Love In The Guise Of Friendship.
Your friendship much
can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy!
Why urge the only, one
request
You know I will deny!
Your thought, if Love
must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my
bosom tear
The very friend I sought.
Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care.
For thee is laughing
Nature gay,
For thee she pours the
vernal day;
For me in vain is Nature
drest,
While Joy’s a
stranger to my breast.
Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul.
Clarinda, mistres of
my soul,
The measur’d time
is run!
The wretch beneath the
dreary pole
So marks his latest
sun.
To what dark cave of
frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander
hie;
Depriv’d of thee,
his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?
We part but
by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely
eyes,
No other light shall
guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams
arise!
She, the fair sun of
all her sex,
Has blest my glorious
day;
And shall a glimmering
planet fix
My worship to its ray?
I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet.
Chorus. I’m
o’er young, I’m o’er young,
I’m o’er
young to marry yet;
I’m o’er
young, ’twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammy
yet.
I am my mammny’s
ae bairn,
Wi’ unco folk
I weary, sir;
And lying in a man’s
bed,
I’m fley’d
it mak me eerie, sir.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
My mammie coft me a
new gown,
The kirk maun hae the
gracing o’t;
Were I to lie wi’
you, kind Sir,
I’m feared ye’d
spoil the lacing o’t.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
Hallowmass is come and
gane,
The nights are lang
in winter, sir,
And you an’ I
in ae bed,
In trowth, I dare
na venture, sir.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
Fu’ loud an’
shill the frosty wind
Blaws thro’ the
leafless timmer, sir;
But if ye come this
gate again;
I’ll aulder be
gin simmer, sir.
I’m o’er
young, &c.
To The Weavers Gin Ye Go.
My heart was ance
as blithe and free
As simmer days were
lang;
But a bonie, westlin
weaver lad
Has gart me change my
sang.
Chorus. To
the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weaver’s
gin ye go;
I rede you right, gang
ne’er at night,
To the weaver’s
gin ye go.
My mither sent me to
the town,
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary
warpin o’t
Has gart me sigh and
sab.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
A bonie, westlin weaver
lad
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as
wi’ a net,
In every knot and thrum.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca’d
it roun’;
But every shot and evey
knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
The moon was sinking
in the west,
Wi’ visage pale
and wan,
As my bonie, westlin
weaver lad
Convoy’d me thro’
the glen.
To the weaver’s,
&c.
But what was said, or
what was done,
Shame fa’
me gin I tell;
But Oh! I fear
the kintra soon
Will ken as weel’s
myself!
To the weaver’s,
&c.
M’Pherson’s Farewell.
Tune “M’Pherson’s
Rant.”
Farewell, ye dungeons
dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie!
M’Pherson’s
time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.
Chorus. Sae
rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed
he;
He play’d a spring,
and danc’d it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
O, what is death but
parting breath?
On many a bloody plain
I’ve dared his
face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
Sae rantingly, &c.
Untie these bands from
off my hands,
And bring me to my sword;
And there’s no
a man in all Scotland
But I’ll brave
him at a word.
Sae rantingly, &c.
I’ve liv’d
a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I
must depart,
And not avenged be.
Sae rantingly, &c.
Now farewell light,
thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the
sky!
May coward shame distain
his name,
The wretch that dares
not die!
Sae rantingly, &c.
Stay My Charmer.
Tune “An
gille dubh ciar-dhubh.”
Stay my charmer, can
you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive
me;
Well you know how much
you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you
go!
Cruel charmer, can you
go!
By my love so ill-requited,
By the faith you fondly
plighted,
By the pangs of lovers
slighted,
Do not, do not liave
me so!
Do not, do not leave
me so!
Song My Hoggie.
What will I do gin my
Hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my
Hoggie!
My only beast, I had
nae mae,
And vow but I was vogie!
The lee-lang night
we watch’d the fauld,
Me and my faithfu’
doggie;
We heard nocht but the
roaring linn,
Amang the braes sae
scroggie.
But the houlet cry’d
frau the castle wa’,
The blitter frae the
boggie;
The tod reply’d
upon the hill,
I trembled for my Hoggie.
When day did daw, and
cocks did craw,
The morning it was foggie;
An unco tyke, lap o’er
the dyke,
And maist has kill’d
my Hoggie!
Raving Winds Around Her Blowing.
Tune “M’Grigor
of Roro’s Lament.”
