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diff --git a/75462-0.txt b/75462-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..74e21bd --- /dev/null +++ b/75462-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10107 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75462 *** + + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + + Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. + Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. + + There is only one Footnote in this book. It has been moved to the + end of the Introduction. + + Contractions with ’s (is or was) and those with ’t (it) sometimes + had a half-space, sometimes no space, in the original text. For + consistency these contractions all have no space in this etext, for + example, she’s (not she ’s); till’t (not till ’t). + + A small number of other spaced contractions have been closed up and + made consistent, such as she ’ll, thou ’rt and thou ’lt. + + All other dialect spelling has been left unchanged to match the + original printed text. No spelling corrections have been made. + + The ‘List of Poem Titles’ was created by the transcriber and is + granted to the public domain. It has been placed at the end of the + book, after the ‘Index of First Lines’. + + + + + SONGS AND LYRICS + OF ROBERT BURNS + + + + + [Illustration: + + Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, + How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?] + + + + + SONGS AND LYRICS + OF ROBERT BURNS + + SELECTED AND EDITED BY + WILLIAM MACDONALD, WITH + ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RUSSELL + FLINT AND R. PURVES FLINT + + + [Illustration: (colophon)] + + + LONDON: PHILIP LEE WARNER + 7 GRAFTON STREET, W. MDCCCCXI + + + + + Contents + + [_Individual Poems may be referred to readily by means of + the Index of First Lines, printed at the end of the volume._] + + + PAGE + + INTRODUCTION ix + + SONGS AND LYRICS 1 + + LONGER POEMS 172 + + GLOSSARY 209 + + INDEX OF FIRST LINES 217 + + + + + Illustrations + + + YE BANKS AND BRAES _Frontispiece_ + + BLYTHE AND MERRY _Facing page_ 6 + + TO MARY IN HEAVEN ” ” 14 + + A WINTER NIGHT ” ” 24 + + TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ” ” 44 + + ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH ” ” 70 + + OF A’ THE AIRTS ” ” 90 + + CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES ” ” 108 + + MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS ” ” 138 + + THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE ” ” 162 + + THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT ” ” 180 + + THE BRIGS OF AYR ” ” 190 + + + + +Introduction + + +“Of Burns, the man and poet, what is there left to be said?” Thus, +some forty years ago, the author of _Dreamthorp_. It was a question +unworthy of so acute a mind. Of Burns, the man and poet, there is +everything still to be said, for a double reason. First, because a +great poet, as he stands for ever in the view of mankind, becomes in +effect a part of nature as it exists for each succeeding generation: +unremoved as the sun from the heavens, and, like the sun, an eternal +subject for remark. What was said of the world or the weather +yesterday was good; but to-day must speak for itself out of its own +fullness, its own sense of being and receiving. Energy, beneficence, +and beauty, in the natural and moral world alike, are a challenge +essentially unprecedented wherever their presence is immediately +felt; and there can be no lack of novelty—or, better still, no need +for it—in the answer of the heart, if sincerely phrased, to whatever +touches it with life. + +But, beyond the fact that explicit appraisement is the indefeasible +ritual of response to certain kinds of experience, there is another +reason why there can be no finality in our estimate of the works or +life of a great genius. In the subject of discourse itself there is +no finality; and no fixity save a permanence of changing power. Here +is a difference, advising us that we are in the presence of another +order of reality than that to which the term “natural” can be +usefully applied. For there is a sense in which we may say that the +sun and moon are very old. The first day and night sufficed to reveal +them, and they showed the same face to Adam that has been looked +on by all his posterity. But great poets, those heavenly lights of +the mental world, endure without this sameness, and emit to later +generations rays and influences that were unsuspected by the earlier. +A genius may be discovered—may be descried and acclaimed—in a day; +but is hardly to be found out or estimated in a thousand years. +The bequeathment of great poets is a text only to be elucidated +by the whole experience of the race. Therefore the history of +criticism in regard to them is the record not so much of a continuous +approximation as of many diverse approaches to what is never quite +reached and never can be. As the race goes on evolving through new +conditions of consciousness or states of mind—approaching experience +in each epoch with a new kind of make-up or adjustment of its +faculties, a new system of prepossessions, sensations, tendencies, +and therefore aptitudes for perception—the former outlines of things +dissolve, and new values, gradually or suddenly, become apparent in +the classics long since ranged and estimated. + +We say it is the result of a new way of looking at them, as though +there were a particular virtue in our mental act, or we were better +men than our fathers. But in this we partly deceive ourselves. We +have little choice as to how we shall look at them; and might look +at a billiard-ball a million different ways, or in as many moods, +without adding to our knowledge. The truth is rather that the work +of a great poet has from the first reserves of meaning and value to +which almost no limit can be set. We may say ’tis because infinity, +timelessness, and transcendence are of its very essence, making it +inexhaustibly implicit; or because the incalculable intuition of +the poet waives the accidents and amendments of common thinking and +overleaps the slow process of experience to arrive at knowledge by +the fiat of intelligence. Certain it is that the poet is always there +in advance, waiting for the generations to come along and find him +out a little further than has yet been done. But these reserves of +meaning and value are not to be yielded up until the conditions for +their effective appearance, for their proper play and functioning, +have been instated. What history does, in relation to literature, +is to instate these conditions. Then ensues, gradually or suddenly, +our “new way of looking at the poet”—be it Homer or Dante, be it +Shelley or Burns—which is but our recognition of the emergence of +aspects, lineaments, virtues hitherto kept latent by the crowding +of thoughts and prepossessions in us that could not co-exist with +that particular way of perceiving the truth about these names, that +particular compass of comprehension regarding them. The change may be +more or less conscious and episodic, and may have a wider or narrower +range. It may involve only an æsthetic difference, a difference in +the sensations which the cultured of an age have in approaching a +given poet; in the anticipative connotation or keying of the mind for +that encounter. But also it may involve an entire re-reading of text +and man; an intellectual reconstitution or re-orientation in which +the Poet seems to be found afresh, or seen as it were for the first +time—all prejudgments regarding him magically put away—in his proper +being and loneliness _sub specie æternitatis_. + +If this be so: if the total value and significance of the great +poet is thus a changing function and goes on evolving through the +generations out of the matrix of an unchanging text, then there +is no poet to whom the observation can be more relevant than it +must be to Burns. Manifestly, there are poets in whom the sheerly +intellectual content to be exploited is greater and more various, and +who, therefore, should have a longer course to run before they are +overtaken by the uninspired mind in its pursuit of wisdom. Yet though +their course be long, the track may, in a sense, be narrow. Their +lives and works may present a simple issue, and lie within the placid +marches of letters with a certain aloofness, a certain abstractness +and destitution. Here, as so often, Shakespeare is the supreme +example. His riches are infinite even in a numerical sense, and +their appraisement may well be endless. Yet in their totality they +are an uncomplicated fact of literature. There is nothing implicated +in them of the scene and circumstances of their production; of the +humanity of an historical man; of the tragedy of a life. Of the life +of Shakespeare, indeed, nobody knows anything save his biographers, +who have elaborated or created it for themselves by discussing in +great detail and with exhaustive knowledge the prevailing absence of +information on the subject. Therefore an estimate or interpretation +of this Poet, which took cognizance of nothing outside of his +works—which treated them as though they had been found in a dream, +and barely assumed the historic fact of Christendom—would not at once +appear to be leaving untouched any topic of pressing relevance, and +might easily set the limits of our knowledge, our understanding of +them and him, a little farther on. + +But how different is the case of Burns! So far from being an +uncomplicated fact of literature, the works of this Poet were +early immeshed in a very plexus of real life interest, commentary, +adoption, misjudgment and enhancement, which is now an instant +element of their connotation and almost a part of their substance. +Across the singing voice of the Poet as we listen, and almost +overbearing it, come the reverberated choruses of a million Burns +Suppers and Commemorations, adding volume, but also confusion, to +the song. Across the survey, in which we try to see his works with +disinterested gaze, comes pointing the broad insistent finger of +traditional emphasis upon what was of supreme interest to one body of +readers long ago because the subject-matter was close to their own +lives and _they_ knew all about it, and to another body of readers +because it was curious information about a distant social world, and +even more worthy of remark than a fly in amber. Nor is this all. For +not only is the national estimation in which he is held become a +part of his works, entering into the mental context and determining +the bias of attention, but works and estimation alike are invaded, +darkened, and perplexed by the cloud of moral prepossessions and +agitations which have wreaked themselves upon the subject of his +life. To view Burns with detachment, and yet with understanding, is +impossible; to be certain that we are viewing him at all is by no +means easy. For the effect of all the nationalising fervour which has +made him its own, and of all the moralising impertinence which has +failed to apprehend him and yet refused to let him go, is to keep +before our eyes an approved subject for a certain kind of discourse +(also, alas! approved), but not the poetry in its essential power, +and not the Poet in the human integrity of his nature, in the true +thought-and-feeling quality of his mortal days. In a case like this, +therefore, history has another task to perform besides developing the +values and relevancies implicit in a body of poetry. It has, as a +condition precedent, to secure for that body of poetry the relative +degree of detachment, of disencumbrance from real-life impositions +and prejudgments, which belongs to every other supreme poetical +bequest. It has to secure for the Poet and his poetry alike—since +in this case the man and the singer, the singer and the song, are +beyond all example one—such a deliverance from many things, beginning +with the too engrossing spirit of locality, as would enable them +to be seen in their true place and aspect among the universals of +literature, unobscured at last by the falsifications of reflection +and the crudities of accident. + +That the poetry of Burns, thus liberated, must have its career +of evolving value—that it is even now entering upon its clearer +stages—hardly admits of intelligent doubt. It would be strange +indeed if a genius so autochthonous, if a personality so powerful +and so perilously charged, so real and yet symbolic, were to abide +always where the first bewildered essays of opinion placed them. +In truth, they have abided there too long. The most interesting +life in Scotland has hitherto found no sufficient biographer. +Lockhart’s early sketch is still virtually unsuperseded, though it +was historically impossible that Lockhart in 1828 could be more +than provisionally excellent and honourably imperfect. In the way +of interpretation nothing of any moment was done—nothing, that +is, which did not leave the subject where it was before—till the +appearance in 1896 of Henley’s highly disturbing _Essay on Burns_; +a masterpiece loudly execrated by fools, but a homage none the +less noble, and a service hardly the less great, for being a little +warped in the rendering. And if it seem strange that the Peasant +Poet (somewhat misleadingly so called) and the social rebel should +be indebted to an Edinburgh lawyer and son of the manse for the +most sympathetic and dignified telling of his life-story, it might +seem stranger still that the patriotic and revolutionary spirit who +wrote _Scots Wha Hae_ and _A Man’s a Man for a’ That_ should be +indebted to an intransigeant Englishman (and no lover of democrats +and levellers, perdy!) not only for the first illuminating study of +his literary origins and personal achievement, but for the first full +sympathetic perception of the tragedy presented by his over-worked, +under-nourished, playless, joyless, prospectless adolescence, with +all its inspiration mute and waiting. But in Henley the man was +even more abounding than the Englishman, and the man-of-letters +was equal to both; and he found in Burns such true matter, of +humanity and literature, as all his head and heart delighted to take +hold of. So his work has done more to de-provincialise Burns—to +dissipate, I mean, the subtly limiting and obscuring presupposition +of provincialism with which many even of the worthy were wont to +approach him—than all the annual panegyrics of the Poet’s own +countrymen, most of which, to be sure, have wrought to quite contrary +effect. It off-sets with abundance the sad dereliction of Matthew +Arnold, whose poor, pained, academic, and sniffy sensations in the +presence of Burns and his world “of Scotch morals, Scotch religion +and Scotch drink” is equalled, among the illustrious stupidities of +great critics, only by Sainte-Beuve’s inability to see in Balzac +anything more than a vulgar and voluminous writer of romances for +the ruck of contemporary readers. + +Only, the liberating process so powerfully initiated by Henley has +farther to go. It is much to have Burns organically related to a +vernacular literature centuries old, and shown as the destined, and +in himself richly-endowed, heir of a great inheritance of song which +was his to appropriate, re-express, glorify, and complete. It is +much to have it established that while there was nothing accidental +about his genius, save as all genius is an accident, so there was, +in the final result and value, nothing local about his quality and +work save as Pindar and Aristophanes were also local. But it still +remains that for the aspirational, resistant, and prophetic spirit +of Burns—for the positive forces of his thought and character, +and for the moral, social, and political declarations laid up in +his work—there should be effected a similar liberation from the +prejudgments which localise, belittle, and obscure. It has yet to +become a matter of common recognition that the appearance of Burns +was more than an event in the history of Scottish national sentiment, +or in the history of English literature; that it was an event of +moment in the history of human ideals. The lad who was born in Kyle +had a message for all Europe, and a message that must reach Cathay +in time. So far from being local, he stands among the figures of +literature, boldly and in a kind of isolation, as more than any other +that ever lived and sang, the sheer Man. By his contact with the +primeval occupation, by the splendour of his spirit and the courage +of his heart, not least by the final ruin of his life, he is indeed +the symbol of Man inhabitant of the earth, as we contrast him with +the gods, as we oppose him to Destiny. Standing thus in the midst +of Nature, yet with a clear inlook upon Society—as it were with one +hand upon the plough and another on the pen—he saw that the supreme +injustice of the world was not in its acts but its estimates; not +in the inequalities of worldly fortune, but in the accumulations +of arrogance and the distribution of contempt. He had himself been +delivered only by the blossoming of his genius from the doom which +would have consigned him to obscurity as one of “the common herd” +whose qualities are of no consequence; and he resented the wrong for +the sake of all those who have no genius to deliver them. He grudged +no man his honours or his possessions. But he grudged that the +exaltation of some should be made the debasement of many, and that +worth in a poor man should be worth so little in the world’s view +of him. Against the oceanic vulgar vice in which society welters, +against the habitual easy refusal of respect, his heart was hot with +generous protest, as against the spirit that denies and would make +abject. And so his message is a claim, unique in its quality and +power, that the man of independent mind is kingly in his degree, and +that the man of good heart—“the heart compassionate and kind”—is the +nearest image of God. + +Those two affirmations are unique in their quality and power because +they are unadulterated and underived; and because his whole life, in +other respects so casually conducted, maintained an unwavering simple +loyalty to their spirit from beginning to end. His assertion of the +sovereignty of free manhood, though made in vindication of the poor, +was inspired by no ignoble envy of the rich; nor was it conveyed +from anybody’s scheme of political thinking. It was the natural +forthright consequence of his own vivid intuition of what it was to +be a man, and of what were the inalienable moral properties that must +go with that estate. Thus it had a broader groundwork of reason than +philosophy can compass, and was a deliverance of truth not from an +accumulation of examples, but from the very centre of mind. So, too, +with his exaltation of the Kind Heart above all the crowd of formal +virtues. It was no mere reaction from the religious teaching of his +place and day, which scowled so darkly upon human nature and made +merit in the sight of God—goodness it could hardly be called—consist +in a preservative acidulation of the soul and a sacred lack of +sympathy with sinners. It was a protest also against the moral system +and judgments of society at large; which set a high value on the +qualities by which a man gets and keeps, but leave out of estimate +and precept alike the qualities in which humanity fulfils itself. +From this it continually follows, and is everywhere to be seen, that +the “respected citizen” may be a man in whom there is very little to +respect and still less to like; nor is it for any other reason than +this that the word respectability has come to mean a destitution +of passions, sympathies and ideals, the salted dead-sea level of +social safety and acceptance. But Burns, with his lot cast among +simple people, stood where he could see the _primordia rerum_ of the +moral and social qualities at work in their essential character and +aspect, and could judge more securely than the world judges of their +worth and drift. Therefore it is with the observation of a peasant +and the authority of a poet—of one, that is, whose sonship to Nature +is an immediate reality, importing a command of secret sources and +an added intellectual power—that he confronts the religious and the +worldly wise alike to tell them that neither in what the one chiefly +inculcates nor in what the other chiefly rewards, but just in the +primal kindness of heart that may be found among the simple and even +among sinners, lies the superlative attribute and exercise of human +nature: that in which it continues Nature’s own beneficence: that in +which it approaches the Divine: that without which it falls short of +being human, for all its virtues. + +By the valiance of those two thoughts animating, even when only +implicitly presented, the whole body of his work—and by the +convincing tragic token of a life which, whatever its confusions and +faults, was always starkly independent and compassionately kind—Burns +has made a contribution distinctly his own to the world’s wealth of +ideals, and of the memories that keep them alive. What makes the +power of this ideal, and its distinctness as an historical event, is +that it was so utterly personal and of the Poet himself: therefore, +so inspired and authoritative. The message which he conveys comes +to him with the sweep of his genius and the certainty of his +imperishable song, and in its delivery he speaks as a chosen son of +Nature for and to all mankind. In this sense he speaks as no other +poet in the world has spoken. Standing in the new-ploughed earth, or +following the occupations of seedtime or harvest, he seems to be at +the beginning and at the centre; and has a consciousness of universal +man, of the labours and seedtimes and harvests of the ages and the +climes, denied to the poets, however great, for whom the world is +primarily a scene of cities, and not of earth and sky and man, alone +in the fields with the primal curse and solace. In this regard +he stands nearer to Millet than any other name in Art or Poetry. +Therefore it was fitting that one who was so much and potently and +generously a man should have written, near the close of his life +and in a time of repression and alarm, that vindication—_A Man’s +a Man for a’ That_—which (_pace_ Mr. Henley) has been not inaptly +called “the Marseillaise of Humanity.” Fitting also that he should +have written, again near the close of his life, that song of human +friendship and recollected childhood—_Auld Lang Syne_—which seems +destined to become the common possession of the nations, as it is +already the one thing in our literature which draws the hearts of all +English-speaking people throughout the world, and not seldom their +tears. + +And of course the ideal has its other aspect: “I bring not peace, but +a sword.” With the judgment which saw those two truths clear, he was +empowered to put upon its trial the existing system, in as far as it +denied them. Being very sure of the essentials, he could look upon +the good and evil in current practice with the nihilistic audacity +of the great saints or the great sinners, of those who have nothing +further to gain or nothing further to lose. Hence the unsurpassed +energy of his satire, an energy only possible to a mind working +with consummate detachment, a mind that sat very loose to all the +dead-horse ideas on which the creatures of convention get carried +safely through life. But of this particular splendour and peril of +his powers the less need here be said because few of the poems in the +present selection have been taken from among those which illustrate +it. Enough to know that the spirit of Burns remains in the world, +as both a glory and a defence; and that many usurping polities will +crumble, and many moral incrustations dissolve, when required to meet +the challenge of those two conceptions of the sovereignty of the man +whose soul is free and the supremacy of kindness. Nor can we doubt +that as time goes on, and the idea of his life emerges more clearly +out of the chaos in which we see it now, he will be recognised as not +only an apparitional personality and a great lyric poet, but as a +largely symbolic being also, expressing and embodying the powers in +the world which for ever save and for ever beneficently destroy: one +of whom it will seem but sense to say— + + A Poet, he was brought to birth + By Nature’s self or Mother Earth, + And had for his prophetic sire + The Force that sets the Sun on fire. + +Meanwhile, something may be said of the present selection, if +only to explain it. The title _Songs and Lyrics_ has been chosen +in preference to _Songs and Poems_, that the reader, having been +warned, might have no cause for feeling aggrieved at the absence of +a number of pieces which are constants in other collections, however +variously made up. The term “lyric” has, by one notable example of +its use and by subsequent custom, become the accepted general name +for poems of many kinds having for their common characters only the +quality of expressing feeling or reflection (or the quality, in the +case of an anecdote or incident, of producing feeling or reflection) +and comparative brevity. It includes readily _O Were I on Parnassus +Hill_ and the _Lament for Glencairn_; that astonishing rapture of +words and humour and gusto the _Address to a Haggis_, and that wise +and tender yet withal scathing _Address to the Unco Guid_. But it +cannot be made to cover such an exact description of local custom +as _Halloween_; such a satirical and controversial description of +local events as _The Holy Fair_ and others of its kind; nor even +_Death and Doctor Hornbook_, effective though it is and instinct with +the poet’s humorous malice. These things are splendid as literature, +are indeed unequalled of their kind; but their quality is mainly +intellectual rather than poetical in the more absolute sense, and the +interest which they appeal to (and appeal powerfully) is not mainly +our interest in poetry. In any case they are in all the collections, +and I have considered that by their omission on this occasion it +would be possible to render a service to Burns, and to lovers of +poetry, which has not yet been rendered. A selection, I have thought, +might be made in which the Poet himself, and not the social scenery +of which he was a curious observer, nor the alien matters with which +he took up, should be the pervading presence in the book, making it +continuously lyrical, personal, and human. This, it was obvious, +would mean some uncustomary omissions. But experiment has proved +that it means also a sudden enlargement of the range of choice among +things truly and beautifully poetical. The poetic wealth of Burns +seems, indeed, not diminished but enriched by the surrender of that +part which issues rather from the general energy of his genius than +from those faculties of the soul in which he is distinctively a poet. +Certainly there is no dearth, either of value or variety, the range +of Burns over the different forms and occasions of poetry being, upon +the whole, unique. Shakespeare implicitly contains everything, yet he +has contributed to but a few of the forms; while the moderns (like +Wordsworth) who have attempted to exemplify the different varieties +of poetical composition are lyrically or morally monotonous. _Cælum +non animum mutant._ + +But Burns is as vivid and variable as Nature, and at full power in a +wide variety of domains and achievements. Within the domain of Song +alone (his peculiar and unquestioned kingdom) his variety is almost +as astonishing as his wealth. All the moods of love especially are +his: the wistful subjection of soul in _Mary Morison_, the lover’s +complaint against fortune and the world in _Poortith Cauld_, or +against the harder fate of a mistress’s disdain in _Maun I still on +Menie doat_ (these two with exquisite touches of humour on the way!); +the grief of parting in _Ae Fond Kiss_, with its unutterable regret, +and in _Go, Bring to Me_ with the tumult of the future sounding in +it; or again, love’s sense of its own nobility and security rising +even above that grief in _My Love is Like a Red Red Rose_ (the +greatest love song, which is really a _song_, in literature), or +the glossing preoccupation of the enamoured heart, to which every +natural beauty is but an illustration and reminder, in _Of a’ the +Airts_ (than which there is nothing in the world of song more single, +perfect and sincere), or the unanswerable argument of maidens’ +reasons when they love in _Tam Glen_ and _The Gallant Weaver_, or the +comedy of courtship in _Duncan Gray_ and _Last May a Braw Wooer_, +and whatever of joyous and equivocal there might be in the idyll of +_Duncan Davison_, so realistic and so reticent. These are but samples +of a stock to which only a long catalogue would do representative +justice. The reader will at once think of _The Rigs of Barley_ so +triumphant and _The Lea Rig_ so trusting, and of _Bonnie Doon_, with +the sadness which has ensued from such trust—how often!—and of the +echoing _Fareweel to Ballochmyle_ with its atmosphere so large and +lonely. But beyond these there is another order of love-song; of the +love that has stood the test of life and has increased in kindness +as it has emerged from passion. Here we think of _John Anderson, my +Jo_, a song for which every good man must bow his head to the memory +of Burns. And near to it will be found in these pages a lyric with +the same consecration—_The Cardin’ o’t_—not less perfect though less +known. It summarises the human epic as lowly and kind folk know +it, and is like “the still sad music of humanity,” telling of its +affections, its toils, and the little wrongs that mean so much. And +beyond these, again, there is another order of love song, in which +the destinies enacted or the sorrows endured seem outside the limits +of the world. Of this disembodied and metaphysical quality—rare in +all literature outside of Shakespeare—are _Open the Door to Me, Oh_, +in which we feel the presence of Nature and Time only as spectators +of a human woe; and _Ay Waukin’_, with its haunting repetition, +its immeasurable sense of want and waiting, and of the endless +desolation that there may be for the soul within one summer day. But +of the songs of Burns it is impossible to speak adequately, and I +have spoken only of the love songs. There are others. Those devoted +to convivial joy touch a point of glory in letters quite equalling +that ever reached by the true devotee in life. _Willie Brewed a Peck +o’ Maut_ tells of the escape of three mortal men, for the space of +one night, from the dominion of Fate and from the common ignoble +respect for the solar system; while in _Rattlin’ Roarin’ Willie_ +there are heroic reverberations, and the last verse shows us Willie +seated on high—“at yon board en’”—in a mist of glory as though the +guid companie were the gods themselves, and he in Asgard! As for +the graver national theme, Burns’s love of Scotland was so implicit +and pervading, that he rarely wrote upon it—apart from incidental +allusions—even as a man, among all the things that he does for his +wife and thinks for her, may rarely think of saying that he loves +her. But _when_ he wrote it was _Scots Wha Hae_; and that Jacobite +lyric, _It was a’ for our Rightfu’ King_, in which the romantic and +adventurous spirit of old Scotland, and its proscribed loyalties +and lost causes early and late, quintessentialise into the immortal +formula of heroic defeat: + + Now a’ is done that men can do + And a’ is done in vain. + +Of the Lyrics (other than songs) there is no room to speak at length, +but the preceding argument renders this less necessary. They all +converge to illustrate Burns’s kindness and his love of all who were +kind, his manly independence and his respect for that character +in others. His kindness, indeed, passes beyond his own species to +embrace all life, from the Daisy to the Devil, and even as a farmer +he has no animosity against the Field Mouse. The Devil, indeed, he +would not publicly encourage, though he would like him to escape +the extreme penalty; but the Daisy and the Mouse he brings for good +within the sympathies and almost within the circuit of human nature. +They are fellow-travellers with him on the strange road of life and +stand equally within the menace of calamity. We see the same humane, +dissolving, imaginative aptitude in _The Farmer’s Salutation_ and the +_Death of Poor Mailie_, pieces in which there is, however, a richness +of humanity, involving many qualities besides sympathy, hardly to +be described. The knowledge, the moral and social inwardness of +the former, and in the latter the finely balanced play of humour, +never for an instant excessive where excess would have been easy and +spoilt all, have hardly been equalled even by himself. The impulse +which made him compassionate towards his fellow-creatures ranged him +against those who habitually, and on peculiarly insufficient warrant, +judged them harshly. Hence the _Address to the Unco Guid_, which +would not have remained unwritten even had he never come personally +within the range and shot of their malice. Hence also, in part, +_Scotch Drink_, that plenary libation of soul in honour of those +cordials, especially the supreme national one, which are as a divine +fuel nourishing the glow of happiness when friend meets friend. +The epistles to David Sillar and Lapraik and Simpson (to which I +have affixed titles for this occasion)[1] admit us directly into +the presence of Burns in his familiar intercourse as the “social, +friendly, honest man” beyond measure abundant. These were written +while he was still an unprinted local poet, a man of mark among his +neighbours, but marked also for misfortune and disgrace, and the +future prospectless enough. But though he is cheering others on, +and dauntless himself, we can divine that it is fast becoming the +dauntlessness of desperation, the indifference of pride. What Nature +has given him renders him more keenly conscious of what his lot in +life denies, and the gifts and the lack between them are working +together to sink this splendid misplaced being, half Apollo and +half Pan, among the waste of humanity in whom the light of purpose +has gone out. Then came the Edinburgh triumph, and it saved him at +least from that. It opened new vistas, and promised a large future. +The vistas closed and the promise was not kept; but in the course +of being disappointed—in the course of encountering the successive +misfortunes of the ten years remaining to him, who was then only +twenty-seven—he added to his achievement nearly one-half of the +whole. He wrote not only _Tam o’ Shanter_ and the thrice-noble +_Lament for Glencairn_, but also the great bulk of his song work. And +the result? Surely it is this: that all who read these pages to the +end, to where the Muse of Scottish Song leaves him dreaming in the +spence, must feel that the light in which she “fled away” has not +itself fled, but remains for ever in his book, and he in the midst of +it with the lyric crown still fresh from her hands. + + WILLIAM MACDONALD. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[1] Namely, _The Riches of the Poor_, _An Offer of Friendship_, _An +Exhortation to Davie_, _Poets for ever!