Scottish Bard. — April 1, 1785
WHILE briers an’ woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien’, 5
I pray excuse.
On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin,
To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt; 10
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 15
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; 20
Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark?”
They tauld me ‘twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t, 25
An’ sae about him there I speir’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: 30
That, set him to a pint of ale,
An’ either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel,
Or witty catches —
‘Tween Inverness an’ Teviotdale, 35
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, 40
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; 45
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, 50
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, 55
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. 60
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, 65
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o’ dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak; 70
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 75
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, tho’ hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s the bauld an’ slee, 80
Or bright Lapraik’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, 85
Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue be fu’,
I’se no insist:
But, gif ye want ae friend that’s true,
I’m on your list. 90
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 mony still 95
As far abuse me.
There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me!
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me
At dance or fair; 100
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, 105
If we forgather;
An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin-ware
Wi’ ane anither.
The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water; 110
Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better
Before we part.
Awa ye selfish, war’ly race, 115
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. 120
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, 125
My friends, my brothers!
But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent, 130
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
61.
Second Epistle to J. Lapraik
April 21, 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 Lapraik, 5
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, 10
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 15
This month an’ mair,
That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
An’ something sair.”
Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
“Conscience,” says I, “ye thowless jade! 20
I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud,
This vera night;
So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.
“Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts, 25
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?” 30
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, 35
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; 40
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 moorland harp 45
Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how Fortune waft and warp;
She’s but a bitch.
She ‘s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg,
Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig; 50
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 55
I’ve seen the bud upon the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer
Frae year to year;
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here. 60
Do ye envy the city gent,
Behint a kist to lie an’ sklent;
Or pursue-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent.
An’ muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent 65
A bailie’s name?
Or is’t the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks; 70
While caps and 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, 75
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,” 80
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to heaven, that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate ran, 85
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.” 90
O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers o’ the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,
While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s line 95
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; 100
Or in some day-detesting owl
May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes an’ joys, 105
In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in friendship’s ties,
Each passing year!
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
62.
Epistle to William Simson
Schoolmaster, 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,
And unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie 5
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; 10
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, 15
The braes o’ fame;
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts! 20
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E’nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o’ what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow’d his pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, 25
Or lassies 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. 30
Auld Coila now may fidge fu’ fain,
She’s gotten poets o’ her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
But tune their lays,
Till echoes a’ resound again 35
Her weel-sung praise.
Nae poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measur’d style;
She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle
Beside New Holland, 40
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.
Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune, 45
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon
Naebody sings.
Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line: 50
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, 55
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’ braes, her dens and dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Suthron billies. 60
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, 65
Or glorious died!
O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy; 70
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 75
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! 80
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, 85
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! 90
The war’ly 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 95
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: 100
May envy wallop in a tether,
Black fiend, infernal!
While Highlandmen hate tools an’ taxes;
While moorlan’s herds like guid, fat braxies;
While terra firma, on her axis, 105
Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,
In Robert Burns.
POSTCRIPT
MY memory’s no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean, 110
Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this “new-light,”
‘Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans 115
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. 120
In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon
Gaed past their viewin;
An’ shortly after she was done 125
They gat a new ane.
This passed 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; 130
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 neuk 135
An’ out of’ sight,
An’ backlins-comin to the leuk
She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels were alarm’d 140
The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better wer inform’d,
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks; 145
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. 150
This game was play’d in mony lands,
An’ auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi’ nimble shanks;
Till lairds forbad, by strict commands, 155
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; 160
An’ some their new-light fair avow,
Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin;
Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin 165
Wi’ girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word an’ write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor touns 170
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; 175
An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmaist shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them
Just i’ their pouch;
An’ when the new-light billies see them,
I think they’ll crouch! 180
Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter
Is naething but a “moonshine matter”;
But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulyie,
I hope we bardies ken some better 185
Than mind sic brulyie.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
63.
One Night as I did Wander
Tune— “John Anderson, my jo.”
ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree root;
Auld Ayr ran by before me, 5
And bicker’d to the seas;
A cushat crooded o’er me,
That echoed through the braes
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
64.
My Jean! (Fragment of a Song)
Tune— “The Northern Lass.”
THO’ cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart,
Should tenderly entwine.
Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl, 5
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
65.
Rantin, Rovin Robin (Song)
Tune— “Daintie Davie.”
THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o’ whatna style,
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi’ Robin.
Chor. — Robin was a rovin’ boy, 5
Rantin’, rovin’, rantin’, rovin’,
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’, rovin’, Robin!
Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 10
‘Twas then a blast o’ Janwar’ win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo’ scho, “Wha lives will see the proof, 15
This waly boy will be nae coof:
I think we’ll ca’ him Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“He’ll hae misfortunes great an’ sma’,
But aye a heart aboon them a’, 20
He’ll be a credit till us a’ —
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line, 25
This chap will dearly like our kin’,
So leeze me on thee! Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“Guid faith,” quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie aspar; 30
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur
So blessins on thee! Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
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66.
Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux
NOW Robin lies in his last lair,
He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;
Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 5
E’er mair come near him.
To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him,
Except the moment that they crush’d him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush’d ‘em
Tho’ e’er sae short. 10
Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lash’d ‘em,
And thought it sport.
Tho’he was bred to kintra-wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin’s mark 15
To mak a man;
But tell him, he was learn’d and clark,
Ye roos’d him then!
Chronological List of Poems
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67.
Epistle to John Goldie, in Kilmarnock
Author of the Gospel Recovered. — August, 1785
O GOWDIE, terror o’ the whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an’ looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues 5
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition!
Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water; 10
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, 15
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; 20
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An’ fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,
Near unto death.
It’s you an’ Taylor are the chief 25
To blame for a’ this black mischief;
But, could the L — d’s ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An’ twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel. 30
For me, my skill’s but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’;
But quietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho’ they sud your sair misca’, 35
Ne’er fash your head.
E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
And still ‘mang hands a hearty bicker
O’ something stout; 40
It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There’s naething like the honest nappy;
Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy, 45
‘Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme; 50
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, —
Ought less is little —
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
68.
The Holy Fair
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison’d crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show’d,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
HYPOCRISY-A-LA-MODE
UPON a simmer Sunday morn
When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An’ snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs 5
Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
The lav’rocks they were chantin
Fu’ sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad, 10
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o” dolefu’ black,
But ane wi’ lyart lining; 15
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu’ gay that day.
The twa appear’d like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an’ claes; 20
Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
An’ sour as only slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop, 25
As soon as e’er she saw me,
Fu’ kind that day.
Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face 30
But yet I canna name ye.”
Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,
An’ taks me by the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
Of a’ the ten comman’s 35
A screed some day.”
“My name is Fun — your cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An’ this is Superstitution here,
An’ that’s Hypocrisy. 40
I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin:
Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day.” 45
Quoth I, “Wi’ a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;
I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,
An’ meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!”
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 50
An’ soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi’ mony a weary body
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 55
Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
Are springing owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an’ scarlets glitter; 60
Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,
Fu’ crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, 65
A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin;
Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools, 70
An’ some are busy bleth’rin
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
An’ screen our countra gentry;
There “Racer Jess, an’ twa-three whores, 75
Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads,
Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck;
An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, 80
For fun this day.
Here, some are thinkin on their sins,
An’ some upo’ their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
Anither sighs an’ prays: 85
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses
To chairs that day. 90
O happy is that man, an’ blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back, 95
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An’s loof upon her bosom,
Unkend that day.
Now a’ the congregation o’er 100
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie speels the holy door,
Wi’ tidings o’ damnation:
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
‘Mang sons o’ God present him, 105
The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,
To ‘s ain het hame had sent him
Wi’ fright that day.
Hear how he clears the point o’ faith
Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin! 110
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout, 115
Like cantharidian plaisters
On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice,
There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;
For a’ the real judges rise, 120
They canna sit for anger,
Smith opens out his cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an’ barrels 125
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral powers an’ reason?
His English style, an’ gesture fine
Are a’ clean out o’ season. 130
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne’er a word o’ faith in
That’s right that day. 135
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison’d nostrum;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he’s got, the word o’ God, 140
An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,
While Common-sense has taen the road,
An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate
Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller neist the guard relieves, 145
An’ Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,
An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So, cannilie he hums them; 150
Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense
Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him
At times that day.
Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills,
Wi’ yill-caup commentators; 155
Here ‘s cryin out for bakes and gills,
An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
Wi’ logic an’ wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end 160
Is like to breed a rupture
O’ wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lear, 165
It pangs us fou o’ knowledge:
Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin deep,
To kittle up our notion, 170
By night or day.
The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an’ body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An’ steer about the toddy: 175
On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,
They’re makin observations;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
An’ forming assignations
To meet some day. 180
But now the L—’s ain trumpet touts,
Till a’ the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russell is na sparin:
His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords, 185
Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera “sauls does harrow”
Wi’ fright that day!
A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit, 190
Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,
An’ think they hear it roarin; 195
When presently it does appear,
‘Twas but some neibor snorin
Asleep that day.
‘Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past; 200
An’ how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a’ dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,
Amang the furms an’ benches;
An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps, 205
Was dealt about in lunches
An’ dawds that day.
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,
An’ sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; 210
The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
Frae side to side they bother;
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An’ gies them’t like a tether, 215
Fu’ lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing! 220
O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel’
How bonie lads ye wanted;
An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day! 225
Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an’ croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 230
Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,
They’re a’ in famous tune
For crack that day.
How mony hearts this day converts 235
O’ sinners and o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane
As saft as ony flesh is:
There’s some are fou o’ love divine;
There’s some are fou o’ brandy; 240
An’ mony jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
69.
Third Epistle to J. Lapraik
GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonie;
Now, when ye’re nickin down fu’ cannie
The staff o’ bread,
May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y 5
To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggs
Like drivin wrack; 10
But may the tapmost grain that wags
Come to the sack.
I’m bizzie, too, an’ skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 15
Wi’ muckle wark,
An’ took my jocteleg an whatt it,
Like ony clark.
It’s now twa month that I’m your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 20
Abusin me for harsh ill-nature
On holy men,
While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better,
But mair profane.
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 25
Let’s sing about our noble sel’s:
We’ll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us;
But browster wives an’ whisky stills,
They are the muses. 30
Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
An’ if ye mak’ objections at it,
Then hand in neive some day we’ll knot it,
An’ witness take,
An’ when wi’ usquabae we’ve wat it 35
It winna break.
But if the beast an’ branks be spar’d
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a’ the vittel in the yard,
An’ theekit right, 40
I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter night.
Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitae
Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty,
Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty, 45
An’ be as canty
As ye were nine years less than thretty —
Sweet ane an’ twenty!
But stooks are cowpit wi’ the blast,
And now the sinn keeks in the west, 50
Then I maun rin amang the rest,
An’ quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe myself’ in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.
Sept. 13, 1785.
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70.
Epistle to the Rev. John M’Math
Inclosing a Copy of “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” Which He Had Requested, Sept. 17, 1785
WHILE at the stook the shearers cow’r
To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,
Or in gulravage rinnin scowr
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour 5
In idle rhyme.
My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,
Lest they should blame her, 10
An’ rouse their holy thunder on it
An anathem her.
I own ‘twas rash, an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple, country bardie,
Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, 15
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me.
But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces, 20
Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces,
Their raxin conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.
There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast, 25
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid’s the priest
Wha sae abus’d him:
And may a bard no crack his jest
What way they’ve us’d him? 30
See him, the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word an’ deed —
An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed
By worthless, skellums,
An’ not a muse erect her head 35
To cowe the blellums?
O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An’ tell aloud 40
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd.
God knows, I’m no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be 45
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.
An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass, 50
But mean revenge, an’ malice fause
He’ll still disdain,
An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They take religion in their mouth; 55
They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,
For what? — to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
To ruin straight. 60
All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false friends of thine 65
Can ne’er defame thee.
Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain,
An’ far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain,
To join with those 70
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes:
In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,
In spite o’ undermining jobs,
In spite o’ dark banditti stabs 75
At worth an’ merit,
By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,
But hellish spirit.
O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound 80
A candid liberal band is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown’d,
An’ manly preachers.
Sir, in that circle you are nam’d; 85
Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;
An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d
(Which gies you honour)
Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,
An’ winning manner. 90
Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,
An’ if impertinent I’ve been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane
Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,
But to his utmost would befriend 95
Ought that belang’d ye.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
71.
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