I composed these verses on Miss Isabella
M’Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on
the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy
death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl
of Loudoun, who shot himself out of sheer heart-break
at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged
state of his finances. R.B., 1971.
Raving winds around
her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands
strowing,
By a river hoarsely
roaring,
Isabella stray’d
deploring
“Farewell, hours
that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy
and pleasure;
Hail, thou gloomy night
of sorrow,
Cheerless night that
knows no morrow!
“O’er the
past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future
pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood
freezes,
Fell despair my fancy
seizes.
“Life, thou soul
of every blessing,
Load to misery most
distressing,
Gladly how would I resign
thee,
And to dark oblivion
join thee!”
Up In The Morning Early.
Cauld blaws the wind
frae east to west,
The drift is driving
sairly;
Sae loud and shill’s
I hear the blast
I’m sure it’s
winter fairly.
Chorus. Up
in the morning’s no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills
are covered wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s
winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering
in the thorn,
A’ day they fare
but sparely;
And lang’s the
night frae e’en to morn
I’m sure it’s
winter fairly.
Up in the morning’s,
&c.
How Long And Dreary
Is The Night
How long and dreary
is the night,
When I am frae my dearie!
I sleepless lie frae
e’en to morn,
Tho’ I were ne’er
so weary:
I sleepless lie frae
e’en to morn,
Tho’ I were ne’er
sae weary!
When I think on the
happy days
I spent wi’ you
my dearie:
And now what lands between
us lie,
How can I be but eerie!
And now what lands between
us lie,
How can I be but eerie!
How slow ye move, ye
heavy hours,
As ye were wae and weary!
It wasna sae ye glinted
by,
When I was wi’
my dearie!
It wasna sae ye glinted
by,
When I was wi’
my dearie!
Hey, The Dusty Miller.
Hey, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty coat,
He will win a shilling,
Or he spend a groat:
Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour,
Dusty was the kiss
That I gat frae the
Miller.
Hey, the dusty Miller,
And his dusty sack;
Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck:
Fills the dusty peck,
Brings the dusty siller;
I wad gie my coatie
For the dusty Miller.
Duncan Davison.
There was a lass, they
ca’d her Meg,
And she held o’er
the moors to spin;
There was a lad that
follow’d her,
They ca’d him
Duncan Davison.
The moor was dreigh,
and Meg was skeigh,
Her favour Duncan could
na win;
For wi’ the rock
she wad him knock,
And aye she shook the
temper-pin.
As o’er the moor
they lightly foor,
A burn was clear, a
glen was green,
Upon the banks they
eas’d their shanks,
And aye she set the
wheel between:
But Duncan swoor a haly
aith,
That Meg should be a
bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her
spinning-graith,
And flang them a’
out o’er the burn.
We will big a wee, wee
house,
And we will live like
king and queen;
Sae blythe and merry’s
we will be,
When ye set by the wheel
at e’en.
A man may drink, and
no be drunk;
A man may fight, and
no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonie
lass,
And aye be welcome back
again!
The Lad They Ca’Jumpin John.
Her daddie forbad, her
minnie forbad
Forbidden she wadna
be:
She wadna trow’t
the browst she brew’d,
Wad taste sae bitterlie.
Chorus. The
lang lad they ca’Jumpin John
Beguil’d the bonie
lassie,
The lang lad they
ca’Jumpin John
Beguil’d the bonie
lassie.
A cow and a cauf, a
yowe and a hauf,
And thretty gude shillin’s
and three;
A vera gude tocher,
a cotter-man’s dochter,
The lass wi’ the
bonie black e’e.
The lang lad, &c.
Talk Of Him That’s Far Awa.
Musing on the roaring
ocean,
Which divides my love
and me;
Wearying heav’n
in warm devotion,
For his weal where’er
he be.
Hope and Fear’s
alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature’s
law,
Whispering spirits round
my pillow,
Talk of him that’s
far awa.
Ye whom sorrow never
wounded,
Ye who never shed a
tear,
Care untroubled,
joy surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is
dear.
Gentle night, do thou
befriend me,
Downy sleep, the curtain
draw;
Spirits kind, again
attend me,
Talk of him that’s
far awa!
To Daunton Me.
The blude-red rose at
Yule may blaw,
The simmer lilies bloom
in snaw,
The frost may freeze
the deepest sea;
But an auld man shall
never daunton me.
Refrain. To
daunton me, to daunton me,
And auld man shall never
daunton me.
To daunton me, and me
sae young,
Wi’ his fause
heart and flatt’ring tongue,
That is the thing you
shall never see,
For an auld man shall
never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
For a’ his meal
and a’ his maut,
For a’ his fresh
beef and his saut,
For a’ his gold
and white monie,
And auld men shall never
daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
His gear may buy him
kye and yowes,
His gear may buy him
glens and knowes;
But me he shall not
buy nor fee,
For an auld man shall
never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
He hirples twa fauld
as he dow,
Wi’ his teethless
gab and his auld beld pow,
And the rain rains down
frae his red blear’d e’e;
That auld man shall
never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c.
The Winter It Is Past.
The winter it is past,
and the summer comes at last
And the small birds,
they sing on ev’ry tree;
Now ev’ry thing
is glad, while I am very sad,
Since my true love is
parted from me.
The rose upon the breer,
by the waters running clear,
May have charms for
the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are
blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is
parted from me.
The Bonie Lad That’s Far Awa.
O how can I be blythe
and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk
and braw,
When the bonie lad that
I lo’e best
Is o’er the hills
and far awa!
It’s no the frosty
winter wind,
It’s no the driving
drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes
in my e’e,
To think on him that’s
far awa.
My father pat me frae
his door,
My friends they hae
disown’d me a’;
But I hae ane will tak
my part,
The bonie lad that’s
far awa.
A pair o’ glooves
he bought to me,
And silken snoods he
gae me twa;
And I will wear them
for his sake,
The bonie lad that’s
far awa.
O weary Winter soon
will pass,
And Spring will cleed
the birken shaw;
And my young babie will
be born,
And he’ll be hame
that’s far awa.
Verses To Clarinda.
Sent with a Pair of
Wine-Glasses.
Fair Empress of the
Poet’s soul,
And Queen of Poétesses;
Clarinda, take this
little boon,
This humble pair of
glasses:
And fill them up with
generous juice,
As generous as your
mind;
And pledge them to the
generous toast,
“The whole of
human kind!”
“To those who
love us!” second fill;
But not to those whom
we love;
Lest we love those who
love not us
A third “To
thee and me, Love!”
The Chevalier’s Lament.
Air “Captain
O’Kean.”
The small birds rejoice
in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet
winds clear thro’ the vale;
The primroses blow in
the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter’d
cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure,
or what can seem fair,
When the lingering moments
are numbered by care?
No birds sweetly singing,
nor flow’rs gaily springing,
Can soothe the sad bosom
of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared,
could it merit their malice?
A king and a father
to place on his throne!
His right are these
hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts
find shelter, tho’ I can find none!
But ’tis not my
suff’rings, thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends,
’tis your ruin I mourn;
Your faith proved so
loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! I can make
it no better return!
Epistle To Hugh Parker.
In this strange land,
this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose
or rhyme;
Where words ne’er
cross’t the Muse’s heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic
shackles:
A land that Prose did
never view it,
Except when drunk he
stacher’t thro’ it;
Here, ambush’d
by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere
of reek,
I hear a wheel thrum
i’ the neuk,
I hear it for
in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams,
a fiery kernel,
Enhusked by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted
rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins
by chapters;
For life and spunk like
ither Christians,
I’m dwindled down
to mere existence,
Wi’ nae converse
but Gallowa’ bodies,
Wi’ nae kenn’d
face but Jenny Geddes,
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!
Dowie she saunters down
Nithside,
And aye a westlin leuk
she throws,
While tears hap o’er
her auld brown nose!
Was it for this, wi’
cannie care,
Thou bure the Bard
through many a shire?
At howes, or hillocks
never stumbled,
And late or early never
grumbled?
O had I power like inclination,
I’d heeze thee
up a constellation,
To canter with the Sagitarre,
Or loup the ecliptic
like a bar;
Or turn the pole like
any arrow;
Or, when auld Phoebus
bids good-morrow,
Down the zodiac urge
the race,
And cast dirt on his
godship’s face;
For I could lay my bread
and kail
He’d ne’er
cast saut upo’ thy tail.
Wi’ a’ this
care and a’ this grief,
And sma’, sma’
prospect of relief,
And nought but peat
reek i’ my head,
How can I write what
ye can read?
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth
o’ June,
Ye’ll find me
in a better tune;
But till we meet and
weet our whistle,
Tak this excuse for
nae epistle.
Robert Burns.
Of A’ The Airts The Wind Can Blaw^1.
Tune “Miss
Admiral Gordon’s Strathspey.”
Of a’ the airts
the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie
lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e
best:
There’s wild-woods
grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between:
But day and night my
fancys’ flight
Is ever wi’ my
Jean.
I see her in the dewy
flowers,
I see her sweet and
fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’
birds,
I hear her charm the
air:
There’s not a
bonie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or
green;
There’s not a
bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o’
my Jean.
Song I Hae a Wife O’ My Ain.
I Hae a wife of my ain,
I’ll partake wi’
naebody;
I’ll take Cuckold
frae nane,
I’ll gie Cuckold
to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There thanks
to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
I’ll borrow frae
naebody.
I am naebody’s
lord,
I’ll be slave
to naebody;
I hae a gude braid sword,
I’ll tak dunts
frae naebody.
I’ll be merry
and free,
I’ll be sad for
naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
Lines Written In Friars’-Carse Hermitage.
Glenriddel Hermitage,
June 28th, 1788.
Thou whom chance may
hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet
weed,
Be thou deckt in silken
stole,
Grave these maxims on
thy soul.
Life is but a day at
most,
Sprung from night, in
darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every
hour,
Fear not clouds will
always lour.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease
thy aim,
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;
Fame, an idle restless
dream;
Peace, the tend’rest
flow’r of spring;
Pleasures, insects on
the wing;
Those that sip the dew
alone
Make the butterflies
thy own;
Those that would the
bloom devour
Crush the locusts, save
the flower.
For the future be prepar’d,
Guard wherever thou
can’st guard;
But thy utmost duly
done,
Welcome what thou can’st
not shun.
Follies past, give thou
to air,
Make their consequence
thy care:
Keep the name of Man
in mind,
And dishonour not thy
kind.
Reverence with lowly
heart
Him, whose wondrous
work thou art;
Keep His Goodness still
in view,
Thy trust, and thy example,
too.
Stranger, go! Heaven
be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of
Nidside.
To Alex. Cunningham, Esq., Writer.
Ellisland, Nithsdale,
July 27th, 1788.
My godlike friend nay,
do not stare,
You think the phrase
is odd-like;
But God is love, the
saints declare,
Then surely thou art
god-like.
And is thy ardour still
the same?
And kindled still at
Anna?
Others may boast a partial
flame,
But thou art a volcano!
Ev’n Wedlock asks
not love beyond
Death’s tie-dissolving
portal;
But thou, omnipotently
fond,
May’st promise
love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing
powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend
them,
That last great antihectic
try
Marriage perhaps may
mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air a
grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms but
who can trace
The process of bewitching?
Song. Anna, Thy Charms.
Anna, thy charms my
bosom fire,
And waste my soul with
care;
But ah! how bootless
to admire,
When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence,
lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiven;
For sure ’twere
impious to despair
So much in sight of
heaven.
The Fête Champêtre.
Tune “Killiecrankie.”
O Wha will to Saint
Stephen’s House,
To do our errands there,
man?
O wha will to Saint
Stephen’s House
O’ th’ merry
lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man
o’ law?
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o’er
Scotland a’
The meikle Ursa-Major?^1
Come, will ye court
a noble lord,
Or buy a score o’lairds,
man?
For worth and honour
pawn their word,
Their vote shall be
Glencaird’s,^2 man.
Ane gies them coin,
ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter:
Annbank,^3 wha guessed
the ladies’ taste,
He gies a Fête
Champêtre.
When Love and Beauty
heard the news,
The gay green woods
amang, man;
Where, gathering flowers,
and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird’s
sang, man:
A vow, they sealed it
with a kiss,
Sir Politics to fetter;
As their’s alone,
the patent bliss,
To hold a Fête
Champêtre.
Then mounted Mirth,
on gleesome wing
O’er hill and
dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk
crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she
knew, man:
She summon’d every
social sprite,
That sports by wood
or water,
On th’ bonie banks
of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fête
Champêtre.
Cauld Boreas, wi’
his boisterous crew,
Were bound to stakes
like kye, man,
And Cynthia’s
car, o’ silver fu’,
Clamb up the starry
sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell
in the streams,
Or down the current
shatter;
The western breeze steals
thro’the trees,
To view this Fête
Champêtre.
How many a robe sae
gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels
glance, man!
To Harmony’s enchanting
notes,
As moves the mazy dance,
man.
The echoing wood, the
winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at
Adam’s yett,
To hold their Fête
Champêtre.
When Politics came there,
to mix
And make his ether-stane,
man!
He circled round the
magic ground,
But entrance found he
nane, man:
He blush’d for
shame, he quat his name,
Forswore it, every letter,
Wi’ humble prayer
to join and share
This festive Fête
Champêtre.
Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry.
Requesting a Favour.
When Nature her great
master-piece design’d,
And fram’d her
last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all
the mazy plan,
She form’d of
various parts the various Man.
Then first she calls
the useful many forth;
Plain plodding Industry,
and sober Worth:
Thence peasants, farmers,
native sons of earth,
And merchandise’
whole genus take their birth:
Each prudent cit a warm
existence finds,
And all mechanics’
many-apron’d kinds.
Some other rarer sorts
are wanted yet,
The lead and buoy are
needful to the net:
The caput mortuum
of grnss desires
Makes a material for
mere knights and squires;
The martial phosphorus
is taught to flow,
She kneads the lumpish
philosophic dough,
Then marks th’
unyielding mass with grave designs,
Law, physic, politics,
and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes
th’ Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements
of female souls.
The order’d system
fair before her stood,
Nature, well pleas’d,
pronounc’d it very good;
But ere she gave creating
labour o’er,
Half-jest, she tried
one curious labour more.
Some spumy, fiery, ignis
fatuus matter,
Such as the slightest
breath of air might scatter;
With arch-alacrity and
conscious glee,
(Nature may have her
whim as well as we,
Her Hogarth-art perhaps
she meant to show it),
She forms the thing
and christens it a Poet:
Creature, tho’
oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day, unmindful
of to-morrow;
A being form’d
t’ amuse his graver friends,
Admir’d and prais’d and
there the homage ends;
A mortal quite unfit
for Fortune’s strife,
Yet oft the sport of
all the ills of life;
Prone to enjoy each
pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal
to live;
Longing to wipe each
tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded
in his own.
But honest Nature is
not quite a Turk,
She laugh’d at
first, then felt for her poor work:
Pitying the propless
climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard
tree to find;
And, to support his
helpless woodbine state,
Attach’d him to
the generous, truly great:
A title, and the only
one I claim,
To lay strong hold for
help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful Muses’
hapless train,
Weak, timid landsmen
on life’s stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish
stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives tho’
humbly takes enough;
The little fate allows,
they share as soon,
Unlike sage proverb’d
Wisdom’s hard-wrung boon:
The world were blest
did bliss on them depend,
Ah, that “the
friendly e’er should want a friend!”
Let Prudence number
o’er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom
at one race begun,
Who feel by reason and
who give by rule,
(Instinct’s a
brute, and sentiment a fool!)
Who make poor “will
do” wait upon “I should”
We own they’re
prudent, but who feels they’re good?
Ye wise ones hence!
ye hurt the social eye!
God’s image rudely
etch’d on base alloy!
But come ye who the
godlike pleasure know,
Heaven’s attribute
distinguished to bestow!
Whose arms of love would
grasp the human race:
Come thou who giv’st
with all a courtier’s grace;
Friend of my life, true
patron of my rhymes!
Prop of my dearest hopes
for future times.
Why shrinks my soul
half blushing, half afraid,
Backward, abash’d
to ask thy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know
thy giving hand,
I crave thy friendship
at thy kind command;
But there are such who
court the tuneful Nine
Heavens! should the
branded character be mine!
Whose verse in manhood’s
pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles
in their begging prose.
Mark, how their lofty
independent spirit
Soars on the spurning
wing of injured merit!
Seek not the proofs
in private life to find
Pity the best of words
should be but wind!
So, to heaven’s
gates the lark’s shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the
earth the carol ends.
In all the clam’rous
cry of starving want,
They dun Benevolence
with shameless front;
Oblige them, patronise
their tinsel lays
They persecute you all
your future days!
Ere my poor soul such
deep damnation stain,
My horny fist assume
the plough again,
The pie-bald jacket
let me patch once more,
On eighteenpence a week
I’ve liv’d before.
Tho’, thanks to
Heaven, I dare even that last shift,
I trust, meantime, my
boon is in thy gift:
That, plac’d by
thee upon the wish’d-for height,
Where, man and nature
fairer in her sight,
My Muse may imp her
wing for some sublimer flight.
Song. The Day Returns.
Tune “Seventh
of November.”
The day returns, my
bosom burns,
The blissful day we
twa did meet:
Tho’ winter wild
in tempest toil’d,
Ne’er summer-sun
was half sae sweet.
Than a’ the pride
that loads the tide,
And crosses o’er
the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than
crowns and globes,
Heav’n gave me
more it made thee mine!
While day and night
can bring delight,
Or Nature aught of pleasure
give;
While joys above my
mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone,
I live.
When that grim foe of
life below
Comes in between to
make us part,
The iron hand that breaks
our band,
It breaks my bliss it
breaks my heart!
Song. O, Were I On Parnassus Hill.
Tune “My
love is lost to me.”
O, were I on Parnassus
hill,
Or had o’ Helicon
my fill,
That I might catch poetic
skill,
To sing how dear I love
thee!
But Nith maun be my
Muse’s well,
My Muse maun be thy
bonie sel’,
On Corsincon I’ll
glowr and spell,
And write how dear I
love thee.
Then come, sweet Muse,
inspire my lay!
For a’ the lee-lang
simmer’s day
I couldna sing, I couldna
say,
How much, how dear,
I love thee,
I see thee dancing o’er
the green,
Thy waist sae jimp,
thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy
roguish een
By Heaven and Earth
I love thee!
By night, by day, a-field,
at hame,
The thoughts o’
thee my breast inflame:
And aye I muse and sing
thy name
I only live to love
thee.
Tho’ I were doom’d
to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond
the sun,
Till my last weary sand
was run;
Till then and
then I love thee!
A Mother’s Lament.
For the Death of Her
Son.
Fate gave the word,
the arrow sped,
And pierc’d my
darling’s heart;
And with him all the
joys are fled
Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling
drops,
In dust dishonour’d
laid;
So fell the pride of
all my hopes,
My age’s
future shade.
The mother-linnet in
the brake
Bewails her ravish’d
young;
So I, for my lost darling’s
sake,
Lament the live-day
long.
Death, oft I’ve
feared thy fatal blow.
Now, fond, I bare my
breast;
O, do thou kindly lay
me low
With him I love, at
rest!
The Fall Of The Leaf.
The lazy mist hangs
from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course
of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes,
late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter
resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless,
the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery
of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander,
apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying,
how keen Fate pursues!
How long I have liv’d but
how much liv’d in vain,
How little of life’s
scanty span may remain,
What aspects old Time
in his progress has worn,
What ties cruel Fate,
in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse,
till our summit is gain’d!
And downward, how weaken’d,
how darken’d, how pain’d!
Life is not worth having
with all it can give
For something beyond
it poor man sure must live.
I Reign In Jeanie’s Bosom.
Louis, what reck I by
thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvor, beggar louns
to me,
I reign in Jeanie’s
bosom!
Let her crown my love
her law,
And in her breast enthrone
me,
Kings and nations swith
awa’!
Reif randies, I disown
ye!
It Is Na, Jean, Thy
Bonie Face
It is na, Jean,
thy bonie face,
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho’ thy beauty
and thy grace
Might weel awauk desire.
Something, in ilka part
o’ thee,
To praise, to love,
I find,
But dear as is thy form
to me,
Still dearer is thy
mind.
Nae mair ungenerous
wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna make
thee sae,
At least to see thee
blest.
Content am I, if heaven
shall give
But happiness, to thee;
And as wi’ thee
I’d wish to live,
For thee I’d bear
to die.
Auld Lang Syne.
Should auld acquaintance
be forgot,
And never brought to
mind?
Should auld acquaintance
be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
Chorus. For
auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup
o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll
be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll
be mine!
And we’ll tak
a cup o’kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
We twa hae run about
the braes,
And pou’d the
gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d
mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang
syne.
For auld, &c.
We twa hae paidl’d
in the burn,
Frae morning sun till
dine;
But seas between us
braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang
syne.
For auld, &c.
And there’s a
hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand
o’ thine!
And we’ll tak
a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
My Bonie Mary.
Go, fetch to me a pint
o’ wine,
And fill it in a silver
tassie;
That I may drink before
I go,
A service to my bonie
lassie.
The boat rocks at the
pier o’ Leith;
Fu’ loud the wind
blaws frae the Ferry;
The ship rides by the
Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my
bonie Mary.
The trumpets sound,
the banners fly,
The glittering spears
are ranked ready:
The shouts o’
war are heard afar,
The battle closes deep
and bloody;
It’s not the roar
o’ sea or shore,
Wad mak me länger
wish to tarry!
Nor shouts o’
war that’s heard afar
It’s leaving thee,
my bonie Mary!
The Parting Kiss.
Humid seal of soft affections,
Tenderest pledge of
future bliss,
Dearest tie of young
connections,
Love’s first snowdrop,
virgin kiss!
Speaking silence, dumb
confession,
Passion’s birth,
and infant’s play,
Dove-like fondness,
chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of future
day!
Sorrowing joy, Adieu’s
last action,
(Lingering lips must
now disjoin),
What words can ever
speak affection
So thrilling and sincere
as thine!
Written In Friar’s-Carse Hermitage.
On Nithside.
Thou whom chance may
hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet
weed,
Be thou deckt in silken
stole,
Grave these counsels
on thy soul.
Life is but a day at
most,
Sprung from night, in
darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine ev’ry
hour,
Fear not clouds will
always lour.
As Youth and Love with
sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning
star advance,
Pleasure with her siren
air
May delude the thoughtless
pair;
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment’s
cup,
Then raptur’d
sip, and sip it up.
As thy day grows warm
and high,
Life’s meridian
flaming nigh,
Dost thou spurn the
humble vale?
Life’s proud summits
wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step,
elate,
Evils lurk in felon
wait:
Dangers, eagle-pinioned,
bold,
Soar around each cliffy
hold!
While cheerful Peace,
with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells
among.
As the shades of ev’ning
close,
Beck’ning thee
to long repose;
As life itself becomes
disease,
Seek the chimney-nook
of ease;
There ruminate with
sober thought,
On all thou’st
seen, and heard, and wrought,
And teach the sportive
younkers round,
Saws of experience,
sage and sound:
Say, man’s true,
genuine estimate,
The grand criterion
of his fate,
Is not, Arth
thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb
or flow?
Did many talents gild
thy span?
Or frugal Nature grudge
thee one?
Tell them, and press
it on their mind,
As thou thyself must
shortly find,
The smile or frown of
awful Heav’n,
To virtue or to Vice
is giv’n,
Say, to be just, and
kind, and wise
There solid self-enjoyment
lies;
That foolish, selfish,
faithless ways
Lead to be wretched,
vile, and base.
Thus resign’d
and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting
sleep,
Sleep, whence thou shalt
ne’er awake,
Night, where dawn shall
never break,
Till future life, future
no more,
To light and joy the
good restore,
To light and joy unknown
before.
Stranger, go! Heav’n
be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of
Nithside.
The Poet’s Progress.
A Poem In Embryo.
Thou, Nature, partial
Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal
I complain.
The peopled fold thy
kindly care have found,
The horned bull, tremendous,
spurns the ground;
The lordly lion has
enough and more,
The forest trembles
at his very roar;
Thou giv’st the
ass his hide, the snail his shell,
The puny wasp, victorious,
guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings defend,
controul devour,
In all th’ omnipotence
of rule and power:
Foxes and statesmen
subtle wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat
stink, and are secure:
Toads with their poison,
doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog,
in their robes, are snug:
E’en silly women
have defensive arts,
Their eyes, their tongues and
nameless other parts.
But O thou cruel stepmother
and hard,
To thy poor fenceless,
naked child, the Bard!
A thing unteachable
in worldly skill,
And half an idiot too,
more helpless still:
No heels to bear him
from the op’ning dun,
No claws to dig, his
hated sight to shun:
No horns, but those
by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not
Amalthea’s horn:
No nerves olfact’ry,
true to Mammon’s foot,
Or grunting, grub sagacious,
evil’s root:
The silly sheep that
wanders wild astray,
Is not more friendless,
is not more a prey;
Vampyre booksellers
drain him to the heart,
And viper critics
cureless venom dart.
Critics! appll’d
I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits
in the paths of fame,
Bloody dissectors, worse
than ten Monroes,
He hacks to teach, they
mangle to expose:
By blockhead’s
daring into madness stung,
His heart by wanton,
causeless malice wrung,
His well-won ways than
life itself more dear
By miscreants torn who
ne’er one sprig must wear;
Foil’d, bleeding,
tortur’d in th’ unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounces
on through life,
Till, fled each hope
that once his bosom fired,
And fled each Muse that
glorious once inspir’d,
Low-sunk in squalid,
unprotected age,
Dead even resentment
for his injur’d page,
He heeds no more the
ruthless critics’ rage.
So by some hedge the
generous steed deceas’d,
For half-starv’d,
snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and famine worn
to skin and bone,
Lies, senseless of each
tugging bitch’s son.
A little upright, pert,
tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious
self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart
shadow in the streets,
Better than e’er
the fairest she he meets;
Much specious lore,
but little understood,
(Veneering oft outshines
the solid wood),
His solid sense, by
inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning
by the Scottish ell!
A man of fashion too,
he made his tour,
Learn’d “vive
la bagatelle et vive l’amour;”
So travell’d monkeys
their grimace improve,
Polish their grin nay,
sigh for ladies’ love!
His meddling vanity,
a busy fiend,
Still making work his
selfish craft must mend.
Crochallan came, The old
cock’d hat, the brown surtout the
same; His grisly beard just bristling in its
might ’Twas four long nights
and days from shaving-night; His uncomb’d,
hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch’d A head,
for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d; Yet,
tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude, His
heart was warm, benevolent and good.
O Dulness, portion of
the truly blest!
Calm, shelter’d
haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne’er
madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune’s polar
frost, or torrid beams;
If mantling high she
fills the golden cup,
With sober, selfish
ease they sip it up;
Conscious the bounteous
meed they well deserve,
They only wonder “some
folks” do not starve!
The grave, sage hern
thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard
a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment
snaps the thread of Hope,
When, thro’ disastrous
night, they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance
sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that
“fools are Fortune’s care:”
So, heavy, passive to
the tempest’s shocks,
Strong on the sign-post
stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses’
mad-cap train,
Not such the workings
of their moon-struck brain;
In equanimity they never
dwell,
By turns in soaring
heaven, or vaulted hell!
Elegy On The Year 1788.
For lords or kings I
dinna mourn,
E’en let them
die for that they’re born:
But oh! prodigious to
reflec’!
A Towmont, sirs, is
gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy
sma’ space,
What dire events hae
taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou
hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou
has left us!
The Spanish empire’s
tint a head,
And my auld teethless,
Bawtie’s dead:
The tulyie’s teugh
’tween Pitt and Fox,
And ’tween our
Maggie’s twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a
bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds
unco civil;
The tither’s something
dour o’ treadin,
But better stuff ne’er
claw’d a middin.
Ye ministers, come mount
the poupit,
An’ cry till ye
be hearse an’ roupit,
For Eighty-eight, he
wished you weel,
An’ gied ye a’
baith gear an’ meal;
E’en monc a plack,
and mony a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for
little feck!
Ye bonie lasses, dight
your e’en,
For some o’ you
hae tint a frien’;
In Eighty-eight, ye
ken, was taen,
What ye’ll ne’er
hae to gie again.
Observe the very nowt
an’ sheep,
How dowff an’
daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth
itsel’ does cry,
For E’nburgh wells
are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou’s
but a bairn,
An’ no owre auld,
I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy,
I pray tak care,
Thou now hast got thy
Daddy’s chair;
Nae handcuff’d,
mizl’d, hap-shackl’d Regent,
But, like himsel, a
full free agent,
Be sure ye follow out
the plan
Nae waur than he did,
honest man!
As muckle better as
you can.
January, 1, 1789.
The Henpecked Husband.
Curs’d be the
man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal
to a tyrant wife!
Who has no will but
by her high permission,
Who has not sixpence
but in her possession;
Who must to he, his
dear friend’s secrets tell,
Who dreads a curtain
lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had
fallen to my part,
I’d break her
spirit or I’d break her heart;
I’d charm her
with the magic of a switch,
I’d kiss her maids,
and kick the perverse bitch.
Versicles On Sign-Posts.
His face with smile
eternal drest,
Just like the Landlord’s
to his Guest’s,
High as they hang with
creaking din,
To index out the Country
Inn.
He looked just as your
sign-post Lions do,
With aspect fierce,
and quite as harmless too.
A head, pure, sinless
quite of brain and soul,
The very image of a
barber’s Poll;
It shews a human face,
and wears a wig,
And looks, when well
preserv’d, amazing big.