_ and _The Bards of Ayr_. A +book of selections being in its nature an anthology, in which all the +contents are there upon their individual merits as poetry, it seems +right that each should have a title that carries some reference to +its subject-matter. I have ventured upon this innovation in one or +two other cases, with results which, I hope, will commend themselves +to the judicious. + +And here a word may be said about the arrangement of the contents, +which is not chronological, yet anything but haphazard. The intention +has rather been to make it lyrical and vital. I conceive that a +collection like this, which is virtually an anthology gathered from +the domain of a single poet, should as nearly as possible be itself +a poem. That is, it should be so composed, so put together, that the +reader may pass from number to number in the sequence as easily and +naturally as he would pass from verse to verse of a single poem: +even more easily and naturally, perhaps, from a continually renewed +sense of refreshment, of slightly changed animation. But this effect +is not to be achieved without taking pains. An editor who aims at +it must be keenly and even anxiously observant of many values—of +values constituted by metrical quality, subject matter, moral mood +and so forth—in all the varieties of each and in their interactions. +He must try to maintain continuity (the continuity of unflagging +animation, interest and enjoyment in the act of reading) through +variety and relief, and even through the occasional sudden contrast +which may express either a natural reaction and subsidence of mood, +or an impetus of the poetic soul in fresh directions. Finally, while +disregarding the mere time-order of composition (since the poem which +best speaks the truth for a man’s forty-sixth year may well have +been written at twenty-one) he must yet try to suggest something of +the tone of the poet’s different life-periods, and these in their +right order. If the attempt is at all successful, the resulting +arrangement should not only do justice to each individual poem by a +sympathetic setting, but should compass a general effect of unity +and of personality. How far the series from _There was a Lad to Auld +Lang Syne_ realises this ideal it is not for me to say. Other things +besides the ideal had claims to be considered, such as the proposed +scope of the book and the need to distribute the illustrations +reasonably through the volume. But I may say that from point to point +it has only been after many re-readings and searching comparisons +that I have finally decided whether _this_ or _this_ or _this_ poem +would most happily and economically follow _that_ one; regard being +also had to others that were yet to come. Felicity in the metrical +transition was, it will be seen, the value predominantly considered +in the earlier pages, while towards the close (I speak of the _Songs +and Lyrics_ section) there has been more conscious grouping of poems +reinforcing one another in the expression or suggestion of a mood or +colour-tone of the mind. I say predominantly; for both principles of +arrangement, as well as those of relief and contrast, have been used +throughout. Thus _Lassie wi’ the Lint-White Locks_, _The Posie_, _My +Lady’s Gown_, and _The Daisy_ (pp. 41-4) have an element in common—a +certain refinement and gentleness of feeling—which brings them within +the same moral key, diverse as they are. They breathe of flowers, +independently of speaking of them. But naturally the principle of +grouping has been more particularly used to suggest what I have +called the colour-tone of the poet’s mind at certain stages of his +life, especially the later ones. And I permit myself to hope that +the more the reader knows (understandingly) of Burns, the more will +he find of what is essential and quintessential to any true account +of the poet’s later days suggested or recalled by the successive +groupings with which our first and main section draws to a close. + + + [_Note._—The following pages have been set up from the text of + the Oxford Edition, for kind permission to use which thanks are + due, and are heartily tendered, to Mr. Henry Frowde of the Oxford + University Press]. + + + + +Songs and Lyrics + + + + +THERE WAS A LAD + + + There was a lad was born in Kyle, + But what’n a day o’ what’n a style + I doubt it’s hardly worth the while + To be sae nice wi’ Robin. + + Robin was a rovin’ boy, + 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, + ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’ + Blew hansel in on Robin. + + The gossip keekit in his loof, + Quo’ scho, Wha lives will see the proof, + This waly boy will be nae coof, + I think we’ll ca’ him Robin. + + He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’, + But aye a heart aboon them a’; + He’ll be a credit till us a’, + We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin. + + But sure as three times three mak nine, + I see by ilka score and line, + This chap will dearly like our kin’, + So leeze me on thee, Robin. + + Robin was a rovin’ boy, + Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; + Robin was a rovin’ boy, + Rantin’ rovin’ Robin. + + + + +MARY MORISON + + + O Mary, at thy window be, + It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! + Those smiles and glances let me see, + That make the miser’s treasure poor: + How blythely wad I bide the stoure, + A weary slave frae sun to sun, + Could I the rich reward secure, + The lovely Mary Morison. + + Yestreen, when to the trembling string + The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’, + To thee my fancy took its wing, + I sat, but neither heard nor saw: + Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw, + And yon the toast of a’ the town, + I sigh’d, and said amang them a’, + ‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’ + + O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, + Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? + Or canst thou break that heart of his, + Whase only faut is loving thee? + If love for love thou wilt na gie, + At least be pity to me shown! + A thought ungentle canna be + The thought o’ Mary Morison. + + + + +THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY + + + Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, + And o’er the crystal streamlet plays, + Come let us spend the lightsome days + In the Birks of Aberfeldy. + + Bonnie lassie, will ye go, + Will ye go, will ye go, + Bonnie lassie, will ye go + To the Birks of Aberfeldy? + + While o’er their heads the hazels hing, + The little birdies blythely sing, + Or lightly flit on wanton wing + In the Birks of Aberfeldy. + + The braes ascend like lofty wa’s + The foaming stream deep-roaring fa’s, + O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws— + The Birks of Aberfeldy. + + The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers, + White o’er the linns the burnie pours, + And rising, weets wi’ misty showers + The Birks of Aberfeldy. + + Let fortune’s gifts at random flee, + They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me, + Supremely blest wi’ love and thee, + In the Birks of Aberfeldy. + + Bonnie lassie, will ye go, + Will ye go, will ye go, + Bonnie lassie, will ye go + To the Birks of Aberfeldy? + + + + +TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, +1785 + + + Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, + O what a panic’s in thy breastie! + Thou need na start awa sae hasty, + Wi’ bickering brattle! + I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee + Wi’ murd’ring pattle! + + I’m truly sorry man’s dominion + Has broken Nature’s social union, + An’ justifies that ill opinion + Which makes thee startle + At me, thy poor earth-born companion, + An’ fellow-mortal! + + I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; + What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! + A daimen-icker in a thrave + ’S a sma’ request: + I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, + And never miss’t! + + Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! + Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’! + An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, + O’ foggage green! + An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’, + Baith snell an’ keen! + + Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, + An’ weary winter comin’ fast, + An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, + Thou thought to dwell, + Till crash! the cruel coulter past + Out-thro’ thy cell. + + That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble + Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! + Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, + But house or hald, + To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, + An’ cranreuch cauld! + + But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, + In proving foresight may be vain: + The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men + Gang aft a-gley, + An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain + For promis’d joy. + + Still thou art blest compar’d wi’ me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But oh! I backward cast my e’e + On prospects drear! + An’ forward tho’ I canna see, + I guess an’ fear! + + + + +GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O’ WINE + + + Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, + An’ fill it in a silver tassie; + That I may drink, before I go, + A service to my bonnie 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 bonnie Mary. + + The trumpets sound, the banners fly, + The glittering spears are rankèd ready; + The shouts o’ war are heard afar, + The battle closes thick and bloody; + But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore + Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; + Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar, + It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. + + + + +MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED RED ROSE + + + My love is like a red red rose + That’s newly sprung in June: + My love is like the melodie + That’s sweetly play’d in tune. + + So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, + So deep in love am I: + And I will love thee still, my dear, + Till a’ the seas gang dry. + + Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, + And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: + And I will love thee still, my dear, + While the sands o’ life shall run. + + And fare thee weel, my only love, + And fare thee weel awhile! + And I will come again, my love, + Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. + + + + +BLYTHE AND MERRY + + + By Ochtertyre there grows the aik, + On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; + But Phemie was a bonnier lass + Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw. + + Blythe, blythe and merry was she, + Blythe was she but and ben: + Blythe by the banks of Earn, + And blythe in Glenturit glen. + + Her looks were like a flower in May, + Her smile was like a simmer morn; + She trippèd by the banks of Earn + As light’s a bird upon a thorn. + + Her bonnie face it was as meek + As ony lamb’s upon a lea; + The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet + As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e. + + The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide, + And o’er the Lowlands I hae been; + But Phemie was the blythest lass + That ever trod the dewy green. + + +[Illustration: + + She trippèd by the banks of Earn + As light’s a bird upon a thorn.] + + + + +HIGHLAND MARY + + + Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o’ Montgomery, + Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie! + There simmer first unfauld her robes, + And there the langest tarry; + For there I took the last fareweel + O’ my sweet Highland Mary. + + How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk, + How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, + As underneath their fragrant shade + I clasp’d her to my bosom! + The golden hours on angel wings + Flew o’er me and my dearie; + For dear to me as light and life + Was my sweet Highland Mary. + + Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace, + Our parting was fu’ tender; + And, pledging aft to meet again, + We tore oursels asunder; + But oh! fell death’s untimely frost, + That nipt my flower sae early! + Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, + That wraps my Highland Mary! + + O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, + I aft have kiss’d sae fondly! + And closed for aye the sparkling glance, + That dwelt on me sae kindly! + And mould’ring now in silent dust, + That heart that lo’ed me dearly! + But still within my bosom’s core + Shall live my Highland Mary. + + + + +AFTON WATER + + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, + Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; + My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + + Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen, + Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, + Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, + I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. + + How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, + Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding rills; + There daily I wander as noon rises high, + My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye. + + How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, + Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; + There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea, + The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + + Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, + And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; + How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, + As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave. + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, + Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; + My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + + + + +DAINTY DAVIE + + + Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, + To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; + And now comes in my happy hours, + To wander wi’ my Davie. + + Meet me on the warlock knowe, + Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, + There I’ll spend the day wi’ you, + My ain dear dainty Davie. + + The crystal waters round us fa’, + The merry birds are lovers a’, + The scented breezes round us blaw, + A wandering wi’ my Davie. + + When purple morning starts the hare, + To steal upon her early fare, + Then through the dews I will repair, + To meet my faithfu’ Davie. + + When day, expiring in the west, + The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, + I flee to his arms I lo’e best, + And that’s my ain dear Davie. + + + + +IT WAS A’ FOR OUR RIGHTFU’ KING + + + It was a’ for our rightfu’ King, + We left fair Scotland’s strand; + It was a’ for our rightfu’ King, + We e’er saw Irish land, + My dear, + We e’er saw Irish land. + + Now a’ is done that men can do, + And a’ is done in vain; + My love and native land farewell, + For I maun cross the main, + My dear, + For I maun cross the main. + + He turn’d him right and round about + Upon the Irish shore; + And gae his bridle-reins a shake, + With adieu for evermore, + My dear, + Adieu for evermore. + + The sodger from the wars returns, + The sailor frae the main; + But I hae parted frae my love, + Never to meet again, + My dear, + Never to meet again. + + When day is gane, and night is come, + And a’ folk boune to sleep, + I think on him that’s far awa’, + The lee-lang night, and weep, + My dear, + The lee-lang night, and weep. + + + + +WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS + + + 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! + + How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! + It was na sae ye glinted by + When I was wi’ my dearie. + + + + +THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME + + + By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day, + I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: + And as he was singing, the tears down came— + ‘There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. + + ‘The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, + Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; + We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. + + ‘My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, + And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; + It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. + + ‘Now life is a burden that bows me down, + Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; + But till my last moment my words are the same— + There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.’ + + + + +KENMURE’S ON AND AWA + + + O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie! + O Kenmure’s on and awa! + And Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord + That ever Galloway saw. + + Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! + Success to Kenmure’s band; + There’s no a heart that fears a Whig + That rides by Kenmure’s hand. + + Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie! + Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine; + There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, + Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. + + O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie! + O Kenmure’s lads are men; + Their hearts and swords are metal true— + And that their faes shall ken. + + They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie! + They’ll live or die wi’ fame; + But soon, wi’ sounding victorie, + May Kenmure’s lord come hame! + + Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! + Here’s him that’s far awa; + And here’s the flower that I love best— + The rose that’s like the snaw! + + + + +TO MARY IN HEAVEN + + + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + Thou lov’st to greet the early morn, + Again thou usherest in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn. + O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + That sacred hour can I forget? + Can I forget the hallow’d grove, + Where by the winding Ayr we met, + To live one day of parting love? + Eternity will not efface + Those records dear of transports past; + Thy image at our last embrace— + Ah! little thought we ’twas our last! + + Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, + O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green; + The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, + Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene. + The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, + The birds sang love on ev’ry spray, + Till too too soon, the glowing west + Proclaim’d the speed of wingèd day. + + Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! + Time but the impression deeper makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. + My Mary, dear departed shade! + Where is thy blissful place of rest? + Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + +[Illustration: + + Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, + O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green.] + + + + +LOGAN BRAES + + + O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide + That day I was my Willie’s bride; + And years sinsyne hae o’er us run, + Like Logan to the simmer sun. + But now thy flow’ry banks appear + Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, + While my dear lad maun face his faes, + Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. + + Again the merry month o’ May + Has made our hills and valleys gay; + The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, + The bees hum round the breathing flowers; + Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, + And evening’s tears are tears of joy: + My soul, delightless, a’ surveys, + While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes. + + Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, + Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush; + Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil, + Or wi’ his song her cares beguile: + But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, + Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, + Pass widow’d nights and joyless days, + While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes. + + O wae upon you, men o’ state, + That brethren rouse to deadly hate! + As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, + Sae may it on your heads return! + How can your flinty hearts enjoy + The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry? + But soon may peace bring happy days, + And Willie hame to Logan Braes! + + + + +ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFFMUIR + +BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR + + + ‘O cam ye here the fight to shun, + Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? + Or were you at the Sherra-muir, + And did the battle see, man?’ + I saw the battle, sair and teugh, + And reeking-red ran mony a sheugh; + My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, + To hear the thuds, and see the cluds + O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, + Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man. + + The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockades, + To meet them were na slaw, man; + They rush’d and push’d, and blude out-gush’d, + And mony a bouk did fa’, man: + The great Argyle led on his files, + I wat they glancèd twenty miles: + They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles, + They hack’d and hash’d, while broadswords clash’d, + And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d, + Till fey men died awa, man. + + But had you seen the philibegs, + And skyrin tartan trews, man, + When in the teeth they dar’d our whigs, + And covenant true blues, man; + In lines extended lang and large, + When baig’nets overpower’d the targe, + And thousands hasten’d to the charge, + Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath + Drew blades o’ death, till, out of breath, + They fled like frighted doos, man. + + ‘O how deil, Tam, can that be true? + The chase gaed frae the north, man: + I saw mysel, they did pursue + The horsemen back to Forth, man; + And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, + They took the brig wi’ a’ their might, + And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight; + But, cursèd lot! the gates were shut, + And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, + For fear amaist did swarf, man.’ + + My sister Kate cam up the gate + Wi’ crowdie unto me, man; + She swore she saw some rebels run + Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: + Their left-hand general had nae skill, + The Angus lads had nae guid-will, + That day their neibors’ blood to spill; + For fear, by foes, that they should lose + Their cogs o’ brose, they scared at blows, + And hameward fast did flee, man. + + They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen + Amang the Highland clans, man; + I fear my lord Panmure is slain, + Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: + Now wad ye sing this double fight, + Some fell for wrang, and some for right; + But mony bade the world guid-night; + Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, + By red claymores, and muskets’ knell, + Wi’ dying yell, the tories fell, + And whigs to hell did flee, man. + + + + +DUNCAN GRAY + + + Duncan Gray came here to woo, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + On blythe Yule night when we were fou, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh, + Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, + Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d; + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, + Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’, + Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Time and chance are but a tide, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Slighted love is sair to bide, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, + For a haughty hizzie die? + She may gae to—France for me! + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + How it comes let doctors tell, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Meg grew sick as he grew haill, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + Something in her bosom wrings, + For relief a sigh she brings; + And O, her een they spak sic things! + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + Duncan was a lad o’ grace, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, + Maggie’s was a piteous case, + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + Duncan couldna be her death, + Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath; + Now they’re crouse and cantie baith! + Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. + + + + +MY NANNIE 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 Nannie O. + + The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shill, + The night’s baith mirk and rainy O; + But I’ll get my plaid, an’ out I’ll steal, + An’ owre the hill to Nannie O. + + My Nannie’s charming, sweet, and young: + Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye O: + May ill befa’ the flattering tongue + That wad beguile my Nannie O. + + Her face is fair, her heart is true, + As spotless as she’s bonnie O: + The opening gowan, wat wi’ dew, + Nae purer is than Nannie 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 Nannie O. + + 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 Nannie O. + + Our auld Guidman delights to view + His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie O: + But I’m as blythe that hauds his pleugh, + An’ has nae care but Nannie O. + + Come weel, come woe, I care na by, + I’ll tak what Heav’n will send me O; + Nae ither care in life have I, + But live, an’ love my Nannie O. + + + + +THE RIGS O’ BARLEY + + + It was upon a Lammas night, + When corn rigs are bonnie, + Beneath the moon’s unclouded light + I held awa to Annie: + The time flew by wi’ tentless heed, + Till ’tween the late and early, + Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed + To see me thro’ the barley. + + The sky was blue, the wind was still, + The moon was shining clearly; + I set her down wi’ right good will + Amang the rigs o’ barley; + I kent her heart was a’ my ain; + I loved her most sincerely; + I kissed her owre and owre again + Amang the rigs o’ barley. + + I locked her in my fond embrace; + Her heart was beating rarely; + My blessings on that happy place, + Amang the rigs o’ barley! + 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. + + I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear; + I hae been merry drinking; + I hae been joyfu’ gatherin’ gear; + I hae been happy thinking: + But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, + Tho’ three times doubled fairly, + That happy night was worth them a’, + Amang the rigs o’ barley. + + Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, + An’ corn rigs are bonnie: + I’ll ne’er forget that happy night, + Amang the rigs wi’ Annie. + + + + +GREEN GROW THE RASHES + + + There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’, + In ev’ry hour that passes O; + What signifies the life o’ man, + An’ ’twere na for the lasses O. + + Green grow the rashes O, + Green grow the rashes O; + The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, + Are spent amang the lasses O! + + The warly race may riches chase, + An’ riches still may fly them O; + An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast, + Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them O. + + But gie me a canny hour at e’en, + My arms about my dearie O; + An’ warly cares, an’ warly men, + May a’ gae tapsalteerie O! + + For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, + Ye’re nought but senseless asses O: + The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw, + He dearly lov’d the lasses O. + + Auld nature swears, the lovely dears + Her noblest work she classes O; + Her prentice han’ she tried on man, + An’ then she made the lasses O. + + + + +A WINTER NIGHT + + + When biting Boreas, fell and dour, + Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; + When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, + Far south the lift, + Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r + Or whirling drift; + + Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, + Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, + While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked, + Wild-eddying swirl, + Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked, + Down headlong hurl; + + List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle, + I thought me on the ourie cattle, + Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle + O’ winter war, + And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle + Beneath a scar. + + Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! + That, in the merry months o’ spring, + Delighted me to hear thee sing, + What comes o’ thee? + Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, + An’ close thy e’e? + + Ev’n you, on murdering errands toil’d, + Lone from your savage homes exil’d,— + The blood-stained roost and sheep-cote spoil’d + My heart forgets, + While pitiless the tempest wild + Sore on you beats. + + Now Phœbe, in her midnight reign, + Dark muffl’d, view’d the dreary plain; + Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, + Rose in my soul, + When on my ear this plaintive strain, + Slow, solemn, stole:— + + ‘Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! + And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! + Descend, ye chilly smothering snows! + Not all your rage, as now united, shows + More hard unkindness unrelenting, + Vengeful malice unrepenting, + Than heav’n-illumin’d man on brother man bestows! + See stern Oppression’s iron grip, + Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, + Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, + Woe, want, and murder o’er a land! + + Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale, + Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale + How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side, + The parasite empoisoning her ear, + With all the servile wretches in the rear, + Looks o’er proud property, extended wide; + And eyes the simple rustic hind, + Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show, + A creature of another kind, + Some coarser substance, unrefin’d, + Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. + + Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe, + With lordly Honour’s lofty brow, + The pow’rs you proudly own? + Is there, beneath Love’s noble name, + Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim + To bless himself alone? + Mark maiden-innocence a prey + To love-pretending snares; + This boasted honour turns away, + Shunning soft pity’s rising sway, + Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray’rs! + Perhaps this hour, in mis’ry’s squalid nest, + She strains your infant to her joyless breast, + And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast! + + Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, + Feel not a want but what yourselves create, + Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, + Whom friends and fortune quite disown! + Ill satisfied keen nature’s clam’rous call, + Stretch’d on his straw he lays himself to sleep, + While thro’ the ragged roof and chinky wall, + Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! + Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, + Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! + Guilt, erring man, relenting view! + But shall thy legal rage pursue + The wretch, already crushèd low, + By cruel fortune’s undeservèd blow? + Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress; + A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!’ + + I heard nae mair; for Chanticleer + Shook off the pouthery snaw, + And hail’d the morning with a cheer, + A cottage-rousing craw. + + But deep this truth impress’d my mind— + Thro’ all His works abroad, + The heart benevolent and kind + The most resembles God. + + +[Illustration: + + When biting Boreas, fell and dour, + Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r.] + + + + +THE RICHES OF THE POOR + +(TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET) + + + While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, + And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw, + And hing us owre the ingle, + I set me down, to pass the time, + And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, + 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; + I tent less, and want less + Their roomy fire-side; + But hanker and canker + To see their cursèd pride. + + It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r, + To keep, at times, frae being sour, + To see how things are shar’d; + How best o’ chiels are whyles in want, + While coofs on countless thousands rant, + And ken na how to wair’t: + 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,’ + 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, + Is, doubtless, great distress! + Yet then content could mak us blest; + Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste + Of truest happiness. + The honest heart that’s free frae a’ + Intended fraud or guile, + However fortune kick the ba’, + Has aye some cause to smile: + And mind still, you’ll find still, + A comfort this nae sma’; + 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’? + 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, + With honest joy our hearts will bound, + To see the coming year: + On braes when we please, then, + We’ll sit and sowth a tune; + Syne rhyme till’t, we’ll time till’t, + And 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 making muckle, mair: + It’s no in books, it’s no in lear, + To make us truly blest: + If happiness hae not her seat + And centre in the breast, + We may be wise, or rich, or great, + 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. + + Think ye, that sic as you and I, + Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ dry, + Wi’ never-ceasing toil; + Think ye, are we less blest than they, + Wha scarcely tent us in their way, + As hardly worth their while? + Alas! how oft in haughty mood, + God’s creatures they oppress! + Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid, + They riot in excess! + Baith careless, and fearless, + Of either heav’n or hell! + Esteeming, and deeming + It’s a’ an idle tale! + + Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce; + 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. + They gie the wit of age to youth; + They let us ken oursel; + They mak us see the naked truth, + The real guid and ill. + Tho’ losses, and crosses, + 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, + And flatt’ry I detest) + This life has joys for you and I; + And joys that riches ne’er could buy; + And joys the very best. + There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart, + 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: + It heats me, it beets me, + And 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! + 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, + 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 + 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 + Had number’d out my weary days, + Had it not been for you! + Fate still has blest me with a friend, + In every care and ill; + And oft a more endearing band, + A tie more tender still. + It lightens, it brightens + The tenebrific scene, + To meet with, and greet with + My Davie or my Jean. + + O, how that name inspires my style! + The words come skelpin’, rank and file, + Amaist before I ken! + The ready measure rins as fine, + As Phœbus and the famous Nine + Were glowrin’ owre my pen. + My spavied Pegasus will limp, + Till ance he’s fairly het; + And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, + An’ rin an unco fit: + But lest then the beast then + Should rue this hasty ride, + I’ll light now, and dight now + His sweaty wizen’d hide. + + + + +THO’ CRUEL FATE + + + Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, + Wide as the pole and line; + Her dear idea round my heart + Should tenderly entwine. + + Tho’ mountains rise and deserts howl + And oceans roar between; + Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, + I still would love my Jean. + + + + +TAM GLEN + + + My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, + Some counsel unto me come len’, + To anger them a’ is a pity; + But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen? + + I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, + In poortith I might mak a fen’; + What care I in riches to wallow, + If I maunna marry Tam Glen? + + There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller, + ‘Guid-day to you, brute!’ he comes ben: + He brags and he blaws o’ his siller, + But when will he dance like Tam Glen? + + My minnie does constantly deave me, + And bids me beware o’ young men; + They flatter, she says, to deceive me; + But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen? + + My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him, + He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten: + But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him, + O wha will I get but Tam Glen? + + Yestreen at the Valentines’ dealing, + My heart to my mou gied a sten: + For thrice I drew ane without failing, + And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. + + The last Halloween I was waukin’ + My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; + His likeness came up the house stalkin’— + And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen! + + Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry; + I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen, + Gif ye will advise me to marry + The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen. + + + + +FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY + + + My heart is sair, I dare na tell, + My heart is sair for somebody; + I could wake a winter night, + For the sake o’ somebody! + Oh-hon! for somebody! + Oh-hey! for somebody! + I could range the world around, + For the sake o’ somebody. + + Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, + O, sweetly smile on somebody! + Frae ilka danger keep him free, + And send me safe my somebody. + Oh-hon! for somebody! + Oh-hey! for somebody! + I wad do—what wad I not? + For the sake o’ somebody! + + + + +O, FOR ANE AN’ TWENTY, TAM! + + + An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam! + An’ hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! + I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang, + An I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. + + They snool me sair, and haud me down, + An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam! + But three short years will soon wheel roun’, + An’ then comes ane an’ twenty, Tam. + + A gleib o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear, + Was left me by my auntie, Tam; + At kith or kin I need na spier, + An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. + + They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, + Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; + But hear’st thou, laddie? there’s my loof, + I’m thine at ane and twenty, Tam! + + + + +O, WAT YE WHA’S IN YON TOWN? + + + O, wat ye wha’s in yon town, + Ye see the e’enin sun upon? + The dearest maid’s in yon town, + That e’enin sun is shining on. + + Now haply down yon gay green shaw, + She wanders by yon spreading tree: + How blest ye flow’rs that round her blaw, + Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e! + + How blest ye birds that round her sing, + And welcome in the blooming year! + And doubly welcome be the spring, + The season to my Jeanie dear! + + The sun blinks blithe on yon town, + And on yon bonnie braes sae green; + But my delight in yon town, + And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. + + Without my love, not a’ the charms + O’ Paradise could yield me joy; + But gie me Jeanie in my arms, + And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky! + + My cave wad be a lover’s bower, + Tho’ raging winter rent the air; + And she a lovely little flower, + That I wad tent and shelter there. + + O sweet is she in yon town, + Yon sinkin sun’s gane down upon; + A fairer than’s in yon town, + His setting beam ne’er shone upon. + + If angry fate is sworn my foe, + And suffering I am doom’d to bear; + I careless quit all else below, + But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear. + + For while life’s dearest blood is warm, + Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart, + And she—as fairest is her form, + She has the truest, kindest heart. + + + + +O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE + + + I see a form, I see a face, + Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place: + It wants, to me, the witching grace, + The kind love that’s in her e’e. + + O this is no my ain lassie, + Fair tho’ the lassie be; + O weel ken I my ain lassie, + Kind love is in her e’e. + + She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, + And lang has had my heart in thrall; + And aye it charms my very saul, + The kind love that’s in her e’e. + + A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, + To steal a blink, by a’ unseen; + But gleg as light are lovers’ e’en, + When kind love is in the e’e. + + It may escape the courtly sparks, + It may escape the learnèd clerks; + But weel the watching lover marks + The kind love that’s in her e’e. + + + + +I’LL AYE CA’ IN BY YON TOWN + + + I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, + And by yon garden green again; + I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, + And see my bonnie Jean again. + + There’s nane sall ken, there’s nane sall guess, + What brings me back the gate again, + But she, my fairest faithfu’ lass, + And stownlins we sall meet again. + + She’ll wander by the aiken tree + When trystin-time draws near again; + And when her lovely form I see, + O haith, she’s doubly dear again! + + + + +THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, +MAGGIE, + +ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR + + + A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! + Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie: + Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie, + I’ve seen the day, + Thou could hae gane like ony staggie + Out-owre the lay. + + Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy, + An’ thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisie, + I’ve seen thee dappled, sleek an’ glaizie, + A bonnie gray: + He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee, + Ance in a day. + + Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, + A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank, + An’ set weel down a shapely shank, + As e’er tread yird; + An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank, + Like ony bird. + + It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year, + Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s meere; + He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear, + An’ fifty mark; + Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear, + An’ thou was stark. + + When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, + Ye then was trottin’ wi’ your minnie: + Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie, + Ye ne’er was donsie; + But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, + An’ unco sonsie. + + That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride + When ye bure hame my bonnie bride; + An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride, + Wi’ maiden air! + Kyle-Stewart I could braggèd wide + For sic a pair. + + Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, + An’ wintle like a saumont-coble, + That day ye was a jinker noble + For heels an’ win’! + An’ ran them till they a’ did wobble + Far, far behin’. + + When thou an’ I were young and skeigh, + An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, + How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh + An’ tak the road! + Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, + An’ ca’t thee mad. + + When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow, + We took the road aye like a swallow: + At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow + For pith an’ speed; + But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow, + Where’er thou gaed. + + The sma’, droop-rumpled, hunter cattle, + Might aiblins waur’d thee for a brattle; + But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle, + An’ gart them whaizle: + Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle + O’ saugh or hazel. + + Thou was a noble fittie-lan’, + As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! + Aft thee an’ I, in aucht hours’ gaun, + On guid March-weather, + Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’, + For days thegither. + + Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit, + But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, + An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket, + Wi’ pith an’ pow’r, + Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit, + An’ slypet owre. + + When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep, + An’ threaten’d labour back to keep, + I gied thy cog a wee bit heap + Aboon the timmer; + I kenn’d my Maggie wad na sleep + For that, or simmer. + + In cart or car thou never reestit; + The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it; + Thou never lap, an’ stenned, and breastit, + Then stood to blaw; + But, just thy step a wee thing hastit, + Thou snoov’t awa. + + My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’, + Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; + Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa + That thou hast nurst; + They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, + The very warst. + + Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought, + An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! + An’ mony an anxious day I thought + We wad be beat! + Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, + Wi’ something yet. + + And think na, my auld trusty servan’, + That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’, + An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’; + For my last fou, + A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane + Laid by for you. + + We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; + We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; + Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether + To some hain’d rig, + Where ye may nobly rax your leather, + Wi’ sma’ fatigue. + + + + +LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS + + + Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, + And a’ is young and sweet like thee; + O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me, + And say thou’lt be my dearie O? + + Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, + Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, + Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks? + Wilt thou be my dearie O? + + The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, + The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn, + The wanton lambs at early morn + Shall welcome thee, my dearie O. + + And when the welcome simmer-shower + Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower, + We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower + At sultry noon, my dearie O. + + When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray, + The weary shearer’s hameward way, + Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray, + And talk o’ love, my dearie O. + + And when the howling wintry blast + Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest; + Enclaspèd to my faithfu’ breast, + I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O. + + + + +THE POSIE + + + O Luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, + O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; + But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, + And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year, + And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear, + For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer: + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view, + For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonny mou; + The hyacinth’s for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, + And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there; + The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey, + Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day, + But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away; + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near, + And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear: + The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear, + And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve, + And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above, + That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove, + And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. + + + + +MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T + + + My lord a-hunting he is gane, + But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane, + By Colin’s cottage lies his game, + If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. + + My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, + And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; + But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, + My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t. + + My lady’s white, my lady’s red, + And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude, + But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid + Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. + + Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, + Where gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass, + There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass, + A lily in a wilderness. + + Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, + Like music notes o’ lover’s hymns: + The diamond dew in her een sae blue, + Where laughing love sae wanton swims. + + My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, + The flower and fancy o’ the west; + But the lassie that a man lo’es best, + O that’s the lass to make him blest. + + My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, + And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; + But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, + My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t. + + + + +TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY + +ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 + + + Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, + Thou’s met me in an evil hour; + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem: + To spare thee now is past my pow’r, + Thou bonnie gem. + + Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, + The bonnie lark, companion meet, + Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet + Wi’ spreckl’d breast, + When upward springing, blythe to greet + The purpling east. + + Cauld blew the bitter-biting north + Upon thy early humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth + Thy tender form. + + The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield + High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield, + But thou, beneath the random bield + O’ clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies! + + Such is the fate of artless maid, + Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade, + By love’s simplicity betray’d, + And guileless trust, + Till she like thee, all soil’d, is laid + Low i’ the dust. + + Such is the fate of simple bard, + On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d: + Unskilful he to note the card + Of prudent lore, + Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, + And whelm him o’er! + + Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, + Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, + By human pride or cunning driv’n + To mis’ry’s brink, + Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, + He, ruin’d, sink! + + Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, + That fate is thine—no distant date; + Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate + Full on thy bloom, + Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight + Shall be thy doom! + + +[Illustration: + + Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, + Thou’s met me in an evil hour.] + + + + +THOUGHTS IN WINTER + + + The wintry wast extends his blast, + And hail and rain does blaw; + Or the stormy north sends driving forth + The blinding sleet and snaw: + While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, + And roars frae bank to brae: + And bird and beast in covert rest, + And pass the heartless day. + + ‘The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,’ + The joyless winter-day, + Let others fear, to me more dear + Than all the pride of May: + The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul, + My griefs it seems to join; + The leafless trees my fancy please, + Their fate resembles mine! + + Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme + These woes of mine fulfil, + Here, firm, I rest,—they must be best, + Because they are Thy will! + Then all I want (Oh! do thou grant + This one request of mine!) + Since to enjoy thou dost deny, + Assist me to resign. + + + + +CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE + + + Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair, + Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care, + I gie them a skelp, as they’re creepin’ alang, + Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. + + I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought; + But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: + My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, + And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. + + A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’, + A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’; + When at the blythe end of our journey at last, + Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past? + + Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, + Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jad gae: + Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain, + My warst word is—‘Welcome, and welcome again!’ + + + + +JOHN BARLEYCORN + +A BALLAD + + + There was three Kings into the east, + Three Kings both great and high, + And they hae sworn a solemn oath + John Barleycorn should die. + + They took a plough and plough’d him down, + Put clods upon his head, + And they hae sworn a solemn oath + John Barleycorn was dead. + + But the cheerfu’ Spring came kindly on, + And show’rs began to fall; + John Barleycorn got up again, + And sore surpris’d them all. + + The sultry suns of Summer came, + And he grew thick and strong, + His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears, + That no one should him wrong. + + The sober Autumn enter’d mild, + When he grew wan and pale; + His bending joints and drooping head + Show’d he began to fail. + + His colour sicken’d more and more, + He faded into age; + And then his enemies began + To shew their deadly rage. + + They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp, + And cut him by the knee; + Then tied him fast upon a cart, + Like a rogue for forgerie. + + They laid him down upon his back, + And cudgell’d him full sore; + They hung him up before the storm, + And turn’d him o’er and o’er. + + They fillèd up a darksome pit + With water to the brim, + They heavèd in John Barleycorn, + There let him sink or swim. + + They laid him out upon the floor, + To work him farther woe, + And still, as signs of life appear’d, + They toss’d him to and fro. + + They wasted, o’er a scorching flame, + The marrow of his bones; + But a miller us’d him worst of all, + For he crush’d him between two stones. + + And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood, + And drank it round and round; + And still the more and more they drank, + Their joy did more abound. + + John Barleycorn was a hero bold, + Of noble enterprise, + For if you do but taste his blood, + ’Twill make your courage rise; + + ’Twill make a man forget his woe; + ’Twill heighten all his joy: + ’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, + Tho’ the tear were in her eye. + + Then let us toast John Barleycorn, + Each man a glass in hand; + And may his great posterity + Ne’er fail in old Scotland! + + + + +WILLIE BREWED + + + O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, + And Rob and Allan cam to see; + Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, + Ye wad na found in Christendie. + + We are na fou’, we’re no that fou, + But just a drappie in our e’e; + The cock may craw, the day may daw, + And aye we’ll taste the barley bree! + + Here are we met, three merry boys, + Three merry boys, I trow, are we; + And mony a night we’ve merry been, + And mony mae we hope to be! + + It is the moon, I ken her horn, + That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; + She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, + But, by my sooth! she’ll wait a wee. + + Wha first shall rise to gang awa, + A cuckold, coward loun is he! + Wha first beside his chair shall fa’, + He is the King among us three! + + + + +COUNT THE LAWIN + + + Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night, + But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light, + For ale and brandy’s stars and moon, + And bluid-red wine’s the risin sun. + + Then guidwife, count the lawin, + The lawin, the lawin, + Then guidwife, count the lawin, + And bring a coggie mair. + + There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen, + And semple-folk maun fecht and fen’, + But here we’re a’ in ae accord, + For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord. + + My coggie is a haly pool, + That heals the wounds o’ care and dool; + And pleasure is a wanton trout, + An’ ye drink it a’ ye’ll find him out. + + + + +RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE + + + O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie + O, he held to the fair, + An’ for to sell his fiddle, + And buy some other ware; + But parting wi’ his fiddle, + The saut tear blin’t his e’e; + And rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, + Ye’re welcome hame to me! + + O Willie, come sell your fiddle, + O sell your fiddle sae fine; + O Willie, come sell your fiddle, + And buy a pint o’ wine! + If I should sell my fiddle, + The warl’ would think I was mad; + For mony a rantin’ day + My fiddle and I hae had. + + As I cam by Crochallan, + I cannily keekit ben— + Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie + Was sitting at yon board en’; + Sitting at yon board en’, + And amang guid companie; + Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, + Ye’re welcome hame to me! + + + + +AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP + +(TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD) + + + 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’, + I pray excuse. + + On Fasten-een we had a rockin’, + To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’; + And there was muckle fun and jokin’, + Ye need na doubt; + At length we had a hearty yokin’ + At sang about. + + There was ae sang, amang the rest, + Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best, + That some kind husband had addrest + To some sweet wife: + It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast, + A’ to the life. + + I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel, + What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel; + Thought I ‘Can this be Pope, or Steele, + Or Beattie’s wark!’ + They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel + About Muirkirk. + + It pat me fidgin’ fain to hear’t, + And sae about him there I spier’d; + Then a’ that kenn’d him round declar’d + He had ingine, + That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t, + It was sae fine. + + That, set him to a pint of ale, + An’ either douce or merry tale, + Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel, + Or witty catches, + ’Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, + He had few matches. + + Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith, + Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith, + Or die a cadger pownie’s death, + At some dyke-back, + A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith + To hear your crack. + + But, first an’ foremost, I should tell, + Amaist as soon as I could spell, + I to the crambo-jingle fell; + Tho’ rude an’ rough, + Yet crooning to a body’s sel, + Does weel eneugh. + + I am nae poet, in a sense, + But just a rhymer, like, by chance, + An’ hae to learning nae pretence, + Yet what the matter? + Whene’er my Muse does on me glance, + I jingle at her. + + Your critic-folk may cock their nose, + And say ‘How can you e’er propose, + You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, + To mak a sang?’ + But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, + Ye’re maybe wrang. + + What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools, + Your Latin names for horns an’ stools; + If honest nature made you fools, + What sairs your grammars? + Ye’d better ta’en up spades and shools, + 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; + An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus + By dint o’ Greek! + + Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire, + That’s a’ the learning I desire; + Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire + At pleugh or cart, + My Muse, though hamely in attire, + May touch the heart. + + O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee, + Or Fergusson’s, the bauld an’ slee, + 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, + Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few, + Yet, if your catalogue be fou, + I’se no insist, + But gif ye want ae friend that’s true, + I’m on your list. + + I winna blaw about mysel, + As ill I like my fauts to tell; + But friends, an’ folks that wish me well + They sometimes roose me; + Tho’ I maun own, as mony still + 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; + Maybe some ither thing they gie me + They weel can spare. + + But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, + I should be proud to meet you there; + We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care, + If we forgather, + An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin’-ware + Wi’ ane anither. + + The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter, + An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water; + 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 warly race, + Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace, + Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give place + To catch-the-plack! + I dinna like to see your face, + Nor hear your crack. + + But ye whom social pleasure charms, + Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, + Who hold your being on the terms, + ‘Each aid the others,’ + Come to my bowl, come to my arms, + My friends, my brothers! + + But to conclude my lang epistle, + As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle; + Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, + Who am, most fervent, + While I can either sing, or whistle, + Your friend and servant. + + + + +THE CARDIN’ O’T + + + I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’, + To make a coat to Johnny o’t; + For Johnny is my only jo, + I lo’e him best of ony yet. + The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t; + The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; + When ilka ell cost me a groat, + The tailor staw the linin’ o’t. + + For though his locks be lyart gray, + And though his brow be beld aboon; + Yet I hae seen him on a day, + The pride of a’ the parishen. + The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, + The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; + When ilka ell cost me a groat, + The tailor staw the linin’ o’t. + + + + +JOHN ANDERSON MY JO + + + John Anderson my jo, John, + When we were first acquent, + Your locks were like the raven, + Your bonnie brow was brent; + But now your brow is beld, John, + Your locks are like the snow; + But blessings on your frosty pow, + John Anderson, my jo. + + John Anderson my jo, John, + We clamb the hill thegither; + And mony a canty day, John, + We’ve had wi’ ane anither: + Now we maun totter down, John, + And hand in hand we’ll go, + And sleep thegither at the foot, + John Anderson, my jo. + + + + +AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT + + + Again rejoicing nature sees + Her robe assume its vernal hues, + Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, + All freshly steep’d in morning dews. + + And maun I still on Menie doat, + And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? + For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, + An’ it winna let a body be! + + In vain to me the cowslips blaw, + In vain to me the violets spring; + In vain to me, in glen or shaw, + The mavis and the lintwhite sing. + + The merry ploughboy cheers his team, + Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks, + But life to me’s a weary dream, + A dream of ane that never wauks. + + The wanton coot the water skims, + Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, + The stately swan majestic swims, + And every thing is blest but I. + + The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, + And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, + Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step + I meet him on the dewy hill. + + And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, + Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, + And mounts and sings on flittering wings, + A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. + + Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, + And raging bend the naked tree; + Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, + When Nature all is sad like me! + + And maun I still on Menie doat, + And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? + For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, + An’ it winna let a body be! + + + + +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 driegh, and Meg was skiegh, + Her favour Duncan could na win; + For wi’ the rock she wad him knock, + And ay 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 eased their shanks, + And aye she set the wheel between: + But Duncan swore a haly aith, + That Meg should be a bride the morn; + Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith, + And flung them a’ out o’er the burn. + + We’ll big a house—a wee, wee house, + And we will live like King and Queen, + Sae blythe and merry 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 bonnie lass, + And aye be welcome back again. + + + + +AN EXHORTATION TO DAVIE + +NOT TO FORSAKE THE MUSE + + + AULD NEIBOR ... + + Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, + Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, + To cheer you through the weary widdle + O’ war’ly cares, + Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle + Your auld gray hairs. + + But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; + I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; + An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be lickit + Until ye fyke; + Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit, + Be hain’t wha like. + + For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, + Rivin’ the words to gar them clink; + Whyles dazed wi’ love, whyles dazed wi’ drink, + Wi’ jads or masons; + An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think + Braw sober lessons. + + Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, + Commend me to the Bardie clan; + Except it be some idle plan + O’ rhymin’ clink, + The devil-haet, that I sud ban, + They ever think. + + Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’; + Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’; + But just the pouchie put the nieve in, + An’ while ought’s there, + Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’, + An’ fash nae mair. + + Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure, + My chief, amaist my only pleasure; + At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, + The Muse, poor hizzie! + Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure, + She’s seldom lazy. + + Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: + The warl’ may play you mony a shavie; + But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, + Tho’ e’er sae puir, + Na, even tho’ limpin, wi’ the spavie + Frae door to door. + + + + +WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD + + + O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad; + O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: + Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, + O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad. + + But warily tent, when ye come to court me, + And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; + Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, + And come as ye were na comin’ to me, + And come as ye were na comin’ to me. + + At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me, + Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flee: + But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e— + Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me, + Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me. + + Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, + And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; + But court na anither’ tho’ jokin’ ye be, + For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, + For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. + + + + +THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T + + + O wha my babie-clouts will buy? + Wha will tent me when I cry? + Wha will kiss me whare I lie? + The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. + + Wha will own he did the faut? + Wha will buy my groanin’ maut? + Wha will tell me how to ca’t? + The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. + + When I mount the creepie-chair, + Wha will sit beside me there? + Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, + The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. + + Wha will crack to me my lane? + Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain? + Wha will kiss me o’er again? + The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t. + + + + +MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN + + + 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 agèd step + Seem’d weary, worn with care; + His face was furrow’d o’er with years, + And hoary was his hair. + + ‘Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?’ + Began the rev’rend sage; + ‘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 + 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— + 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, + How prodigal of time! + Mis-spending all thy precious hours, + Thy glorious youthful prime! + Alternate follies take the sway; + Licentious passions burn; + Which tenfold force give 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, + Supported is his right; + But see him on the edge of life, + With cares and sorrows worn, + Then age and want, oh! ill-match’d pair! + Show man was made to mourn. + + ‘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 + 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! + More pointed still we make ourselves + Regret, remorse, and shame! + And man, whose heaven-erected face + The smiles of love adorn— + Man’s inhumanity to man + 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; + 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,— + 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? + 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 + Is surely not the last! + The poor oppressèd honest man + Had never sure been born + Had there not been some recompense + To comfort those that mourn! + + ‘O Death, the poor man’s dearest friend, + The kindest and the best! + Welcome the hour my agèd limbs + Are laid with thee at rest! + The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, + From pomp and pleasure torn; + But oh; a blest relief to those + That weary-laden mourn.’ + + + + +THE GLOOMY NIGHT + + + The gloomy night is gathering fast, + Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, + Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, + I see it driving o’er the plain; + The hunter now has left the moor, + The scatter’d coveys meet secure, + While here I wander, prest with care, + Along the lonely banks of Ayr. + + The Autumn mourns her ripening corn + By early Winter’s ravage torn; + Across her placid azure sky, + She sees the scowling tempest fly: + Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, + I think upon the stormy wave, + Where many a danger I must dare, + Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. + + ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, + ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; + Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, + The wretched have no more to fear: + But round my heart the ties are bound, + That heart transpierc’d with many a wound: + These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, + To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. + + Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, + Her heathy moors and winding vales; + The scenes where wretched fancy roves, + Pursuing past unhappy loves! + Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes! + My peace with these, my love with those; + The bursting tears my heart declare, + Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr! + + + + +THE HIGHLAND LADDIE + + + The bonniest lad that e’er I saw, + Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, + Wore a plaid and was fu’ braw, + Bonnie Highland laddie. + On his head a bonnet blue, + Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, + His royal heart was firm and true, + Bonnie Highland laddie. + + Trumpets sound and cannons roar, + Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, + And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar, + Bonnie Lawland lassie. + Glory, Honour, now invite, + Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, + For Freedom and my King to fight, + Bonnie Lawland lassie. + + The sun a backward course shall take, + Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, + Ere aught thy manly courage shake, + Bonnie Highland laddie. + Go, for yoursel procure renown, + Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, + And for your lawful King his crown, + Bonnie Highland laddie! + + + + +ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH + + + Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, + All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, + Where once beneath a monarch’s feet + Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs. + From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, + As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, + And singing lone the ling’ring hours, + I shelter in thy honour’d shade. + + Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, + As busy trade his labours plies; + There Architecture’s noble pride + Bids elegance and splendour rise; + Here Justice, from her native skies, + High wields her balance and her rod; + There Learning, with his eagle eyes, + Seeks Science in her coy abode. + + Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, + With open arms the stranger hail; + Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind, + Above the narrow rural vale; + Attentive still to sorrow’s wail, + Or modest merit’s silent claim: + And never may their sources fail! + And never envy blot their name! + + Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, + Gay as the gilded summer sky, + Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, + Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy. + Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye, + Heaven’s beauties on my fancy shine; + I see the Sire of Love on high, + And own his work indeed divine! + + There watching high the least alarms, + Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar; + Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, + And mark’d with many a seamy scar: + The pond’rous wall and massy bar, + Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock, + Have oft withstood assailing war, + And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock. + + With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, + I view that noble stately dome, + Where Scotia’s kings of other years, + Fam’d heroes, had their royal home; + Alas, how chang’d the times to come! + Their royal name low in the dust, + Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam; + Tho’ rigid law cries out ’twas just! + + Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, + Whose ancestors, in days of yore, + Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps + Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore. + Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore, + Haply my sires have left their shed, + And faced grim danger’s loudest roar, + Bold-following where your fathers led! + + Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, + All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, + Where once beneath a monarch’s feet + Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs! + From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, + As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, + And singing lone the ling’ring hours, + I shelter in thy honour’d shade. + + +[Illustration: + + Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, + All hail thy palaces and tow’rs.] + + + + +BONNIE LESLEY + + + O saw ye bonnie Lesley + As she gaed o’er the border? + She’s gane, like Alexander, + To spread her conquests farther. + + To see her is to love her, + And love but her for ever; + For Nature made her what she is, + And never made anither! + + Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, + Thy subjects we, before thee: + Thou art divine, fair Lesley, + The hearts o’ men adore thee. + + The Deil he could na scaith thee, + Or aught that wad belang thee; + He’d look into thy bonnie face, + And say, ‘I canna wrang thee.’ + + The Powers aboon will tent thee; + Misfortune sha’na steer thee; + Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely, + That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. + + Return again, fair Lesley, + Return to Caledonie! + That we may brag we hae a lass + There’s nane again sae bonnie. + + + + +AH, CHLORIS + + + Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, + That thou of love wilt hear; + If from the lover thou maun flee, + Yet let the friend be dear. + + Altho’ I love my Chloris mair + Than ever tongue could tell; + My passion I will ne’er declare, + I’ll say I wish thee well: + + Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art, + And a’ my nightly dream, + I’ll hide the struggle in my heart, + And say it is esteem. + + + + +AE FOND KISS + + + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, + Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. + Who shall say that fortune grieves him + While the star of hope she leaves him? + Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me, + Dark despair around benights me. + + I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, + Naething could resist my Nancy; + But to see her was to love her, + Love but her, and love for ever. + Had we never lov’d sae kindly, + Had we never lov’d sae blindly, + Never met—or never parted, + We had ne’er been broken-hearted. + + Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! + Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! + Thine be ilka joy and treasure, + Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; + Ae fareweel, alas, for ever; + Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, + Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. + + + + +MY NANNIE’S AWA + + + Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, + And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes, + While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw; + But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa. + + The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, + And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn: + They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, + They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nannie’s awa. + + Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o’ the lawn + The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn, + And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa’, + Gie over for pity—my Nannie’s awa. + + Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, + And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay; + The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, + Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa. + + + + +MACPHERSON’S FAREWELL + + + Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, + The wretch’s destinie: + Macpherson’s time will not be long + On yonder gallows tree. + + Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, + Sae dauntingly gaed he; + He played a spring and danced it round, + Below the gallows tree. + + Oh, what is death but parting breath? + On mony a bloody plain + I’ve dared his face, and in this place + I scorn him yet again! + + Untie these bands from off my hands, + And bring to me my sword, + And there’s no a man in all Scotland, + But I’ll brave him at a word. + + I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife; + I die by treacherie: + It burns my heart I must depart + And not avengèd be. + + 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, sae wantonly, + Sae dauntingly gaed he; + He played a spring and danced it round, + Below the gallows tree. + + + + +BRAW LADS + + + Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, + Ye wander thro’ the blooming heather; + But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws + Can match the lads o’ Gala Water. + + But there is ane, a secret ane, + Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better; + And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine, + The bonnie lad o’ Gala Water. + + Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, + And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher, + Yet rich in kindest, truest love, + We’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water. + + It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, + That coft contentment, peace or pleasure; + The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, + O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure! + + + + +IN A FRIEND’S CAUSE + +(“FOR WILLIE CHALMERS.”) + + + Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, + And eke a braw new brechan, + My Pegasus I’m got astride, + And up Parnassus pechin’; + Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush, + The doited beastie stammers; + Then up he gets, and off he sets + For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. + + I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name + May cost a pair o’ blushes; + I am nae stranger to your fame + Nor his warm urgèd wishes. + Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, + His honest heart enamours, + And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, + Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers. + + Auld Truth hersel might swear ye’re fair, + And Honour safely back her, + And Modesty assume your air, + And ne’er a ane mistak’ her: + And sic twa love-inspiring een + Might fire even holy palmers; + Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been + To honest Willie Chalmers. + + I doubt na fortune may you shore + Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, + Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, + And band upon his breastie: + But oh! what signifies to you + His lexicons and grammars; + The feeling heart’s the royal blue, + And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. + + Some gapin’ glowrin’ country laird + May warsle for your favour; + May claw his lug, and straik his beard, + And host up some palaver. + My bonnie maid, before ye wed + Sic clumsy-witted hammers, + Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp + Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers. + + Forgive the Bard! my fond regard + For ane that shares my bosom + Inspires my muse to gie ’m his dues. + For de’il a hair I roose him. + May powers aboon unite you soon, + And fructify your amours, + And every year come in mair dear + To you and Willie Chalmers. + + + + +SCOTCH DRINK + + _Gie him strong drink, until he wink, + That’s sinking in despair; + An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid, + That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care; + There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse, + Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, + Till he forgets his loves or debts, + An’ minds his griefs no more._ + SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7). + + Let other Poets raise a fracas + ’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, + An’ crabbèd names an’ stories wrack us, + An’ grate our lug; + I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, + In glass or jug. + + O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, + Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink, + Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, + In glorious faem, + Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink, + To sing thy name! + + Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, + An’ aits set up their awnie horn, + An’ pease an’ beans at een or morn, + Perfume the plain; + Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, + Thou King o’ grain! + + On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, + In souple scones, the wale o’ food! + Or tumblin’ in the boiling flood + Wi’ kail an’ beef; + But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood, + There thou shines chief. + + Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’; + Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’, + When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’; + But, oil’d by thee, + The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin’ + Wi’ rattlin’ glee. + + Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear: + Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care; + Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair, + At’s weary toil: + Thou even brightens dark Despair + Wi’ gloomy smile. + + Aft, clad in massy siller weed, + Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head; + Yet humbly kind, in time o’ need, + The poor man’s wine, + His wee drap parritch, or his bread, + Thou kitchens fine. + + Thou art the life o’ public haunts; + But thee, what were our fairs and rants? + Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts, + By thee inspir’d, + When gaping they besiege the tents, + Are doubly fir’d. + + That merry night we get the corn in! + O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! + Or reekin’ on a New-Year mornin’ + In cog or bicker, + An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, + An’ gusty sucker! + + When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, + An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, + O rare to see thee fizz an’ freath + I’ th’ luggèd caup! + Then Burnewin comes on like death + At ev’ry chaup. + + Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; + The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, + Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, + The strong forehammer, + Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel + Wi’ dinsome clamour. + + When skirlin’ weanies see the light, + Thou maks the gossips clatter bright + How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight— + Wae worth the name! + Nae howdie gets a social night, + Or plack frae them. + + When neibors anger at a plea, + An’ just as wud as wud can be, + How easy can the barley-bree + Cement the quarrel! + It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee + To taste the barrel. + + Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason + To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason; + But mony daily weet their weasan’ + Wi’ liquors nice, + An’ hardly, in a winter’s season, + E’er spier her price. + + Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! + Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash! + Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, + O’ half his days; + An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash + To her warst faes. + + Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, + Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, + Poor plackless devils like mysel’! + It sets you ill, + Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, + Or foreign gill. + + May gravels round his blather wrench, + An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch, + Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch + O’ sour disdain, + Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch + Wi’ honest men!... + + Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! + Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! + Now colic-grips an’ barkin’ hoast + May kill us a’; + For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast + Is ta’en awa! + + Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise, + Wha mak the whisky stells their prize— + Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice! + There, seize the blinkers! + An’ bake them up in brunstane pies + For poor damn’d drinkers. + + Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still + Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill, + An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, + Tak’ a’ the rest, + An’ deal’d about as thy blind skill + Directs thee best. + + + + +ANOTHER OF THE SAME + + + Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies + See future wines rich-clust’ring rise; + Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies, + But, blythe an’ frisky, + She eyes her free-born martial boys + Tak aff their whisky. + + What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms, + While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms, + When wretches range in famish’d swarms + The scented groves, + Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms + In hungry droves. + + Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; + They downa bide the stink o’ powther; + Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither + To stan’ or rin, + Till skelp! a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther, + To save their skin. + + But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, + Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, + Say ‘Such is royal George’s will, + An’ there’s the foe!’ + He has nae thought but how to kill + Twa at a blow. + + Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; + Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; + Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him; + An’, when he fa’s, + His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him + In faint huzzas. + + Sages their solemn een may steek, + An’ raise a philosophic reek, + An’ physically causes seek + In clime an’ season; + But tell me whisky’s name in Greek, + I’ll tell the reason. + + + + +A BOUSING CATCH + + + My love she’s but a lassie yet; + My love she’s but a lassie yet; + We’ll let her stand a year or twa, + She’ll no be half sae saucy yet. + I rue the day I sought her, O, + I rue the day I sought her, O; + Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d, + But he may say he’s bought her, O! + + Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet; + Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet; + Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, + But here I never miss’d it yet. + We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t, + We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t; + The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife, + An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t. + + + + +THE MALTWORM’S RUNE + + + O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, + Guid ale gars me sell my hose, + Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon; + Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. + + I had sax owsen in a pleugh, + And they drew a’ weel eneugh, + I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane; + Guid ale keeps the heart aboon. + + Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, + Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie, + Stand i’ the stool when I hae done; + Guid ale keeps the heart aboon. + + + + +POETS FOR EVER! + +(SECOND EPISTLE TO THE OLD SCOTTISH BARD) + + + 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, + For his kind letter. + + Forjeskit sair, with weary legs, + Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs, + Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs + Their ten-hours’ bite, + My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs + I would na write. + + The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie, + She’s saft at best, and something lazy, + Quo’ she ‘Ye ken we’ve been sae busy, + This month an’ mair, + That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie, + An’ something sair.’ + + Her dowff excuses pat me mad; + ‘Conscience,’ says I, ‘ye thowless jad! + I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud, + This very night; + So dinna ye affront your trade, + But rhyme it right. + + ‘Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts, + Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes, + Roose you sae weel for your deserts, + In terms sae friendly, + Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts, + An’ thank him kindly?’ + + Sae I gat paper in a blink, + An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink: + Quoth I ‘Before I sleep a wink, + I vow I’ll close it; + An’ if ye winna mak it clink, + By Jove, I’ll prose it!’ + + Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether + In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, + Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, + Let time mak proof; + But I shall scribble down some blether + Just clean aff-loof. + + My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp, + Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp; + Come, kittle up your moorland harp + Wi’ gleesome touch! + Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp; + She’s but a bitch. + + She’s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg, + Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig; + But, by the Lord, tho’ I should beg + Wi’ lyart pow, + I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg, + As lang’s I dow! + + Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth simmer + I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer, + Still persecuted by the limmer, + Frae year to year: + But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, + I, Rob, am here. + + Do ye envy the city gent, + Behind a kist to lie an’ sklent, + Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent per cent + An’ muckle wame, + In some bit brugh to represent + 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, + 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, + Thro’ Scotland wide; + Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift, + In a’ their pride!’ + + Were this the charter of our state, + ‘On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,’ + Damnation then would be our fate, + Beyond remead; + But, thanks to Heaven! that’s no the gate + We learn our creed. + + For thus the royal mandate ran, + When first the human race began, + ‘The social, friendly, honest man, + Whate’er he be, + ’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan, + And none but he!’ + + O mandate glorious and divine! + The followers of the ragged Nine, + Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine, + In glorious light, + While sordid sons of Mammon’s line + Are dark as night. + + Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl, + Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul + May in some future carcase howl, + The forest’s fright; + Or in some day-detesting owl + May shun the light. + + Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, + To reach their native kindred skies, + And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ joys, + In some mild sphere, + Still closer knit in friendship’s ties + Each passing year! + + + + +THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S FAR AWA + + + O how can I be blithe and glad, + Or how can I gang brisk and braw, + When the bonnie 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 bonnie lad that’s far awa. + + A pair o’ gloves he bought to me, + And silken snoods he gae me twa; + And I will wear them for his sake, + The bonnie 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. + + + + +OF A’ THE AIRTS + + + Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, + I dearly like the west, + For there the bonnie 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 fancy’s 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 bonnie flower that springs + By fountain, shaw, or green; + There’s not a bonnie bird that sings, + But minds me o’ my Jean. + + +[Illustration: + + There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row, + And mony a hill between; + But day and night my fancy’s flight + Is ever wi’ my Jean.] + + + + +IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE + + + It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, + Nor shape that I admire, + Although thy beauty and thy grace + Might weel awake 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 mak 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. + + + + +I HAE A WIFE + + + I hae a wife o’ my ain, + I’ll partake wi’ naebody; + I’ll tak 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 guid 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. + + + + +UP IN THE MORNING + + + 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. + + Cauld blaws the wind frae east to wast, + The drift is driving sairly; + Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast, + 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. + + + + +O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL + + + 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 bonnie sel’, + On Corsincon I’ll glow’r 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 e’en— + 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’d love thee! + + + + +MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE THING + + + She is a winsome wee thing, + She is a handsome wee thing, + She is a bonnie wee thing, + This sweet wee wife o’ mine. + + I never saw a fairer, + I never lo’ed a dearer, + And neist my heart I’ll wear her, + For fear my jewel tine. + + She is a winsome wee thing, + She is a handsome wee thing, + She is a bonnie wee thing, + This sweet wee wife o’ mine. + + The warld’s wrack, we share o’t, + The warstle and the care o’t; + Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it, + And think my lot divine. + + + + +THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE + + + As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither, + Was ae day nibbling on the tether, + Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, + An’ owre she warsled in the ditch; + There, groaning, dying, she did lie, + When Hughoc he cam doytin by. + Wi’ glowrin’ een, an’ lifted han’s, + Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s; + He saw her days were near-hand ended, + But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it! + He gapèd wide, but naething spak; + At length poor Mailie silence brak:— + + ‘O thou, whase lamentable face + Appears to mourn my woefu’ case! + My dying words attentive hear, + An’ bear them to my Master dear. + ‘Tell him, if e’er again he keep + As muckle gear as buy a sheep,— + O bid him never tie them mair + Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair! + But ca’ them out to park or hill, + An’ let them wander at their will; + So may his flock increase, an’ grow + To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’! + ‘Tell him he was a Master kin’, + An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine; + An’ now my dying charge I gie him, + My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him. + ‘O bid him save their harmless lives + Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butchers’ knives! + But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, + Till they be fit to fend themsel: + An tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, + Wi’ teats o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn. + ‘An’ may they never learn the gates + Of ither vile wanrestfu’ pets— + To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal, + At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail. + So may they, like their great forbears, + For mony a year come thro’ the shears; + So wives will gie them bits o’ bread, + An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead. + ‘My poor tup-lamb, my son an’ heir, + O bid him breed him up wi’ care! + An’, if he live to be a beast, + To pit some havins in his breast! + An’ warn him, what I winna name, + To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; + An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots, + Like ither menseless graceless brutes. + ‘An’ neist my yowie, silly thing, + Gude keep thee frae a tether string! + O may thou ne’er forgather up + Wi’ ony blastit moorland tup; + But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell, + Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel! + ‘And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath + I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith; + An’ when you think upo’ your mither, + Mind to be kind to ane anither. + ‘Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail + To tell my master a’ my tale; + An’ bid him burn this cursed tether; + An’, for thy pains, thou’se get my blether.’ + + This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, + An’ closed her een amang the dead! + + + + +POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY + + + Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, + Wi’ saut tears tricklin’ down your nose; + Our bardie’s fate is at a close, + Past a’ remead; + The last sad cape-stane of his woes— + Poor Mailie’s dead! + + It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear + That could sae bitter draw the tear, + Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear + The mourning weed: + He’s lost a friend and neibor dear + In Mailie dead. + + Thro’ a’ the toun she trotted by him; + A lang half-mile she could descry him; + Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him, + She ran wi’ speed: + A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him + Than Mailie dead. + + I wat she was a sheep o’ sense, + An’ could behave hersel wi’ mense; + I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence + Thro’ thievish greed. + Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence + Sin’ Mailie’s dead. + + Or, if he wanders up the howe, + Her living image in her yowe + Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, + For bits o’ bread, + An’ down the briny pearls rowe + For Mailie dead. + + She was nae get o’ moorland tups, + Wi’ tawted ket, an’ hairy hips; + For her forbears were brought in ships + Frae yont the Tweed: + A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips + Than Mailie’s, dead. + + Wae worth the man wha first did shape + That vile wanchancie thing—a rape! + It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape, + Wi’ chokin’ dread; + An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape + For Mailie dead. + + O a’ ye bards on bonnie Doon! + An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune! + Come, join the melancholious croon + O’ Robin’s reed; + His heart will never get aboon + His Mailie dead! + + + + +THE BARDS OF AYR + +TO W. SIMPSON, 1785 + + + I gat your letter, winsome Willie; + Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie; + Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, + An’ unco vain, + Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie, + Your flatterin’ strain. + + My senses wad be in a creel, + Should I but dare a hope to speel, + Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield, + The braes o’ fame; + Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, + A deathless name. + + Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, + Or lasses gie my heart a screed, + As whiles they’re like to be my dead, + (O sad disease!) + I kittle up my rustic reed; + It gies me ease. + + Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain, + She’s gotten poets o’ her ain, + Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, + But tune their lays, + Till echoes a’ resound again + Her weel-sung praise. + + Nae poet thought her worth his while, + To set her name in measur’d style; + She lay like some unkenn’d-of isle, + Beside New Holland, + Or where wild-meeting oceans boil + Besouth Magellan. + + Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson + Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon; + Yarrow an’ Tweed, to mony a tune, + Owre Scotland rings, + While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon, + Naebody sings. + + Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, + Glide sweet in mony a tunefu’ line; + But, Willie, set your fit to mine, + An’ cock your crest, + We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine + Up wi’ the best. + + We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells, + Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells, + Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells, + Where glorious Wallace + Aft bure the gree, as story tells, + Frae Southron billies. + + At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood + But boils up in a spring-tide flood! + Oft have our fearless fathers strode + By Wallace’ side, + Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, + Or glorious died. + + O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods, + When lintwhites chant amang the buds, + And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids, + Their loves enjoy, + While thro’ the braes the cushat croods + Wi’ wailfu’ cry! + + Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me + When winds rave thro’ the naked tree; + Or frost on hills of Ochiltree + Are hoary gray; + Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, + Dark’ning the day! + + O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms + To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! + Whether the summer kindly warms, + Wi’ life an’ light, + Or winter howls, in gusty storms, + The lang, dark night! + + The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, + Till by himsel he learn’d to wander + Adown some trottin’ burn’s meander, + An’ no think lang; + O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder + A heart-felt sang! + + The warly race may drudge an’ drive, + Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive; + Let me fair Nature’s face descrive, + And I, wi’ pleasure, + Shall let the busy, grumbling hive + Bum owre their treasure. + + Fareweel, ‘my rhyme-composing brither!’ + We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither: + Now let us lay our heads thegither, + In love fraternal; + May Envy wallop in a tether, + Black fiend infernal! + + While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes; + While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies; + While Terra Firma, on her axis, + Diurnal turns, + Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice, + In Robert Burns. + + + + +LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER + + + Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, + And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: + I said there was naething I hated like men— + The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me, + The deuce gae wi’m to believe me. + + He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een, + And vow’d for my love he was dying; + I said he might die when he liked for Jean: + The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, + The Lord forgie me for lying! + + A weel-stockèd mailen, himsel’ for the laird, + And marriage aff-hand were his proffers: + I never loot on that I kend it, or car’d; + But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, + But thought I might hae waur offers. + + But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, + The deil tak his taste to gae near her! + He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, + Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, + Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. + + But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care, + I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; + And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? + I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock. + I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. + + But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, + Lest neebors might say I was saucy; + My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, + And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, + And vow’d I was his dear lassie. + + I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, + Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, + And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet— + But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’, + But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’. + + He beggèd for Gudesake I wad be his wife, + Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow: + So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, + I think I maun wed him to-morrow. + + + + +I’M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET + + + I am my mammie’s ae bairn, + Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir; + And lying in a man’s bed, + I’m fley’d wad mak me eerie, Sir. + + I’m owre young, I’m owre young, + I’m owre young to marry yet; + I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin + To tak me frae my mammie yet. + + 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 fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. + + Hallowmas is come and gane, + The nights are lang in winter, Sir; + And you an’ I in ae bed, + In troth I dare na venture, Sir. + + Fu’ loud and shrill 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 owre young, I’m owre young, + I’m owre young to marry yet; + I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin + To tak me frae my mammie yet. + + + + +WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN? + + + What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, + What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? + Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie + To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ lan’! + + He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, + He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang: + He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his bluid it is frozen, + O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man! + + He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, + I never can please him do a’ that I can; + He’s peevish, and jealous of a’ the young fellows: + O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man! + + My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, + I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; + I’ll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him, + And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. + + + + +TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO + + + My heart was ance as blythe and free + As simmer days were lang, + But a bonnie westlin weaver lad + Has gart me change my sang. + + To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, + To the weavers gin ye go; + I rede you right gang ne’er at night, + To the weavers 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. + + A bonnie westlin weaver lad + Sat working at his loom; + He took my heart as wi’ a net, + In every knot and thrum. + + I sat beside my warpin-wheel, + And aye I ca’d it roun’; + But every shot and every knock, + My heart it gae a stoun. + + The moon was sinking in the west + Wi’ visage pale and wan + As my bonnie westlin weaver lad + Convoy’d me through the glen. + + 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 mysel. + + To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, + To the weavers gin ye go; + I rede you right gang ne’er at night, + To the weavers gin ye go. + + + + +ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS + + + _My son, these maxims make a rule, + And lump them aye thegither: + The rigid righteous is a fool, + The rigid wise anither: + The cleanest corn that e’er was dight, + May hae some pyles o’ caff in; + So ne’er a fellow-creature slight + For random fits o’ daffin._ + SOLOMON (Eccles. vii. 16). + + O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, + Sae pious and sae holy, + Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell + Your neibour’s fauts and folly! + Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, + Supplied wi’ store o’ water: + The heaped happer’s ebbing still, + And still the clap plays clatter: + + Hear me, ye venerable core, + As counsel for poor mortals, + That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door, + For glaikit Folly’s portals; + I, for their thoughtless careless sakes, + Would here propone defences,— + Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, + Their failings and mischances. + + Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d, + And shudder at the niffer; + But cast a moment’s fair regard— + What maks the mighty differ? + Discount what scant occasion gave + That purity ye pride in, + And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) + Your better art o’ hidin’. + + Think, when your castigated pulse + Gies now and then a wallop, + What ragings must his veins convulse, + That still eternal gallop! + Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, + Right on ye scud your sea-way; + But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, + It maks an unco leeway. + + See Social life and Glee sit down, + All joyous and unthinking, + Till, quite transmogrified, they’re grown + Debauchery and Drinking: + O would they stay to calculate + Th’ eternal consequences; + Or your more dreaded hell to state, + Damnation of expenses! + + Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, + Tied up in godly laces, + Before ye gie poor Frailty names, + Suppose a change o’ cases; + A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug, + A treacherous inclination— + But, let me whisper i’ your lug, + Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. + + Then gently scan your brother man, + Still gentler sister woman; + Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, + To step aside is human. + One point must still be greatly dark, + The moving why they do it; + And just as lamely can ye mark + How far perhaps they rue it. + + Who made the heart, ’tis He alone + Decidedly can try us; + He knows each chord, its various tone, + Each spring, its various bias. + Then at the balance let’s be mute, + We never can adjust it; + What’s done we partly may compute, + But know not what’s resisted. + + + + +CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES + + + Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang, + Sounding Clouden’s woods amang; + Then a-faulding let us gang, + My bonnie dearie. + + Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, + Ca’ them where the heather grows, + Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, + My bonnie dearie. + + We’ll gae down by Clouden side, + Thro’ the hazels, spreading wide, + O’er the waves that sweetly glide, + To the moon sae clearly. + + Ca’ the yowes, etc. + + Yonder’s Clouden’s silent towers, + Where at moonshine midnight hours, + O’er the dewy bending flowers, + Fairies dance sae cheery. + + Ca’ the yowes, etc. + + Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; + Thou’rt to love and Heav’n sae dear, + Nocht of ill may come thee near, + My bonnie dearie. + + Ca’ the yowes, etc. + + Fair and lovely as thou art, + Thou hast stown my very heart; + I can die—but canna part, + My bonnie dearie. + + Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, + Ca’ them where the heather grows, + Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, + My bonnie dearie. + + +[Illustration: + + Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang, + Sounding Clouden’s woods amang.] + + + + +AYE SHE WROUGHT HER MAMMIE’S WARK + + + There was a lass, and she was fair, + At kirk and market to be seen; + When a’ the fairest maids were met, + The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. + + And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark, + And aye she sang sae merrily: + The blythest bird upon the bush + Had ne’er a lighter heart than she. + + But hawks will rob the tender joys + That bless the little lintwhite’s nest; + And frost will blight the fairest flowers, + And love will break the soundest rest. + + Young Robie was the brawest lad. + The flower and pride of a’ the glen; + And he had owsen, sheep and kye, + And wanton naigies nine or ten. + + He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst, + He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down; + And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, + Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. + + As in the bosom o’ the stream + The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en; + So trembling, pure, was tender love + Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean. + + And now she works her mammie’s wark, + And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain; + Yet wistna what her ail might be, + Or what wad mak her weel again. + + But didna Jeanie’s heart loup light, + And didna joy blink in her e’e, + As Robie tauld a tale o’ love, + Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea? + + The sun was sinking in the west, + The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; + His cheek to hers he fondly prest, + And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love: + + ‘O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; + O canst thou think to fancy me? + Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot, + And learn to tent the farms wi’ me? + + ‘At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, + Or naething else to trouble thee; + But stray amang the heather-bells, + And tent the waving corn wi’ me.’ + + Now what could artless Jeanie do? + She had nae will to say him na: + At length she blush’d a sweet consent, + And love was aye between them twa. + + + + +OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! + + + ‘Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, + Oh, open the door to me, oh! + Tho’ thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true, + Oh, open the door to me, oh! + + ‘Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, + But caulder thy love for me, oh! + The frost that freezes the life at my heart, + Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh! + + ‘The wan moon is setting ayont the white wave, + And time is setting with me, oh! + False friends, false love, farewell! for mair + I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, oh!’ + + She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide; + She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh! + ‘My true love!’ she cried, and sank down by his side, + Never to rise again, oh! + + + + +WANDERING WILLIE + + + Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, + Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; + Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, + Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. + + Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, + Fears for my Willie brought tears to my e’e; + Welcome now, Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, + The Simmer to nature, my Willie to me! + + Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; + How your dread howling a lover alarms! + Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, + And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. + + But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, + Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main; + May I never see it, may I never trow it, + But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain! + + + + +OUT OVER THE FORTH + + + Out over the Forth I look to the north, + But what is the north and its Highlands to me? + The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, + The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. + + But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, + That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; + For far in the west lives he I lo’e best, + The lad that is dear to my babie and me. + + + + +THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE + + + Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, + Thou hast left me ever; + Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, + Thou hast left me ever. + Aften hast thou vow’d that death + Only should us sever; + Now thou’st left thy lass for aye— + I maun see thee never, Jamie, + I’ll see thee never! + + Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, + Thou hast me forsaken; + Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, + Thou hast me forsaken. + Thou canst love anither jo, + While my heart is breaking; + Soon my weary e’en I’ll close— + Never mair to waken, Jamie, + Ne’er mair to waken! + + + + +ROWTH O’ RHYMES THE POET’S RICHES + +(EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH, 1786) + + + Dear Smith, the sleeest pawkie thief + That e’er attempted stealth or rief, + Ye surely hae some warlock-breef + Owre human hearts; + For ne’er a bosom yet was prief + Against your arts. + + For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, + And ev’ry star that blinks aboon, + Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon + Just gaun to see you; + And ev’ry ither pair that’s done, + Mair taen I’m wi’ you. + + That auld capricious carlin’, Nature, + To mak amends for scrimpit stature, + She’s turn’d you aff, a human creature + On her first plan, + And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature, + She’s wrote ‘The Man.’ + + Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; + Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; + Some rhyme to court the country clash, + An’ raise a din; + For me, an aim I never fash; + I rhyme for fun. + + The star that rules my luckless lot, + Has fated me the russet coat, + An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; + But, in requit, + Has blest me with a random shot + O’ country wit. + + This while my notion’s taen a sklent, + To try my fate in guid, black prent; + But still the mair I’m that way bent, + Something cries ‘Hoolie! + I red you, honest man, tak tent! + Ye’ll shaw your folly. + + ‘There’s ither poets, much your betters, + Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, + Hae thought they had ensured their debtors + A’ future ages; + Now moths deform in shapeless tatters + Their unknown pages.’ + + Then fareweel hopes o’ laurel-boughs, + To garland my poetic brows! + Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs + Are whistling thrang, + An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes + My rustic sang. + + I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed + How never-halting moments speed, + Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; + Then, all unknown, + I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead, + Forgot and gone! + + But why o’ death begin a tale? + Just now we’re living sound and hale; + Then top and maintop crowd the sail, + Heave Care o’er side! + And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, + Let’s tak the tide. + + This life, sae far’s I understand, + Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, + Where pleasure is the magic wand, + That, wielded right, + Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, + Dance by fu’ light. + + The magic wand then let us wield: + For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, + See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, + Wi’ wrinkled face, + Comes hoastin’, hirplin’ owre the field, + Wi’ creepin’ pace. + + When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’ + Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’; + An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’, + An’ social noise; + An’ fareweel dear deluding woman, + The joy of joys! + + O life, how pleasant is thy morning, + Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! + Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, + We frisk away, + Like schoolboys, at th’ expected warning, + To joy and play. + + We wander there, we wander here, + We eye the rose upon the brier, + Unmindful that the thorn is near, + Among the leaves: + And tho’ the puny wound appear, + Short while it grieves. + + Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot, + For which they never toil’d nor swat; + They drink the sweet and eat the fat, + But care or pain; + And, haply, eye the barren hut + With high disdain. + + With steady aim, some Fortune chase; + Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; + Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, + And seize the prey; + Then cannie, in some cozie place, + They close the day. + + And others, like your humble servan’, + Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’, + To right or left, eternal swervin’, + They zig-zag on; + Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’, + They often groan. + + Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— + But truce wi’ peevish, poor complaining! + Is Fortune’s fickle Luna waning? + E’en let her gang! + Beneath what light she has remaining, + Let’s sing our sang. + + My pen I here fling to the door, + And kneel ‘Ye Pow’rs!’ and warm implore, + ‘Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, + In all her climes, + Grant me but this, I ask no more, + Aye rowth o’ rhymes. + + ‘Gie dreeping roasts to country lairds, + Till icicles hing frae their beards; + Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, + And maids of honour; + And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, + Until they sconner. + + ‘A title, Dempster merits it; + A garter gie to Willie Pitt; + Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, + In cent per cent; + But gie me real, sterling wit, + And I’m content. + + ‘While ye are pleased to keep me hale, + I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, + Be’t water-brose, or muslin-kail, + Wi’ cheerfu’ face, + As lang’s the Muses dinna fail + To say the grace.’ + + An anxious e’e I never throws + Behint my lug, or by my nose; + I jouk beneath misfortune’s blows + As weel’s I may; + Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, + I rhyme away. + + O ye douce folk, that live by rule, + Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, + Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! + How much unlike! + Your hearts are just a standing pool, + Your lives a dyke! + + Nae hare-brain’d sentimental traces, + In your unletter’d, nameless faces! + In arioso trills and graces + Ye never stray, + But gravissimo, solemn basses, + Ye hum away. + + Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; + Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise + The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, + The rattlin’ squad: + I see you upward cast your eyes— + Ye ken the road. + + Whilst I—but I shall haud me there— + Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— + Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, + But quat my sang, + Content with You to mak a pair, + Where’er I gang. + + + + +THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON + + + As cauld a wind as ever blew, + A cauld kirk, and in’t but few; + As cauld a minister’s ever spak— + Ye’se a’ be het or I come back! + + + + +YE BANKS AND BRAES + + + Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, + How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? + How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae weary fu’ o’ care? + + Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, + That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: + Thou minds me o’ departed joys, + Departed never to return. + + Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, + To see the rose and woodbine twine; + And ilka bird sang o’ its love, + And fondly sae did I o’ mine. + + Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, + Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; + And my fause lover stole my rose, + But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me. + + + + +NOW WESTLIN WINDS + + + Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns + Bring autumn’s pleasant weather; + The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, + Amang the blooming heather: + Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, + 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; + 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, + 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; + Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, + Tyrannic man’s dominion; + The sportsman’s joy, the murdering cry, + The fluttering, gory pinion! + + But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, + 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; + The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, + And every happy creature. + + We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk, + Till the silent moon shine clearly; + I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, + 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! + + + + +AULD ROB MORRIS + + + There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, + He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men; + He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, + And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. + + She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; + She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; + As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, + And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e. + + But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird, + And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; + A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, + The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. + + The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; + The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: + I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, + And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. + + O had she but been of a lower degree, + I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me; + O how past descriving had then been my bliss, + As now my distraction no words can express! + + + + +POORTITH CAULD + + + O poortith cauld, and restless love, + Ye wreck my peace between ye; + Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, + An’ ’twerena for my Jeanie. + + O why should fate sic pleasure have + Life’s dearest bands untwining? + Or why sae sweet a flower as love + Depend on Fortune’s shining? + + This warld’s wealth when I think on, + Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,— + O fie on silly coward man, + That he should be the slave o’t. + + Her een sae bonnie blue betray + How she repays my passion; + But prudence is her o’erword aye, + She talks of rank and fashion. + + O wha can prudence think upon, + And sic a lassie by him? + O wha can prudence think upon, + And sae in love as I am? + + How blest the simple cotter’s fate! + He woos his artless dearie; + The silly bogles, wealth and state, + Can never make him eerie. + + O why should fate, etc. + + + + +TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY + + + O Tibbie, I hae seen the day + Ye would na been sae shy; + For laik o’ gear ye lightly me, + But, trowth, I care na by. + + Yestreen I met you on the moor, + Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure: + Ye geck at me because I’m poor, + But fient a hair care I. + + I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, + Because ye hae the name o’ clink, + That ye can please me at a wink, + Whene’er ye like to try. + + But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean, + Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean, + Wha follows ony saucy quean + That looks sae proud and high. + + Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart, + If that he want the yellow dirt, + Ye’ll cast your head anither airt, + And answer him fu’ dry. + + But if he hae the name o’ gear, + Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier, + Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear, + Be better than the kye. + + But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, + Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice; + The deil a ane wad spier your price, + Were ye as poor as I. + + There lives a lass in yonder park, + I would na gie her in her sark, + For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark; + Ye need na look sae high. + + + + +ADDRESS TO THE DEIL + + + O thou! whatever title suit thee, + Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, + Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie, + Clos’d under hatches, + Spairges about the brunstane cootie, + To scaud poor wretches! + + Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, + An’ let poor damnèd bodies be; + I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, + Ev’n to a deil, + To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me, + An’ hear us squeal! + + Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame; + Far kenn’d an’ noted is thy name; + An’, tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame, + Thou travels far; + An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame, + Nor blate nor scaur. + + Whyles rangin’ like a roarin’ lion + For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin’; + Whyles on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’, + Tirlin’ the kirks; + Whyles, in the human bosom pryin’, + Unseen thou lurks. + + I’ve heard my reverend grannie say, + In lanely glens ye like to stray; + Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray + Nod to the moon, + Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, + Wi’ eldritch croon. + + When twilight did my grannie summon + To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman! + Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin’, + Wi’ eerie drone; + Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortrees comin’, + Wi’ heavy groan. + + Ae dreary windy winter night + The stars shot down wi’ sklentin’ light, + Wi’ you mysel I gat a fright + Ayont the lough; + Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight + Wi’ waving sough. + + The cudgel in my nieve did shake, + Each bristled hair stood like a stake, + When wi’ an eldritch stoor ‘quaick, quaick,’ + Amang the springs, + Awa ye squatter’d like a drake + On whistlin’ wings. + + Let warlocks grim an’ wither’d hags + Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags + They skim the muirs, an’ dizzy crags + Wi’ wicked speed; + And in kirk-yards renew their leagues + Owre howkit dead. + + Thence country wives, wi’ toil an’ pain, + May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain; + For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen + By witchin’ skill; + An’ dawtit twal-pint Hawkie’s gane + As yell’s the bill. + + Thence mystic knots mak great abuse + On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse; + When the best wark-lume i’ the house, + By cantrip wit, + Is instant made no worth a louse, + Just at the bit. + + When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, + An’ float the jinglin’ icy-boord, + Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, + By your direction, + An’ ’nighted travelers are allur’d + To their destruction. + + An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies + Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is: + The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies + Delude his eyes, + Till in some miry slough he sunk is, + Ne’er mair to rise. + + When masons’ mystic word an’ grip + In storms an’ tempests raise you up, + Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, + Or, strange to tell! + The youngest brither ye wad whip + Aff straught to hell. + + Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard, + When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d, + And all the soul of love they shar’d, + The raptur’d hour, + Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird, + In shady bow’r; + + Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog! + Ye cam to Paradise incog. + An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue, + (Black be you fa!) + An’ gied the infant warld a shog, + ’Maist ruin’d a’. + + D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz, + Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz, + Ye did present your smoutie phiz + ’Mang better folk, + An’ sklented on the man of Uz + Your spitefu’ joke? + + An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall, + An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’, + While scabs an’ blotches did him gall + Wi’ bitter claw, + An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scawl, + Was warst ava? + + But a’ your doings to rehearse, + Your wily snares an’ fechtin’ fierce, + Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce, + Down to this time, + Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse, + In prose or rhyme. + + An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin’, + A certain Bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’, + Some luckless hour will send him linkin’, + To your black pit; + But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’, + An’ cheat you yet. + + But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! + O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’! + Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— + Still hae a stake: + I’m wae to think upo’ yon den, + Ev’n for your sake! + + + + +O MAY, THY MORN + + + O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet, + As the mirk night o’ December; + For sparkling was the rosy wine, + And private was the chamber; + And dear was she I dare na name, + But I will aye remember. + + And here’s to them, that, like oursel, + Can push about the jorum! + And here’s to them that wish us weel, + May a’ that’s guid watch o’er them! + And here’s to them we dare na tell, + The dearest o’ the quorum! + + + + +PEG-A-RAMSEY + + + Cauld is the e’enin’ blast + O’ Boreas o’er the pool, + And dawin’ it is dreary + When birks are bare at Yule. + + O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast + When bitter bites the frost, + And in the mirk and dreary drift + The hills and glens are lost. + + Ne’er sae murky blew the night + That drifted o’er the hill, + But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey + Gat grist to her mill. + + + + +WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O’T + + + First when Maggy was my care, + Heaven, I thought, was in her air; + Now we’re married—spier nae mair— + Whistle owre the lave o’t. + + Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, + Bonnie Meg was nature’s child— + Wiser men than me’s beguil’d; + Whistle owre the lave o’t. + + How we live, my Meg and me, + How we love and how we ’gree, + I care na by how few may see— + Whistle owre the lave o’t. + + Wha I wish were maggots’ meat, + Dish’d up in her winding sheet, + I could write—but Meg may see’t; + Whistle owre the lave o’t. + + + + +HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE + + + Husband, husband, cease your strife, + Nor longer idly rave, sir; + Tho’ I am your wedded wife, + Yet I am not your slave, sir. + + ‘One of two must still obey, + Nancy, Nancy; + Is it man or woman, say, + My spouse Nancy?’ + + If ’tis still the lordly word, + Service and obedience; + I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, + And so good-bye allegiance! + + ‘Sad shall I be, so bereft, + Nancy, Nancy! + Yet I’ll try to make a shift, + My spouse Nancy.’ + + My poor heart then break it must, + My last hour I’m near it: + When you lay me in the dust, + Think how you will bear it. + + ‘I will hope and trust in Heaven, + Nancy, Nancy; + Strength to bear it will be given, + My spouse Nancy.’ + + Well, sir, from the silent dead + Still I’ll try to daunt you; + Ever round your midnight bed + Horrid sprites shall haunt you. + + ‘I’ll wed another, like my dear + Nancy, Nancy; + Then all hell will fly for fear, + My spouse Nancy.’ + + + + +HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER + + + Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms, + The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: + O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms, + O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms. + + Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi’ + a tocher, + Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher—the nice yellow guineas + for me! + + Your beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows, + And withers the faster, the faster it grows; + But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes! + Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes. + + And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest, + The brightest o’ beauty may cloy, when possest; + But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest— + The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re carest. + + + + +SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD + + + Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, + The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie; + Willie was a wabster guid, + Could stown a clue wi’ ony body: + He had a wife was dour and din, + O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wad na gie a button for her! + + She has an e’e, she has but ane, + The cat has twa the very colour; + Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, + A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; + A whiskin beard about her mou’, + Her nose and chin they threaten ither; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wad na gie a button for her! + + She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shinn’d, + Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; + She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left, + To balance fair in ilka quarter: + She has a hump upon her breast, + The twin o’ that upon her shouther; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wad na gie a button for her! + + Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, + An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin; + But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, + She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion: + Her walie nieves like midden-creels, + Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; + Sic a wife as Willie had, + I wad na gie a button for her! + + + + +O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? + + + O lassie, art thou sleeping yet? + Or art thou wakin’, I would wit? + For love has bound me hand and foot, + And I would fain be in, jo. + + O let me in this ae night, + This ae, ae, ae night; + For pity’s sake this ae night, + O rise and let me in, jo. + + Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet, + Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet; + Tak pity on my weary feet, + And shield me frae the rain, jo. + + The bitter blast that round me blaws, + Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s; + The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause + Of a’ my grief and pain, jo. + + +HER ANSWER + + O tell na me o’ wind and rain, + Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain! + Gae back the gait ye cam again, + I winna let you in, jo. + + I tell you now this ae night, + This ae, ae, ae night; + And ance for a’ this ae night, + I winna let you in, jo. + + The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, + That round the pathless wand’rer pours, + Is nocht to what poor she endures, + That’s trusted faithless man, jo. + + The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead, + Now trodden like the vilest weed; + Let simple maid the lesson read, + The weird may be her ain, jo. + + The bird that charm’d his summer-day + Is now the cruel fowler’s prey; + Let witless, trusting woman say + How aft her fate’s the same, jo. + + + + +THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE + + + My Lord, I know your noble ear + Woe ne’er assails in vain; + Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear + Your humble slave complain, + How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams, + In flaming summer-pride, + Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, + And drink my crystal tide. + + The lightly-jumping glowrin’ trouts, + That thro’ my waters play, + If, in their random wanton spouts, + They near the margin stray; + If, hapless chance! they linger lang, + I’m scorching up so shallow, + They’re left the whitening stanes amang, + In gasping death to wallow. + + Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, + As poet Burns came by, + That to a bard I should be seen + Wi’ half my channel dry: + A panegyric rhyme, I ween, + Even as I was, he shor’d me; + But had I in my glory been, + He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. + + Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, + In twisting strength I rin; + There high my boiling torrent smokes, + Wild-roaring o’er a linn: + Enjoying large each spring and well + As Nature gave them me, + I am, altho’ I say’t mysel, + Worth gaun a mile to see. + + Would then my noble master please + To grant my highest wishes, + He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, + And bonnie spreading bushes. + Delighted doubly then, my Lord, + You’ll wander on my banks, + And listen mony a grateful bird + Return you tuneful thanks. + + The sober laverock, warbling wild, + Shall to the skies aspire; + The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, + Shall sweetly join the choir: + The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, + The mavis mild and mellow; + The robin pensive Autumn cheer, + In all her locks of yellow. + + This, too, a covert shall ensure, + To shield them from the storm; + And coward maukin sleep secure, + Low in her grassy form: + Here shall the shepherd make his seat, + To weave his crown of flow’rs; + Or find a sheltering safe retreat + From prone-descending show’rs. + + And here, by sweet endearing stealth, + Shall meet the loving pair, + Despising worlds with all their wealth + As empty idle care: + The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms + The hour of heav’n to grace, + And birks extend their fragrant arms, + To screen the dear embrace. + + Here haply too, at vernal dawn, + Some musing bard may stray, + And eye the smoking dewy lawn, + And misty mountain gray; + Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, + Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, + Rave to my darkly dashing stream, + Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. + + Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, + My lowly banks o’erspread, + And view, deep-bending in the pool, + Their shadows’ wat’ry bed! + Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest + My craggy cliffs adorn; + And, for the little songster’s nest, + The close embow’ring thorn. + + So may Old Scotia’s darling hope, + Your little angel band, + Spring, like their fathers, up to prop + Their honour’d native land! + So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, + To social-flowing glasses + The grace be—‘Athole’s honest men, + And Athole’s bonnie lasses!’ + + + + +YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER + + + Loud blaw the frosty breezes, + The snaws the mountains cover; + Like winter on me seizes, + Since my young Highland Rover + Far wanders nations over. + Where’er he go, where’er he stray, + May Heaven be his warden, + Return him safe to fair Strathspey, + And bonnie Castle-Gordon! + + The trees, now naked groaning, + Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging, + The birdies, dowie moaning, + Shall a’ be blythely singing, + And every flower be springing: + Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day, + When, by his mighty warden, + My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey + And bonnie Castle-Gordon. + + + + +MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS + + + My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; + My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; + Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, + My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go! + + Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, + The birth-place of valour, the country of worth! + Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, + The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. + + Farewell to the mountains, high cover’d with snow; + Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; + Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; + Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! + + My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; + My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; + Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, + My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go! + + +[Illustration: + + Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, + The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. +] + + + + +THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS + + + The lovely lass o’ Inverness, + Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; + For e’en and morn she cries, ‘alas!’ + And aye the saut tear blins her ee: + ‘Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, + A waefu’ day it was to me; + For there I lost my father dear, + My father dear, and brethren three. + + ‘Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, + Their graves are growing green to see; + And by them lies the dearest lad + That ever blest a woman’s ee! + Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, + A bluidy man I trow thou be; + For mony a heart thou hast made sair, + That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.’ + + + + +O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST + + + O, wert thou in the cauld blast, + On yonder lea, on yonder lea, + My plaidie to the angry airt, + I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee. + Or did misfortune’s bitter storms + Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, + Thy bield should be my bosom, + To share it a’, to share it a’. + + Or were I in the wildest waste, + Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, + The desert were a paradise, + If thou wert there, if thou wert there. + Or were I monarch o’ the globe, + Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign, + The brightest jewel in my crown + Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. + + + + +THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE + + + ’Twas even—the dewy fields were green, + On every blade the pearls hang; + The Zephyrs wanton’d round the bean, + And bore its fragrant sweets alang: + In every glen the Mavis sang, + All nature listening seem’d the while: + Except where green-wood echoes rang, + Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle. + + With careless step I onward stray’d, + My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy, + When musing in a lonely glade, + A maiden fair I chanced to spy; + Her look was like the morning’s eye, + Her hair like nature’s vernal smile; + Perfection whisper’d, passing by, + Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle! + + Fair is the morn in flowery May, + And sweet is night in Autumn mild, + When roving thro’ the garden gay, + Or wandering in the lonely wild: + But Woman, Nature’s darling child! + There all her charms she does compile; + Ev’n there her other works are foil’d + By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. + + O had she been a country maid, + And I the happy country swain, + Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed + That ever rose on Scotland’s plain! + Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain, + With joy, with rapture, I would toil; + And nightly to my bosom strain + The bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. + + Then pride might climb the slippery steep, + Where fame and honours lofty shine; + And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, + Or downward seek the Indian mine: + Give me the cot below the pine, + To tend the flocks or till the soil, + And every day have joys divine, + With the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. + + + + +ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON + +A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM +ALMIGHTY GOD + + + He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn, + The ae best fellow e’er was born! + Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn + By wood and wild, + Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, + Frae man exil’d. + + Ye hills, near neibors o’ the starns, + That proudly cock your cresting cairns! + Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, + Where echo slumbers! + Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns, + My wailing numbers! + + Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! + Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens! + Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens, + Wi’ toddlin din, + Or foaming strang wi’ hasty stens + Frae lin to lin. + + Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea; + Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; + Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, + In scented bow’rs; + Ye roses on your thorny tree, + The first o’ flow’rs. + + At dawn when ev’ry grassy blade + Droops with a diamond at his head, + At ev’n when beans their fragrance shed + I’ th’ rustling gale, + Ye maukins, whiddin’ thro’ the glade, + Come join my wail. + + Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood; + Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; + Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud; + Ye whistling plover; + And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood— + He’s gane for ever! + + Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; + Ye fisher herons, watching eels; + Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels + Circling the lake; + Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, + Rair for his sake. + + Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o’ day, + ’Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay; + And, when ye wing your annual way + Frae our cauld shore, + Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, + Wham we deplore. + + Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r + In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r, + What time the moon wi’ silent glowr + Sets up her horn, + Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour + Till waukrife morn! + + O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! + Oft have ye heard my canty strains; + But now, what else for me remains + But tales of woe? + And frae my een the drapping rains + Maun ever flow. + + Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! + Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: + Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear + Shoots up its head, + Thy gay green flow’ry tresses shear + For him that’s dead! + + Thou, Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair, + In grief thy sallow mantle tear! + Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air + The roaring blast, + Wide o’er the naked world declare + The worth we’ve lost! + + Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! + Mourn, empress of the silent night! + And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, + My Matthew mourn! + For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight, + Ne’er to return. + + O Henderson! the man! the brother! + And art thou gone, and gone for ever? + And hast thou crost that unknown river, + Life’s dreary bound? + Like thee, where shall I find another, + The world around? + + Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great, + In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state! + But by thy honest turf I’ll wait, + Thou man of worth! + And weep the ae best fellow’s fate + Eer lay in earth. + + + + +MY AIN KIND DEARIE O + + + When o’er the hill the eastern star + Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; + And owsen frae the furrow’d field + Return sae dowf and wearie O; + Down by the burn, where scented birks + Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo, + I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, + My ain kind dearie O. + + In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, + I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O, + If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, + My ain kind dearie O. + Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild, + And I were ne’er sae wearie O, + I’d meet thee on the lea-rig, + My ain kind dearie O. + + The hunter lo’es the morning sun, + To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; + At noon the fisher seeks the glen, + Along the burn to steer, my jo; + Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey, + It maks my heart sae cheery O, + To meet thee on the lea-rig, + My ain kind dearie O. + + + + +BESSY AND HER SPINNIN’ WHEEL + + + O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel, + O leeze me on my rock and reel; + Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, + And haps me fiel and warm at e’en! + I’ll set me down and sing and spin, + While laigh descends the simmer sun, + Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal— + O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel. + + On ilka hand the burnies trot, + And meet below my theekit cot; + The scented birk and hawthorn white + Across the pool their arms unite, + Alike to screen the birdie’s nest, + And little fishes’ caller rest: + The sun blinks kindly in the biel’, + Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel. + + On lofty aiks the cushats wail, + And echo cons the doolfu’ tale; + The lintwhites in the hazel braes, + Delighted, rival ither’s lays; + The craik amang the claver hay, + The paitrick whirrin’ o’er the ley, + The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel, + Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel. + + Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy, + Aboon distress, below envy, + O wha wad leave this humble state, + For a’ the pride of a’ the great? + Amid their flaring, idle toys, + Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, + Can they the peace and pleasure feel + Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel? + + + + +THE GALLANT WEAVER + + + Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea, + By mony a flower and spreading tree, + There lives a lad, the lad for me, + He is a gallant weaver. + + Oh I had wooers aught or nine, + They gied me rings and ribbons fine; + And I was fear’d my heart would tine, + And I gied it to the weaver. + + My daddie sign’d my tocher-band, + To gie the lad that has the land; + But to my heart I’ll add my hand, + And gie it to the weaver. + + While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; + While bees rejoice in opening flowers; + While corn grows green in simmer showers, + I’ll love my gallant weaver. + + + + +EPPIE ADAIR + + + An’ O! my Eppie, + My jewel, my Eppie! + Wha wadna be happy + Wi’ Eppie Adair? + By love, and by beauty, + By law, and by duty, + I swear to be true to + My Eppie Adair! + + An’ O! my Eppie, + My jewel, my Eppie! + Wha wadna be happy + Wi’ Eppie Adair? + A’ pleasure exile me, + Dishonour defile me, + If e’er I beguile thee, + My Eppie Adair! + + + + +FOR WEANS AND WIFE + +(TO DR. BLACKLOCK) + + + Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! + And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? + I kenn’d it still, your wee bit jauntie + Wad bring ye to; + Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye, + And then ye’ll do.... + + But what d’ye think, my trusty fier, + I’m turn’d a gauger—Peace be here! + Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, + Ye’ll now disdain me! + And then my fifty pounds a year + Will little gain me. + + Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, + Wha by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies, + Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, + Ye ken, ye ken, + That strang necessity supreme is + ’Mang sons o’ men. + + I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, + They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; + Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— + I need na vaunt, + But I’ll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies, + Before they want. + + Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! + I’m weary sick o’t late and air! + Not but I hae a richer share + Than mony ithers; + But why should ae man better fare, + And a’ men brithers? + + Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, + Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! + And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan + A lady fair; + Wha does the utmost that he can, + Will whyles do mair. + + But to conclude my silly rhyme + (I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time)— + To make a happy fire-side clime + To weans and wife, + That’s the true pathos and sublime + Of human life. + + + + +CROWDIE EVER MAIR + + + O that I had ne’er been married, + I wad never had nae care; + Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, + An’ they cry “crowdie!” ever mair. + + Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, + Three times crowdie in a day; + Gin ye crowdie ony mair, + Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away. + + Waefu want and hunger fley me, + Glowrin’ by the hallen en’; + Sair I fecht them at the door, + But aye I’m eerie they come ben. + + + + +‘BRAW SOBER LESSONS’ + +(EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND) + + + I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend, + A something to have sent you, + Tho’ it should serve nae ither end + Than just a kind memento; + But how the subject theme may gang, + Let time and chance determine; + Perhaps it may turn out a sang, + Perhaps turn out a sermon. + + Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad, + And, Andrew dear, believe me, + Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad, + And muckle they may grieve ye: + For care and trouble set your thought, + Ev’n when your end’s attained; + And a’ your views may come to nought, + Where ev’ry nerve is strained. + + I’ll no say men are villains a’; + The real harden’d wicked, + Wha hae nae check but human law, + Are to a few restricked: + But oh! mankind are unco weak, + An’ little to be trusted; + If self the wavering balance shake, + It’s rarely right adjusted! + + Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife, + Their fate we shouldna censure; + For still th’ important end of life + They equally may answer. + A man may hae an honest heart, + Tho’ poortith hourly stare him; + A man may tak a neibor’s part, + Yet hae nae cash to spare him. + + Aye free, aff han’, your story tell, + When wi’ a bosom crony; + But still keep something to yoursel + Ye scarcely tell to ony. + Conceal yoursel as weel’s ye can + Frae critical dissection; + But keek thro’ ev’ry other man + Wi’ sharpen’d sly inspection. + + The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love, + Luxuriantly indulge it; + But never tempt th’ illicit rove, + Tho’ naething should divulge it: + I wave the quantum o’ the sin, + The hazard of concealing; + But oh! it hardens a’ within, + And petrifies the feeling! + + To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile, + Assiduous wait upon her; + And gather gear by ev’ry wile + That’s justified by honour; + Not for to hide it in a hedge, + Nor for a train attendant; + But for the glorious privilege + Of being independent. + + The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip + To haud the wretch in order; + But where ye feel your honour grip, + Let that aye be your border: + Its slightest touches, instant pause— + Debar a’ side pretences; + And resolutely keep its laws, + Uncaring consequences. + + The great Creator to revere + Must sure become the creature; + But still the preaching cant forbear, + And ev’n the rigid feature: + Yet ne’er with wits profane to range + Be complaisance extended; + An atheist laugh’s a poor exchange + For Deity offended. + + When ranting round in pleasure’s ring, + Religion may be blinded; + Or, if she gie a random sting, + It may be little minded; + But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n, + A conscience but a canker— + A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n + Is sure a noble anchor. + + Adieu, dear amiable youth! + Your heart can ne’er be wanting! + May prudence, fortitude, and truth + Erect your brow undaunting. + In ploughman phrase, God send you speed + Still daily to grow wiser; + And may ye better reck the rede + Than ever did th’ adviser! + + + + +TO A HAGGIS + + + Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face, + Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! + Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, + Painch, tripe, or thairm: + Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace + As lang’s my arm. + + The groaning trencher there ye fill, + Your hurdies like a distant hill; + Your pin wad help to mend a mill + In time o’ need; + While thro’ your pores the dews distil + Like amber bead. + + His knife see rustic Labour dight, + An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, + Trenching your gushing entrails bright + Like ony ditch; + And then, O what a glorious sight, + Warm-reekin’, rich! + + Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive, + Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, + Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve + Are bent like drums; + Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, + Bethankit hums. + + Is there that o’er his French ragout, + Or olio that wad staw a sow, + Or fricassee wad mak her spew + Wi’ perfect sconner, + Looks down wi’ sneering scornfu’ view + On sic a dinner? + + Poor devil! see him owre his trash, + As feckless as a wither’d rash, + His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, + His nieve a nit: + Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash, + O how unfit! + + But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed— + The trembling earth resounds his tread! + Clap in his walie nieve a blade, + He’ll mak it whissle; + An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned, + Like taps o’ thrissle. + + Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, + And dish them out their bill o’ fare, + Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware + That jaups in luggies; + But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, + Gie her a Haggis! + + + + +BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY + + + Bannocks o’ bear meal, + Bannocks o’ barley; + Here’s to the Highlandman’s + Bannocks o’ barley. + Wha in a brulzie + Will first cry a parley? + Never the lads wi’ + The bannocks o’ barley. + + Bannocks o’ bear meal, + Bannocks o’ barley; + Here’s to the lads wi’ + The bannocks o’ barley; + Wha in his wae-days + Were loyal to Charlie? + Wha but the lads wi’ + The bannocks o’ barley. + + + + +COMING THROUGH THE RYE + + + Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body; + Jenny’s seldom dry; + She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, + Coming through the rye. + + Coming through the rye, poor body, + Coming through the rye, + She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, + Coming through the rye. + + Gin a body meet a body + Coming through the rye; + Gin a body kiss a body, + Need a body cry? + + Gin a body meet a body + Coming through the glen; + Gin a body kiss a body, + Need the world ken? + + + + +LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN + + + The wind blew hollow frae the hills; + By fits the sun’s departing beam + Look’d on the fading yellow woods + That waved o’er Lugar’s winding stream. + Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, + Laden with years and meikle pain, + In loud lament bewail’d his lord, + Whom death had all untimely taen. + + He lean’d him to an ancient aik, + Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years; + His locks were bleachèd white wi’ time, + His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears; + And as he touch’d his trembling harp, + And as he tun’d his doleful sang, + The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves, + To echo bore the notes alang. + + ‘Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing, + The reliques of the vernal quire! + Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds + The honours of the agèd year! + A few short months, and glad and gay, + Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e; + But nocht in all revolving time + Can gladness bring again to me. + + ‘I am a bending agèd tree, + That long has stood the wind and rain; + But now has come a cruel blast, + And my last hold of earth is gane: + Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, + Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; + But I maun lie before the storm, + And others plant them in my room. + + ‘I’ve seen so many changefu’ years, + On earth I am a stranger grown; + I wander in the ways of men, + Alike unknowing and unknown: + Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, + I bear alane my lade o’ care, + For silent, low, on beds of dust, + Lie a’ that would my sorrows share. + + ‘And last (the sum of a’ my griefs!) + My noble master lies in clay; + The flow’r amang our barons bold, + His country’s pride, his country’s stay: + In weary being now I pine + For a’ the life of life is dead, + And hope has left my agèd ken, + On forward wing for ever fled. + + ‘Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! + The voice of woe and wild despair; + Awake, resound thy latest lay, + Then sleep in silence evermair! + And thou, my last, best, only friend, + That fillest an untimely tomb, + Accept this tribute from the bard + Thou brought from fortune’s mirkest gloom. + + ‘In poverty’s low barren vale, + Thick mists obscure involv’d me round; + Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye, + No ray of fame was to be found: + Thou found’st me, like the morning sun + That melts the fogs in limpid air; + The friendless bard and rustic song + Became alike thy fostering care. + + ‘O why has worth so short a date + While villains ripen grey with time? + Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great, + Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime? + Why did I live to see that day, + A day to me so full of woe? + O had I met the mortal shaft + Which laid my benefactor low! + + ‘The bridegroom may forget the bride + Was made his wedded wife yestreen; + The monarch may forget the crown + That on his head an hour has been; + The mother may forget the child + That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; + But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn, + And a’ that thou hast done for me!’ + + + + +A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH + + + O Thou unknown Almighty Cause + Of all my hope and fear! + In whose dread presence, ere an hour, + Perhaps I must appear! + + If I have wander’d in those paths + Of life I ought to shun; + As something, loudly in my breast, + Remonstrates I have done; + + Thou know’st that Thou hast formèd me + With passions wild and strong; + And list’ning to their witching voice + Has often led me wrong. + + Where human weakness has come short, + Or frailty stept aside, + Do thou, All-Good! for such Thou art, + In shades of darkness hide. + + Where with intention I have err’d, + No other plea I have, + But Thou art good; and Goodness still + Delighteth to forgive. + + + + +STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION + + + Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene? + Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? + Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between; + Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms! + Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? + Or Death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode? + For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; + I tremble to approach an angry God, + And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. + + Fain would I say, ‘Forgive my foul offence!’ + Fain promise never more to disobey; + But, should my Author health again dispense, + Again I might desert fair virtue’s way; + Again in folly’s path might go astray; + Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; + Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray, + Who act so counter Heavenly mercy’s plan? + Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran? + + O Thou, great Governor of all below! + If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, + Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, + And still the tumult of the raging sea: + With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me + Those headlong furious passions to confine, + For all unfit I feel my powers to be, + To rule their torrent in th’ allowèd line; + O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine! + + + + +A BARD’S EPITAPH + + + Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, + Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, + Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, + Let him draw near; + And owre this grassy heap sing dool, + And drap a tear. + + Is there a bard of rustic song, + Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, + That weekly this area throng, + O, pass not by! + But, with a frater-feeling strong, + Here heave a sigh. + + Is there a man whose judgment clear, + Can others teach the course to steer, + Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, + Wild as the wave; + Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear, + Survey this grave. + + The poor inhabitant below + Was quick to learn and wise to know, + And keenly felt the friendly glow, + And softer flame; + But thoughtless follies laid him low, + And stain’d his name! + + Reader, attend! whether thy soul + Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, + Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, + In low pursuit; + Know prudent cautious self-control + Is wisdom’s root. + + + + +THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE + + + The Catrine woods were yellow seen, + The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, + Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, + But nature sickened on the e’e. + Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, + Hersel in beauty’s bloom the whyle, + And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, + ‘Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle! + + ‘Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, + Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair; + Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, + Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. + But here, alas! for me nae mair + Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; + Fareweel, the bonnie banks of Ayr, + Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!’ + + +[Illustration: + + Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, + . . . . . . . . + Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle.] + + + + +AY WAUKIN, O + + + Simmer’s a pleasant time, + Flow’rs of ev’ry colour; + The water rins o’er the heugh, + And I long for my true lover. + + Ay waukin, O, + Waukin still and wearie: + Sleep I can get nane + For thinking on my dearie. + + When I sleep I dream, + When I wauk I’m eerie; + Sleep I can get nane + For thinking on my dearie. + + Lanely night comes on, + A’ the lave are sleepin’, + I think on my bonnie lad, + And I bleer my een wi’ greetin’. + + Ay waukin, O, + Waukin still and wearie: + Sleep I can get nane + For thinking on my dearie. + + + + +IN EVIL DAYS + +(FROM A LETTER TO GRAHAM OF FINTRY, 1791) + + + I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, + With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear! + Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, + Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust— + Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears, + And left us darkling in a world of tears. + Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! + Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! + Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown, + And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! + + + + +THE POETIC DAYSPRING + +(FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER) + + + I mind it weel, in early date, + When I was beardless, young and blate, + An’ first could thresh the barn, + Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh, + An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, + Yet unco proud to learn,— + When first amang the yellow corn + A man I reckon’d was, + And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn + Could rank my rig and lass, + Still shearing, and clearing + The tither stooked raw, + Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, + Wearing the day awa,— + + Ev’n then a wish (I mind its power!) + A wish that to my latest hour + Shall strongly heave my breast; + That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake, + Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make, + Or sing a sang at least. + The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide + Amang the bearded bear, + I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, + An’ spar’d the symbol dear: + No nation, no station, + My envy e’er could raise; + A Scot still, but blot still, + I knew nae higher praise. + + But still the elements o’ sang + In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, + Wild floated in my brain; + Till on that hairst I said before, + My partner in the merry core, + She rous’d the forming strain: + I see her yet, the sonsie quean, + That lighted up my jingle, + Her witching smile, her pauky een, + That gart my heart-strings tingle; + I firèd, inspirèd, + At ev’ry kindling keek, + But bashing, and dashing, + I fearèd aye to speak.... + + + + +SCOTS WHA HAE + +ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN + + + Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, + Welcome to your gory bed, + Or to victorie. + + Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; + See the front o’ battle lour! + See approach proud Edward’s power— + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward’s grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland’s King and law + Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? + Let him follow me! + + By oppression’s woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We will drain our dearest veins, + But they shall be free! + + Lay the proud usurpers low! + Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty’s in every blow! + Let us do or die! + + + + +FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT + + + Is there, for honest poverty, + That hangs his head, and a that? + The coward-slave, we pass him by, + We dare be poor for a’ that! + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Our toils obscure, and a’ that; + The rank is but the guinea stamp; + The man’s the gowd for a’ that. + + What tho’ on hamely fare we dine, + Wear hodden-gray, and a’ that; + Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, + A man’s a man for a’ that. + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Their tinsel show, and a’ that; + The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, + Is King o’ men for a’ that. + + Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, + Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; + Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, + He’s but a coof for a’ that: + For a’ that, and a’ that, + His riband, star, and a’ that, + The man of independent mind, + He looks and laughs at a’ that. + + A prince can mak a belted knight, + A marquis, duke, and a’ that; + But an honest man’s aboon his might, + Guid faith he mauna fa’ that! + For a’ that, and a’ that, + Their dignities, and a’ that, + The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, + Are higher rank than a’ that. + + Then let us pray that come it may, + As come it will for a’ that; + That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, + May bear the gree, and a’ that. + For a’ that and a’ that, + It’s coming yet, for a’ that, + That man to man the warld o’er, + Shall brothers be for a’ that. + + + + +HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA + + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa; + And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, + May never guid luck be their fa’! + + It’s guid to be merry and wise, + It’s guid to be honest and true, + It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause, + And bide by the buff and the blue. + + May liberty meet wi’ success! + May prudence protect her frae evil! + May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, + And wander their way to the devil! + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa; + Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, + That lives at the lug o’ the law! + + Here’s freedom to him that wad read, + Here’s freedom to him that wad write! + There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard, + But they wham the truth wad indite. + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, + Here’s Chieftain M’Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd, + Tho’ bred among mountains o’ snaw! + + + + +DOES HAUGHTY GAUL + + + Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? + Then let the loons beware, Sir, + There’s wooden walls upon our seas, + And volunteers on shore, Sir. + The Nith shall run to Corsincon, + And Criffel sink in Solway, + Ere we permit a foreign foe + On British ground to rally! + + O let us not like snarling tykes + In wrangling be divided, + Till, slap! come in an unco loon + And wi’ a rung decide it. + Be Britain still to Britain true, + Amang oursels united; + For never but by British hands + Maun British wrangs be righted! + + The kettle o’ the kirk and state, + Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; + But deil a foreign tinkler loon + Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. + Our father’s blude the kettle bought, + An’ wha wad dare to spoil it? + By heavens! the sacrilegious dog + Shall fuel be to boil it! + + The wretch that would a tyrant own, + And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, + Who’d set the mob aboon the throne,— + May they be damned together! + Who will not sing _God save the King_! + Shall hang as high’s the steeple; + But while we sing _God save the King_! + We’ll not forget the people! + + + + +AULD LANG SYNE + + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And never brought to min’? + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, + And auld lang syne? + + For auld lang syne, my dear. + For auld lang syne, + We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + We twa hae run about the braes, + And pu’d the gowans fine; + But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot + Sin’ auld lang syne. + + We twa hae paidled i’ the burn, + From morning sun till dine; + But seas between us braid hae roar’d + Sin’ auld lang syne. + + And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, + And gie’s a hand o’ thine; + And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught, + 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 lang syne, my dear. + For auld lang syne, + We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, + For auld lang syne. + + + + +Longer Poems + + + + +THE TWA DOGS + + + ’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle, + That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, + Upon a bonnie day in June, + When wearin’ through the afternoon, + Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame, + Forgather’d ance upon a time. + + The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, + Was keepit for his Honour’s pleasure; + His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, + Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs, + But whalpit some place far abroad, + Where sailors gang to fish for cod. + His lockèd, letter’d, braw brass collar, + Shew’d him the gentleman and scholar; + But though he was o’ high degree, + The fient a pride, nae pride had he; + But wad hae spent ane hour caressin’ + E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messan: + At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, + Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie, + But he wad stand as glad to see him, + An’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him. + + The tither was a ploughman’s collie, + A rhyming, ranting, raving billie; + Wha for his friend and comrade had him, + And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him, + After some dog in Highland sang, + Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang. + + He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, + As ever lap a sheugh or dyke; + His honest, sonsie, bawsent face + Aye gat him friends in ilka place. + His breast was white, his tousie back + Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; + His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, + Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl. + + Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, + And unco pack and thick thegither; + Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit; + Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; + Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, + And worried ither in diversion; + Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown, + Upon a knowe they sat them down, + And there began a lang digression + About the lords of the creation. + + +CAESAR + + I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, + What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; + An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, + What way poor bodies liv’d ava. + Our Laird gets in his rackèd rents, + His coals, his kain, and a’ his stents; + He rises when he likes himsel’; + His flunkies answer at the bell: + He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; + He draws a bonny silken purse + As lang’s my tail, where, through the steeks, + The yellow-letter’d Geordie keeks. + Frae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling + At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; + And though the gentry first are stechin’, + Yet e’en the ha’ folk fill their pechan + Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, + That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. + Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner! + Poor worthless elf! it eats a dinner + Better than ony tenant man + His Honour has in a’ the lan’; + An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, + I own it’s past my comprehension. + + +LUATH + + Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh; + A cottar howkin’ in a sheugh, + Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke, + Baring a quarry, and sic like; + Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, + A smytrie o’ wee duddy weans, + And nought but his han’-darg to keep + Them right and tight in thack and rape. + And when they meet wi’ sair disasters, + Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, + Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer + And they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger; + But how it comes I never kent yet, + They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; + An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies + Are bred in sic a way as this is. + + +CAESAR + + But then, to see how ye’re negleckit, + How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit, + Lord, man! our gentry care sae little + For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle; + They gang as saucy by poor folk + As I wad by a stinking brock. + I’ve noticed, on our Laird’s court-day, + An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae, + Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash, + How they maun thole a factor’s snash; + He’ll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, + He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear: + While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, + An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! + I see how folk live that hae riches; + But surely poor folk maun be wretches! + + +LUATH + + They’re no’ sae wretched’s ane wad think, + Though constantly on poortith’s brink: + They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, + The view o’t gi’es them little fright. + Then chance and fortune are sae guided, + They’re aye in less or mair provided; + An’ though fatigued wi’ close employment, + A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment. + The dearest comfort o’ their lives, + Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; + The prattling things are just their pride, + That sweetens a’ their fireside. + And whyles twalpenny-worth o’ nappy + Can mak the bodies unco happy; + They lay aside their private cares + To mind the Kirk and State affairs: + They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests, + Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts; + Or tell what new taxation’s comin’, + And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. + As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns + They get the jovial rantin’ kirns, + When rural life o’ every station + Unite in common recreation; + Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth + Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth. + That merry day the year begins + They bar the door on frosty win’s; + The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, + And sheds a heart-inspiring steam; + The luntin’ pipe and sneeshin’-mill + Are handed round wi’ right gude-will; + The canty auld folk crackin’ crouse, + The young anes ranting through the house— + My heart has been sae fain to see them + That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them. + Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, + Sic game is now owre aften play’d. + There’s mony a creditable stock + O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, + Are riven out baith root and branch + Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, + Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster + In favour wi’ some gentle master, + Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin’, + For Britain’s gude his saul indentin— + + +CAESAR + + Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; + For Britain’s gude!—guid faith! I doubt it! + Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, + And saying ay or no’s they bid him! + At operas and plays parading, + Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading. + Or maybe, in a frolic daft, + To Hague or Calais taks a waft, + To make a tour, an’ tak a whirl, + To learn _bon ton_ an’ see the worl’. + There, at Vienna, or Versailles, + He rives his father’s auld entails; + Or by Madrid he takes the rout, + To thrum guitars and fecht wi’ nowt; + Or down Italian vista startles, + Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles; + Then bouses drumly German water, + To make himsel’ look fair and fatter, + And clear the consequential sorrows, + Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. + For Britain’s gude!—for her destruction! + Wi’ dissipation, feud, and faction! + + +LUATH + + Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate + They waste sae mony a braw estate? + Are we sae foughten and harass’d + For gear to gang that gate at last? + O would they stay aback frae courts, + An’ please themselves wi’ country sports, + It wad for every ane be better, + The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! + For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies, + Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows: + Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer, + Or speaking lightly o’ their limmer, + Or shootin’ o’ a hare or moor-cock, + The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk. + But will ye tell me, Master Caesar? + Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure; + Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, + The very thought o’t needna fear them. + + +CAESAR + + Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am, + The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em, + It’s true, they needna starve or sweat, + Thro’ winter’s cauld or simmer’s heat; + They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, + An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: + But human bodies are sic fools, + For a’ their colleges and schools, + That when nae real ills perplex them, + They make enow themselves to vex them, + An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, + In like proportion less will hurt them. + A country fellow at the pleugh, + His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh; + A country lassie at her wheel, + Her dizzens done, she’s unco weel; + But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, + Wi’ ev’ndown want o’ wark are curst. + They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; + Though de’il haet ails them, yet uneasy; + Their days insipid, dull and tasteless; + Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless. + And e’en their sports, their balls, and races, + Their galloping through public places— + There’s sic parade, sic pomp and art, + The joy can scarcely reach the heart. + The men cast out in party matches, + Then sowther a’ in deep debauches: + Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink and whoring, + Neist day their life is past enduring. + The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters, + As great and gracious a’ as sisters; + But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, + They’re a’ run de’ils and jads thegither. + Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie, + They sip the scandal-potion pretty; + Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks, + Pore owre the devil’s picture beuks; + Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard, + And cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard. + There’s some exception, man and woman; + But this is gentry’s life in common. + + By this the sun was out o’ sight, + And darker gloamin brought the night; + The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone, + The kye stood rowtin’ i’ the loan; + When up they gat and shook their lugs, + Rejoiced they werena men but dogs; + And each took aff his several way, + Resolved to meet some ither day. + + + + +THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT + + + November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough; + The short’ning winter-day is near a close; + The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; + The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose: + The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. + This night his weekly moil is at an end, + Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, + Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, + And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend. + + At length his lonely cot appears in view, + Beneath the shelter of an agèd tree; + Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin’, stacher through + To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin’ noise an’ glee. + His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, + His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, + The lisping infant prattling on his knee, + Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, + An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil. + + Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, + At service out, amang the farmers roun’; + Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin + A cannie errand to a neibor town: + Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, + In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e, + Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, + Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, + To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. + + With joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet, + An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers: + The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed fleet; + Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; + The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; + Anticipation forward points the view. + The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers, + Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; + The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. + + Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command, + The younkers a’ are warnèd to obey; + An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, + An’ ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play: + ‘And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, + An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night! + Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, + Implore His counsel and assisting might: + They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!’ + + But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; + Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, + Tells how a neibor lad cam o’er the moor, + To do some errands, and convoy her hame. + The wily mother sees the conscious flame + Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; + Wi’ heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, + While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; + Weel pleased the mother hears it’s nae wild worthless rake. + + Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; + A strappin’ youth; he takes the mother’s eye; + Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; + The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. + The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, + But blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; + The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy + What makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave; + Weel-pleased to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. + + O happy love! where love like this is found; + O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! + I’ve pacèd much this weary mortal round, + And sage experience bids me this declare— + ‘If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, + One cordial in this melancholy vale, + ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair + In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale, + Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.’ + + Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— + A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth— + That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, + Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? + Curse on his perjur’d arts, dissembling smooth! + Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? + Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, + Points to the parents fondling o’er their child? + Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild? + + But now the supper crowns their simple board, + The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food: + The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, + That ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; + The dame brings forth in complimental mood, + To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; + And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it good; + The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell + How ’twas a towmond auld sin’ lint was i’ the bell. + + The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face + They round the ingle form a circle wide; + The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, + The big ha’-bible, ance his father’s pride: + His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, + His lyart haffets wearing thin an’ bare; + Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide— + He wales a portion with judicious care, + And ‘Let us worship God!’ he says with solemn air. + + They chant their artless notes in simple guise; + They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: + Perhaps Dundee’s wild warbling measures rise, + Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; + Or noble Elgin beets the heav’nward flame, + The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: + Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; + The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; + Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise. + + The priest-like father reads the sacred page, + How Abram was the friend of God on high; + Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage + With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; + Or how the royal bard did groaning lie + Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; + Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; + Or rapt Isaiah’s wild seraphic fire; + Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. + + Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, + How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; + How He who bore in Heaven the second name + Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; + How His first followers and servants sped; + The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: + How he, was lone in Patmos banishèd, + Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, + And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounced by Heaven’s command. + + Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King + The saint, the father, and the husband prays: + Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing’ + That thus they all shall meet in future days: + There ever bask in uncreated rays, + No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, + Together hymning their Creator’s praise, + In such society, yet still more dear; + While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. + + Compared with this, how poor Religion’s pride, + In all the pomp of method and of art, + When men display to congregations wide + Devotion’s every grace, except the heart! + The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, + The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; + But haply, in some cottage far apart, + May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; + And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. + + Then homeward all take off their several way; + The youngling cottagers retire to rest: + The parent-pair their secret homage pay, + And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request, + That He who stills the raven’s clamorous nest, + And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, + Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, + For them and for their little ones provide; + But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. + + From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs, + That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: + Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, + ‘An honest man’s the noblest work of God’; + And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, + The cottage leaves the palace far behind; + What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load, + Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, + Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d! + + O Scotia! my dear, my native soil; + For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! + Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil + Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! + And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent + From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile; + Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, + A virtuous populace may rise the while, + And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. + + O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide + That streamed thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, + Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, + Or nobly die—the second glorious part, + (The patriot’s God, peculiarly thou art + His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) + O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert; + But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, + In bright succession rise, her ornament and guard! + + +[Illustration: + + The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, .... + And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.] + + + + +THE BRIGS OF AYR + + + ’Twas when the stacks got on their winter-hap, + And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap; + Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith + O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; + The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, + Unnumber’d buds an’ flowers’ delicious spoils, + Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, + Are doom’d by Man, that tyrant o’er the weak, + The death o’ devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek: + The thund’ring guns are heard on ev’ry side, + The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; + The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie, + Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: + (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, + And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!) + Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs; + Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, + Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee, + Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: + The hoary morns precede the sunny days, + Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, + While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. + + ’Twas in that season when a simple Bard, + Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward, + Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, + By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care, + He left his bed, and took his wayward route, + And down by Simpson’s wheel’d the left about: + (Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, + To witness what I after shall narrate; + Or whether, rapt in meditation high, + He wander’d out he knew not where nor why:) + The drowsy Dungeon-Clock had number’d two, + And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true: + The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, + Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore: + All else was hush’d as Nature’s closèd e’e; + The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree: + The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, + Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream— + When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard, + The clanging sough of whistling wings is heard; + Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air, + Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare; + Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, + The ither flutters o’er the rising piers: + Our warlock Rhymer instantly descried + The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. + (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, + And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk: + Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, + And ev’n the very deils they brawly ken them.) + Auld Brig appeared o’ ancient Pictish race, + The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; + He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, + Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. + New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat + That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got; + In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead, + Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head. + The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, + Spying the time-worn flaws in ev’ry arch; + It chanc’d his new-come neebor took his ee, + And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he! + Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, + He, down the water, gies him this guid-een:— + + +AULD BRIG + + ‘I doubtna, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheep-shank. + Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! + But gin ye be a brig as auld as me— + Tho’, faith! that date, I doubt, ye’ll never see— + There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, + Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noodle.’ + + +NEW BRIG + + ‘Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense, + Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense; + Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, + Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, + Your ruin’d formless bulk o’ stane and lime, + Compare wi’ bonnie brigs o’ modern time? + There’s men o’ taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream, + Tho’ they should cast the very sark and swim, + Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the view + O’ sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you.’ + + +AULD BRIG + + ‘Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! + This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; + And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn, + I’ll be a brig, when ye’re a shapeless cairn! + As yet ye little ken about the matter, + But twa-three winters will inform ye better. + When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains, + Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains; + When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, + Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil, + Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, + Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, + Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes, + In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; + While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, + Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; + And from Glenbuck, down to the Ratton-key, + Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea; + Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! + And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies! + A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, + That architecture’s noble art is lost!’ + + +NEW BRIG + + ‘Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t, + The Lord be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t! + Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, + Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices; + O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, + Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves; + Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, + With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; + Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, + The craz’d creations of misguided whim; + Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee, + And still the second dread command be free, + Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea! + Mansions that would disgrace the building taste + Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast; + Fit only for a doited monkish race, + Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, + Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion + That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion; + Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, + And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!’ + + +AULD BRIG + + ‘O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, + Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! + Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, + Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye; + Ye dainty Deacons, an’ ye douce Conveeners, + To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners! + Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; + Ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown, + Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; + And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers: + A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, + Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! + How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, + To see each melancholy alteration; + And agonizing, curse the time and place + When ye begat the base degen’rate race! + Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory, + In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story; + Nae langer thrifty citizens, an’ douce, + Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; + But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, + The herryment and ruin of the country; + Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, + Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on damn’d New Brigs and + harbours!’ + + +NEW BRIG + + ‘Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, + And muckle mair than ye can mak to through: + As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, + Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle; + But, under favour o’ your langer beard, + Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d; + To liken them to your auld-warld squad, + I must needs say, comparisons are odd. + In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle + To mouth “a Citizen,” a term o’ scandal; + Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, + In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; + Men wha grew wise priggin’ owre hops and raisins, + Or gather’d lib’ral views in Bonds and Seisins: + If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, + Had shor’d them wi’ a glimmer of his lamp, + And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them, + Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.’ + + What farther clishmaclaver might been said, + What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, + No man can tell; but, all before their sight, + A fairy train appear’d in order bright; + Adown the glittering stream they featly danc’d; + Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc’d: + They footed o’er the wat’ry glass so neat, + The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: + While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, + And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. + O had M’Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring sage, + Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, + When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage, + Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, + The lover’s raptured joys or bleeding cares, + How would his Highland lug been nobler fir’d, + And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspired! + No guess could tell what instrument appear’d, + But all the soul of Music’s self was heard; + Harmonious concert rung in every part, + While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. + + The Genius of the Stream in front appears, + A venerable Chief, advanced in years; + His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d, + His manly leg with garter-tangle bound. + Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, + Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; + Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy, + And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye; + All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, + Led yellow Autumn wreath’d with nodding corn; + Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show, + By Hospitality with cloudless brow: + Next followed Courage with his martial stride, + From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide; + Benevolence, with mild benignant air, + A female form, came from the towers of Stair; + Learning and Worth in equal measures trode + From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode: + Last, white-robed Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath, + To rustic Agriculture did bequeath + The broken iron instruments of death: + At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. + + +[Illustration: Your ruin’d formless bulk o’ stane and lime.] + + + + +TAM O’ SHANTER + + + When chapman billies leave the street, + And drouthy neibors neibors meet, + As market-days are wearing late, + An’ folk begin to tak the gate; + While we sit bousing at the nappy, + An’ getting fou and unco happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles, + The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Where sits our sulky sullen dame, + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, + As he frae Ayr ae night did canter— + (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses + For honest men and bonnie lasses). + O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise + As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! + She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, + A bletherin’, blusterin’, drunken blellum; + That frae November till October, + Ae market-day thou was na sober; + That ilka melder wi’ the miller + Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; + That every naig was ca’d a shoe on, + The smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on; + That at the Lord’s house, even on Sunday, + Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday. + She prophesied that, late or soon, + Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon; + Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk + By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. + Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet + To think how mony counsels sweet, + How mony lengthen’d sage advices, + The husband frae the wife despises! + But to our tale: Ae market night, + Tam had got planted unco right, + Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, + Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely; + And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, + His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; + Tam lo’ed him like a very brither; + They had been fou for weeks thegither. + The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter, + And aye the ale was growing better: + The landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious; + The souter tauld his queerest stories; + The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: + The storm without might rair and rustle, + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy. + As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, + The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure; + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious! + But pleasures are like poppies spread— + You seize the flow’r, it’s bloom is shed; + Or like the snow falls in the river— + A moment white, then melts for ever; + Or like the borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the rainbow’s lovely form + Evanishing amid the storm. + Nae man can tether time nor tide; + The hour approaches Tam maun ride; + That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane, + That dreary hour, he mounts his beast in; + And sic a night he taks the road in + As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in. + The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last; + The rattling show’rs rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d; + Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d: + That night, a child might understand, + The Deil had business on his hand. + Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, + A better never lifted leg, + Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, + Despising wind, and rain, and fire; + Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; + Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet; + Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares, + Lest bogles catch him unawares. + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. + By this time he was cross the ford, + Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d; + And past the birks and meikle stane, + Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane; + And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, + Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, + Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel. + Before him Doon pours all his floods; + The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods; + The lightnings flash from pole to pole; + Near and more near the thunders roll: + When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze; + Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing; + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! + What dangers thou canst make us scorn! + Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil; + Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil! + The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle, + Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle! + But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d, + Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, + She ventur’d forward on the light; + And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! + Warlocks and witches in a dance! + Nae cotillon brent new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, + Put life and mettle in their heels. + A winnock-bunker in the east, + There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast— + A touzie tyke, black, grim, and large! + To gie them music was his charge: + He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl, + Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. + Coffins stood round like open presses, + That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; + And by some devilish cantraip sleight + Each in its cauld hand held a light, + By which heroic Tam was able + To note upon the haly table + A murderer’s banes in gibbet-airns; + Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns; + A thief new-cutted frae the rape— + Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape; + Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red rusted; + Five scymitars, wi’ murder crusted; + A garter, which a babe had strangled; + A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, + Whom his ain son o’ life bereft— + The gray hairs yet stack to the heft; + Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’, + Which even to name wad be unlawfu’. + As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: + The piper loud and louder blew; + The dancers quick and quicker flew; + They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, + Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies to the wark, + And linkit at it in her sark! + Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, + A’ plump and strapping in their teens; + Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, + Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! + Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, + That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair, + I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies, + For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies! + But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, + Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, + Louping and flinging on a crummock, + I wonder didna turn thy stomach. + But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie: + There was ae winsome wench and walie + That night enlisted in the core, + Lang after kent on Carrick shore! + (For mony a beast to dead she shot, + And perish’d mony a bonnie boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bear, + And kept the country-side in fear.) + Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, + That while a lassie she had worn, + In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie. + Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie + That sark she coft for her wee Nannie + Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches) + Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches! + But here my muse her wing maun cour; + Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r— + To sing how Nannie lap and flang, + (A souple jad she was, and strang); + And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d, + And thought his very een enrich’d; + Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain, + And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main: + Till first ae caper, syne anither, + Tam tint his reason a’ thegither, + And roars out ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’ + And in an instant all was dark! + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, + When out the hellish legion sallied. + As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke + When plundering herds assail their byke, + As open pussie’s mortal foes + When pop! she starts before their nose, + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud. + So Maggie runs; the witches follow, + Wi’ mony an eldritch skriech and hollow. + Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’! + In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’! + Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! + Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, + And win the key-stane o’ the brig: + There at them thou thy tail may toss, + A running stream they dare na cross! + But ere the key-stane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake: + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; + But little wist she Maggie’s mettle! + Ae spring brought off her master hale, + But left behind her ain gray tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, + Each man and mother’s son, take heed; + Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, + Or cutty-sarks rin in your mind, + Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear; + Remember Tom o’ Shanter’s mare. + + + + +THE VISION + + +DUAN FIRST + + The sun had closed the winter day, + The curlers quat their roarin’ play, + An’ hunger’d maukin taen her way + To kail-yards green, + While faithless snaws ilk step betray + Where she has been. + + The thresher’s weary flingin’-tree + The lee-lang day had tirèd me: + And when the day had clos’d his e’e, + Far i’ the west, + Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, + I gaed to rest. + + There lanely by the ingle-cheek + I sat and eyed the spewing reek, + That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek + The auld clay biggin’; + An’ heard the restless rattons squeak + About the riggin’. + + All in this mottie misty clime, + I backward mused on wasted time, + How I had spent my youthfu’ prime, + An’ done nae-thing, + But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme, + For fools to sing. + + Had I to guid advice but harkit, + I might, by this, hae led a market, + Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit + My cash-account: + While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, + Is a’ th’ amount. + + I started, mutt’ring ‘blockhead! coof!’ + And heaved on high my waukit loof, + To swear by a’ yon starry roof, + Or some rash aith, + That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof + Till my last breath— + + When click! the string the snick did draw; + An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’; + And by my ingle-lowe I saw, + Now bleezin’ bright, + A tight outlandish hizzie, braw, + Come full in sight. + + Ye need na doubt I held my whisht; + The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht; + I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht + In some wild glen; + When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, + An’ steppèd ben. + + Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs + Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows; + I took her for some Scottish Muse + By that same token; + And come to stop these reckless vows, + Would soon been broken. + + A hare-brain’d, sentimental trace, + Was strongly markèd in her face; + A wildly-witty rustic grace + Shone full upon her; + Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space, + Beam’d keen with honour. + + Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen, + Till half a leg was scrimply seen; + An’ such a leg! my bonnie Jean + Could only peer it; + Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, + Nane else came near it. + + Her mantle large, of greenish hue, + My gazing wonder chiefly drew; + Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw + A lustre grand; + And seem’d to my astonish’d view + A well-known land. + + Here rivers in the sea were lost; + There mountains to the skies were tost: + Here tumbling billows mark’d the coast + With surging foam; + There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast, + The lordly dome. + + Here Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods; + There well-fed Irwine stately thuds; + Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods, + On to the shore; + And many a lesser torrent scuds, + With seeming roar. + + Low in a sandy valley spread, + An ancient borough rear’d her head; + Still, as in Scottish story read, + She boasts a race + To ev’ry nobler virtue bred, + And polish’d grace. + + By stately tower or palace fair, + Or ruins pendent in the air, + Bold stems of heroes, here and there, + I could discern; + Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare, + With feature stern. + + My heart did glowing transport feel, + To see a race heroic wheel, + And brandish round the deep-dyed steel + In sturdy blows; + While back-recoiling seem’d to reel + Their Suthron foes. + + His Country’s Saviour, mark him well! + Bold Richardton’s heroic swell; + The Chief—on Sark who glorious fell, + In high command; + And he whom ruthless fates expel + His native land. + + There, where a sceptred Pictish shade + Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid, + I mark’d a martial race, pourtray’d + In colours strong; + Bold, soldier-featured, undismay’d + They strode along. + + +DUAN SECOND + + With musing-deep astonish’d stare, + I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair; + A whisp’ring throb did witness bear + Of kindred sweet, + When with an elder Sister’s air + She did me greet. + + ‘All hail! my own inspired bard! + In me thy native Muse regard! + Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, + Thus poorly low; + I come to give thee such reward + As we bestow. + + ‘Know, the great Genius of this land + Has many a light aërial band, + Who, all beneath his high command, + Harmoniously, + As arts or arms they understand, + Their labours ply. + + ‘They Scotia’s race among them share: + Some fire the soldier on to dare; + Some rouse the patriot up to bare + Corruption’s heart: + Some teach the bard, a darling care, + The tuneful art. + + ‘Of these am I—Coila my name; + And this district as mine I claim, + Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, + Held ruling pow’r: + I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, + Thy natal hour. + + ‘With future hope I oft would gaze, + Fond, on thy little early ways, + Thy rudely-caroll’d, chiming phrase, + In uncouth rhymes,— + Fired at the simple artless lays + Of other times. + + ‘I saw thee seek the sounding shore, + Delighted with the dashing roar; + Or when the North his fleecy store + Drove thro’ the sky, + I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar + Struck thy young eye. + + ‘Or when the deep green-mantled Earth + Warm-cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth, + And joy and music pouring forth + In ev’ry grove, + I saw thee eye the gen’ral mirth + With boundless love. + + ‘When ripen’d fields and azure skies + Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, + I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys, + And lonely stalk, + To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise + In pensive walk. + + ‘When youthful love, warm-blushing strong, + Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, + Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, + Th’ adorèd Name, + I taught thee how to pour in song, + To soothe thy flame. + + ‘I saw thy pulse’s maddening play + Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way, + Misled by fancy’s meteor ray, + By passion driven; + But yet the light that led astray + Was light from Heaven. + + ‘I taught thy manners-painting strains, + The loves, the ways of simple swains, + Till now, o’er all my wide domains + Thy fame extends; + And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, + Become thy friends. + + ‘Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, + To paint with Thomson’s landscape-glow; + Or wake the bosom-melting throe + With Shenstone’s art; + Or pour with Gray the moving flow + Warm on the heart. + + ‘Yet all beneath th’ unrivall’d rose + The lowly daisy sweetly blows; + Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws + His army shade, + Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows + Adown the glade. + + ‘Then never murmur nor repine; + Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; + And trust me, not Potosi’s mine, + Nor king’s regard, + Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, + A rustic Bard. + + ‘To give my counsels all in one, + Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; + Preserve the dignity of Man, + With Soul erect; + And trust the Universal Plan + Will all protect. + + ‘And wear thou this’: She solemn said, + And bound the holly round my head: + The polish’d leaves and berries red + Did rustling play; + And, like a passing thought, she fled + In light away. + + + + +Glossary + + + =Abeigh=, aloof, at bay. + + =Aboon=, above. + + =Acquent=, acquainted. + + =Ae=, one; only. + + =Aff-loof=, offhand. + + =A-gley=, askew. + + =Aiblins=, perhaps, possibly. + + =Airt=, region, direction; to direct. + + =Airted=, directed. + + =Aizle=, ash (of fuel); a cinder. + + =Ajee=, ajar. + + =An=, if. + + =Asklent=, askance. + + =Ava=, at all; of all. + + =Awnie=, bearded (barley). + + =Ayont=, beyond. + + + =Babie-clouts=, baby-clothes. + + =Bairntime=, a mother’s whole brood or issue. + + =Bade=, endured, could stand. + + =Bannock=, a soft flat cake. + + =Barley-bree=, barley-brew = ale or whisky. + + =Baudrons=, the cat. + + =Bawsent=, white streaked. + + =Beets=, adds fuel to, incites. + + =Bell=, flower, blossom; + =sin’ lint was i’ the bell=, since flax was in blossom. + + =Belyve=, by and by, presently. + + =Ben=, the spence or parlour; in, into, the inner room. + + =Beuk=, a book. + + =Bicker=, a wooden cup; a draught. + + =Bickering=, hurrying. + + =Biel=, =bield=, a shelter. + + =Bien=, comfortable. + + =Big=, to build. + + =Biggin=, a building. + + =Bill=, a bull. + + =Billie=, brother; comrade. + + =Bings=, heaps. + + =Birk=, a birch (tree). + + =Birkie=, chap, fellow (carries a suggestion of strut, conceit + or cockiness). + + =Birken-shaw=, a wood of birches. + + =Bizz=, to buzz. + + =Blate=, bashful, shy. + + =Blaud=, a slapping lot. + + =Blellum=, a gassy fool. + + =Blethers=, nonsense. + + =Blink=, to glance brightly; a glance; a moment. + + =Blinkers=, spies. + + =Bluntie=, stupid, like a fool. + + =Bocked=, vomited. + + =Boddle=, a small coin, about = ½d. + + =Bogle=, a ghost. + + =Boortrees=, elder-bushes. + + =Bore=, a hole or gap. + + =Boot=, more than they bargained for. + + =Bouk=, a bulk, body. + + =Braing’t=, pulled with a jerk. + + =Brak’s=, broke his. + + =Branks=, a wooden curb, a bridle. + + =Brats=, clothes; aprons. + + =Brattle=, a spurt, sprint, scamper. + + =Braw=, handsome; gaily dressed. + + =Braxies=, sheep that have died of braxy. + + =Briestit=, sprang forward. + + =Brechan=, a horse-collar. + + =Brent=, smooth, upright. + + =Brent-new=, brand-new. + + =Brock=, a badger. + + =Brogue=, a trick. + + =Broo=, brew, liquid, water. + + =Broozes=, wedding-races home from church. + + =Brugh=, a borough. + + =Brulzie=, a brawl or brangle. + + =Brunstane=, brimstone. + + =Bughtin=, gathering sheep into the fold or bught. + + =Buirdly=, burly, stalwart. + + =Bum=, to hum. + + =Bum-clock=, the beetle. + + =Burdies= (dim of =burd=), damsels. + + =Bure=, did bear. + + =Burn=, a stream. + + =Burnewin=, the blacksmith. + + =Bur-thistle=, the spear-thistle. + + =But=, without. + + =But an’ ben=, the kitchen and parlour. + + =By=, a great deal (“I care na by”). + + =Byke=, a hive; a crowd. + + =Byre=, a cowshed. + + + =Ca’=, call; drive (cattle, nails, etc.); push. + + =Cadger=, a hawker. + + =Caff=, chaff. + + =Caird=, a tinker. + + =Cairn=, a (memorial) heap of stones. + + =Caller=, fresh. + + =Cannie=, quiet, gentle, kind (also adv.). + + =Cantie=, merry, jolly. + + =Cantraip=, =cantrip=, magic, witching. + + =Carl=, an old man. + + =Carl-hemp=, male-hemp. + + =Carlin=, a middle-aged or old woman. + + =Cast out=, quarrel. + + =Caups=, wooden cups. + + =Chanter=, the playing pipe of the bag-pipes. + + =Chaup=, a stroke, a blow. + + =Chiel=, chap, young fellow (eulogistic term). + + =Chimla=, chimney. + + =Chitter=, to shiver. + + =Claivers=, =clavers=, talk, about anything and nothing. + + =Clash=, gossip, tittle-tattle; to talk so. + + =Claught=, clutched. + + =Claut=, a handful, a quantity. + + =Cleed=, to clothe. + + =Cleekit=, linked (their arms in dancing). + + =Clink=, money. + + =Clishmaclaver=, palaver. + + =Cloot=, a hoof. + + =Clud=, a cloud. + + =Coble=, a small boat. + + =Coft=, bought. + + =Cogs=, various wooden vessels for food and drink are so called. + + =Coggie=, dim. of =cog=. + + =Coila=, Kyle, a division of Ayrshire. + + =Coof=, =cuif=, a dolt, ninny; a mean-spirited fellow. + + =Coost=, did cast. + + =Cootie=, leg-plumed; a small pail. + + =Corbies=, crows. + + =Couthie=, kindly, comfortable. + + =Cour=, to cower. + + =Crack=, a story; a chat. + + =Crackin=, conversing. + + =Craig= (dim. =craigie=), the throat. + + =Craiks=, landrails. + + =Crambo-clink=, rhyme. + + =Crambo-jingle=, rhyming. + + =Cranreuch=, hoar frost. + + =Crap=, a crop. + + =Creel=, an osier basket. + + =Creepie-chair=, stool of repentance. + + =Creeshie=, greasy. + + =Crood=, to coo. + + =Crouse=, confident, bold. + + =Crowdie=, oatmeal and water or milk (= uncooked porridge). + + =Crummock=, a hooked stick. + + =Cushat=, the wood-pigeon. + + =Cutty=, short. + + + =Daffin=, funning, skylarking. + + =Daimen-icker=, an ear or two of corn. + + =Darg=, work. + + =Daw=, to dawn. + + =Dawtit=, petted, made much of. + + =Dead=, death. + + =Deave=, deafen. + + =Diddle=, to jog to and fro. + + =Dight=, to winnow or sift; to wipe. + + =Din=, dun coloured. + + =Dink=, dainty, trim. + + =Ding=, to overthrow, beat. + + =Dirl=, to vibrate, thrill. + + =Dizzen=, a dozen. + + =Doited=, muddled; bewildered. + + =Donsie=, restive; wayward. + + =Doo=, a pigeon. + + =Dooked=, ducked. + + =Dool=, sorrow. + + =Douce=, sedate, serious; seemly. + + =Dour=, stubborn. + + =Dow=, can; =downa=, cannot. + + =Dowff=, dull. + + =Dowie=, low-spirited, dull, jaded. + + =Downa bide=, cannot stand (them). + + =Doylt=, stupified. + + =Draigl’t=, draggled. + + =Dreigh=, tedious, slow, tiresome. + + =Droop-rump’lt=, short-rumped. + + =Droukit=, soaked. + + =Drouthy=, thirsty. + + =Drucken=, drunken. + + =Drumlie=, muddy. + + =Drumossie Moor=, Culloden Field. + + =Dub=, a puddle. + + =Duds=, =duddies=, clothes. + + =Duddie=, ragged. + + =Dundee=, a Scotch psalm tune. + + =Dunts=, knocks. + + =Dusht=, touched. + + + =Earn=, an eagle. + + =Eerie=, apprehensive, frightened, “queer.” + + =Eild=, old age, eld. + + =Elbuck=, elbow. + + =Eldritch=, unearthly, fearsome. + + =Elgin=, a Scotch psalm tune. + + =Erse=, Gaelic. + + =Ettle=, intention. + + =Eydent=, diligent. + + + =Fa’=, to fall; lot; to have (by lot); to claim. + + =Faikit=, let off, excused. + + =Fain=, fond, glad; =fain o’ ither=, fond of each other. + + =Fairin=, a gift from the Fair: ironically = a thrashing. + + =Fan’=, =fand=, found. + + =Fash=, to mind, trouble oneself. + + =Fasten-een=, Fasten-even (evening before Lent). + + =Faught=, a fight. + + =Fauldin’-slap=, gate of the fold. + + =Fawsont=, seemly, well-doing. + + =Fecht=, a fight. + + =Feckless=, feeble, fit for nothing. + + =Fell=, sharp, tasty. + + =Fen’=, =fend=, a shift or provision; to provide for, look after. + + =Ferlie=, to wonder. + + =Fetch’t=, stopped suddenly. + + =Fey=, fated to death. + + =Fidge=, to fidget. + + =Fidgin-fain=, fidgeting with fainness. + + =Fiel=, well. + + =Fient=, fiend. =The fient a=, devil a.... + + =Fiere=, comrade. + + =Fissle=, to bustle, be all alive. + + =Fittie-lan’=, the hindmost near horse in ploughing. + + =Fleech’d=, beseeched, wheedled. + + =Flee=, a fly. + + =Fleg=, a fright. + + =Fley’d=, frightened, scared. + + =Flichterin’=, fluttering. + + =Flingin-tree=, a flail. + + =Fliskit=, fretted and capered. + + =Foor=, fared, went. + + =Forbye=, besides. + + =Forfairn=, worn out. + + =Forfoughten=, exhausted by the conflict. + + =Forjesket=, “jaded with fatigue,” R.B. + + =Fou=, full; drunk. + + =Foughten=, troubled, wearied. + + =Fyke=, fidget. + + =Fyle=, to dirty. + + + =Gae=, gave. + + =Gae=, =gaed=, go, went. + + =Gairs=, slashes (of a stuffed gown). + + =Gar= (pf. =gar’d=, =gart=) make, cause to. + + =Gate=, =gait=, the road; the way; + =a’ to the gate=, away, out of the way; + =tak the gate=, start for home. + + =Gaucie=, =gawcie=, ample, flowing. + + =Gaun=, going. + + =Geck=, to toss the head. + + =Get=, the begettings, offspring. + + =Genty=, trim, elegant. + + =Geordie, the yellow lettered=, a guinea. + + =Gin=, if; when. + + =Girn=, to twist the face, in chagrin or malice. + + =Gizz=, a wig. + + =Glaikit=, silly, thoughtless. + + =Glaum’d=, clutched. + + =Gleib=, a portion (of land). + + =Glowrin=, staring. + + =Glunch=, a scowl. + + =Gowan=, the daisy. + + =Gowk=, a fool; a guy. + + =Graith=, the implements of an occupation. + + =Grat=, wept. + + =Gree=, a prize; =bure the gree= = won the victory. + + =Greet=, to weep. + + =Groanin’ maut=, the gossips’ ale at a lying-in. + + =Gruntle=, the face, phiz. + + =Grunzie=, the phiz (rather, mouth and nose). + + =Grushie=, sturdy-growing. + + =Guid-father=, father-in-law. + + =Guid-willie=, hearty, with good-will. + + =Gumlie=, muddy. + + =Gusty=, tasty. + + + =Hae=, have. + + =Haet= (= have it), component term in phrases; + =deil-haet=, =fient-haet= = devil a bit, devil a one. + + =Haffets=, the temples. + + =Hafflins=, half-like, partly. + + =Haggis=, “A special Scotch pudding made of sheep’s + entrails, onions, and oatmeal, boiled in a sheep’s stomach. + The _pièce de résistance_ at Burns’ Club Dinners, and an + esteemed antidote to whisky.” Thus Henley and Henderson, with + obvious envy. + + =Hain=, to use sparingly; be out of use. + + =Hairst=, =har’st=, harvest. + + =Haith=, faith! + + =Haivers=, nonsense; idle chat. + + =Hal’=, =hald=, a holding. + + =Hallen=, a partition wall; a porch. + + =Halloween=, All Saints’ Eve (Oct. 31). + + =Hammers=, blockheads. + + =Hangie=, hangman (nickname for Old Nick). + + =Hansel=, the first gift or getting, supposed to bring luck to + the receiver or occasion. + + =Hap=, any warm wrap or covering. + + =Happer=, the hopper of a mill. + + =Harn=, coarse cloth. + + =Hash=, an oaf, dunderhead. + + =Haslock=, the finest of the wool. + + =Haud=, to hold. + + =Haughs=, low-lying rich lands. + + =Hauns=, hands. + + =Havins=, manners, conduct. + + =Hawkie=, the cow. + + =Hech=, dear me! (expression of surprise and grief). + + =Heft=, a haft, handle. + + =Heigh=, high. + + =Hein-shinned=, crooked shinned. + + =Herriment=, plundering, devastation. + + =Heugh=, a hollow or pit. + + =Hilch=, to hobble, halt. + + =Hiltie-skiltie=, helter-skelter. + + =Hirples=, limps. + + =Histie=, bare. + + =Hizzie=, a wench, young woman. + + =Hoast=, a cough. + + =Hog-shouther=, shouldering, jostling. + + =Hoolie!= beware! + + =Houlet=, an owl. + + =Howdie=, midwife. + + =Howe=, a hollow. + + =Howket=, they dug; dug up, unearthed. + + =Hoyte=, “to amble crazily,” R.B. + + =Hughoc= = little Hugh. + + =Hunkers=, the hams. + + =Hurdies=, the buttocks. + + =Hushion=, a footless stocking, worn on the arm. + + + =Icker=, an ear of corn. + + =Ilka=, each, every. + + =Indentin’=, indenturing, devoting. + + =Ingine=, genius. + + =I’se=, I will or shall. + + =Ither=, other, another, each other. + + + =Jad=, a jade. + + =Jauk=, to trifle, dally. + + =Jaups=, splashes. + + =Jimp=, small, slender. + + =Jimps=, stays. + + =Jink=, to dodge, to turn quickly this way and that. + + =Jinker=, a spanker; a coquette. + + =Jirkinet=, bodice. + + =Jirt=, a jerk. + + =Jo=, sweetheart. + + =Jouk=, to duck down, cower. + + =Jundie=, to justle. + + + =Kain=, farm produce paid as rent. + + =Kebars=, rafters. + + =Kebbuck=, a cheese. + + =Keek=, peep. + + =Kelpies=, water-demons. + + =Kennin=, a little, a thought (astray, etc.). + + =Kep=, to catch (a ball, etc.). + + =Ket=, a fleece. + + =Kiaugh=, cark, anxiety. + + =Kilbaigie=, an esteemed whisky. + + =Kimmer=, wench, gossip, lass (married or single). + + =Kirn=, a churn. + + =Kirns=, harvest-homes. + + =Kirsen=, to christen. + + =Kist=, a chest. + + =Kitchen=, a relish, treat or extra; to impart a relish to. + + =Kittle=, risky, difficult. + + =Knaggie=, knobbly. + + =Knap=, to break (stones for road-metal). + + =Knowe=, a knoll. + + =Kyles=, skittles. + + =Kytes=, bellies. + + + =Laigh=, low. + + =Laik=, lack. + + =Lairing=, sinking in moss or mud. + + =Laithfu’=, lothe, bashful. + + =Lallan=, Lowland. + + =Lane=, lone, alone (is used with possessive pronoun: “thou art + no thy lane” = not alone). + + =Lap=, leapt. + + =Lave=, the remainder; the rest of them. + + =Lawin=, the reckoning. + + =Lea= (also =lay= and =ley=), untilled or meadow-land. + + =Lea-rig=, strip of grass-land. + + =Lear=, lore, learning. + + =Lee-lang=, livelong. + + =Leeze me on=, a blessing on. + + =Licket=, licked, thrashed. + + =Lift=, the sky; a load, share. + + =Limmer=, a jade. + + =Lin= (also =Linn=), a waterfall. + + =Link=, to go dancingly, trippingly on. + + =Linkit at it=, went at it. + + =Linties= (or =Lintwhites=), linnets. + + =Loan=, a lane. + + =Loof=, palm of the hand; the hand. + + =Loot=, let (past tense). + + =Lough=, a loch, lake. + + =Loup= (also =lowp=), to leap. + + =Lowe=, a flame. + + =Lug=, ear. + + =Lugget=, eared; =lugget caup=, the two-eared cup. + + =Luggie=, a =cog= with an upright handle. + + =Luntin=, smoking. + + =Lyart=, faded, blanched. + + + =Mae=, more. + + =Mailin=, a farm. + + =Mark=, an old Scots coin (1s. 1½d. stg.). + + =Martyrs=, a Scotch psalm tune. + + =Maukin=, a hare. + + =Maun=, must. + + =Maut=, malt. + + =Mavis=, the thrush. + + =Melder=, a milling, or quantity of corn sent to be ground. + + =Mell=, to meddle. + + =Mense=, good manners, discretion. + + =Messan=, a mongrel. + + =Midden=, a dungheap. + + =Midden-creels=, dungheap baskets. + + =Mind=, to remind; to remember. + + =Minnie=, mother. + + =Mirk=, dark. + + =Moop=, to nibble; to herd with. + + =Mottie=, dusty. + + =Mou’=, the mouth. + + =Moudiewort=, a mole. + + =Muslin-kail=, meatless broth. + + =Mutchkin=, a liquid measure = 1 pint English. + + + =Naigie=, dim. of =naig=, a nag. + + =Nappy=, ale, liquor. + + =Near-hand=, nearly. + + =Neuk=, corner. + + =New-ca’d=, newly driven. + + =Nieve=, fist. + + =Niffer=, exchange. + + =Nit=, a nut. + + =Nowte=, cattle. + + + =Ourie=, shivering, drooping. + + =Out-owre=, out-over, away across. + + =Owsen=, oxen. + + + =Pack and thick=, confidental. + + =Paidle=, to wade. + + =Painch=, the paunch. + + =Paitrick=, a partridge. + + =Parishen=, the people of a parish. + + =Pat=, did put. + + =Pattle=, a plough-spade. + + =Paughty=, pompous, haughty. + + =Paukie= (or =pawkie=), sly. + + =Pechan=, the stomach. + + =Pechin’=, cramming. + + =Pint= (Scots), two English quarts. + + =Plack=, a small coin, about ⅓d. + + =Plaiden=, of coarse woollen cloth. + + =Poind=, distrain. + + =Poortith=, poverty. + + =Poussie=, the hare. + + =Pow=, the poll, head. + + =Pownie=, a pony. + + =Prief=, proof. + + =Priggin’=, haggling. + + =Proveses=, provosts. + + =Pyke=, to pick. + + =Pyles=, grains, particles. + + + =Quat=, quitted. + + =Quean=, a young woman, lass. + + + =Ragweed=, the ragwort. + + =Rair=, to roar. + + =Raize=, to excite, to anger. + + =Ramfeezl’d=, fagged out. + + =Ram-stam=, headlong, reckless. + + =Rant=, to rollick, royster. + + =Rants=, jollifications; rows. + + =Rape=, a rope. + + =Raploch=, coarse cloth. + + =Rash=, a rush. + + =Rash-buss=, a clump of rushes. + + =Ratton=, a rat. + + =Raw=, a row (of pins). + + =Rax=, to stretch; to reach; + =Rax thy leather=, stretch or exercise thyself. + + =Reave=, to rob. + + =Red-wat-shod=, red-wet-shod. + + =Reek=, smoke; to smoke. + + =Reekit=, smoked, smoky. + + =Remead=, remedy. + + =Rig=, a ridge. + + =Riggin=, the roof, roof-tree. + + =Reestit=, scorched; rested = refused to go. + + =Rigwoodie hags=, gallows hags (rigging for the =woodie=). + + =Rip=, (or =ripp=,) a handful of corn from the sheaf. + + =Rive=, to strain, rend, tear. + + =Rock=, a distaff. + + =Rockin=, a social meeting for song and chat and story, to which + the women brought their =rock= or distaff. + + =Roose=, to praise, flatter. + + =Rowe=, to roll. + + =Rowte=, to low, bellow. + + =Rowth=, abundance. + + =Rung=, a cudgel. + + + =Sair=, sore; to serve. + + =Sarkit=, shirted. + + =Saugh=, the willow; + =saugh woodies=, willow-wands. + + =Sawmont=, salmon. + + =Scaith=, hurt. + + =Scar= (or =Scaur=), a jutting cliff, or bank of earth. + + =Scaur=, to scare; (adj.) readily scared. + + =Scaud=, scald. + + =Scho=, she. + + =Sconner=, to loathe. + + =Screed=, a rent, tear. + + =Scrievin’=, careering; tearing along. + + =Seizins=, freehold properties. + + =Sets you=, becomes you. + + =Seventeen-hunder linen=, fine linen, woven in a reed of 1700 + divisions. + + =Shachl’t=, large and shapeless. + + =Shavie=, a trick. + + =Shaw=, a wood. + + =Sheuch=, a ditch, watercourse. + + =Shiel=, a shed or hut. + + =Shill=, shrill, shrilly. + + =Sic=, such. + + =Siller=, silver; money; wealth. + + =Sinsyne=, since then. + + =Skeigh=, skittish, coy. + + =Skellum=, a scullion, a worthless fellow. + + =Skelp=, to spank (in all the Eng. senses). + + =Skinkin’=, watery. + + =Skirl=, to shrill out, to scream. + + =Sklent=, to slant, look aside; to cheat. + + =Skriegh=, a scream. + + =Shyrin’=, flaring. + + =Skyte=, a glancing quick stroke. + + =Slap=, a gap in a fence or wall, a gate. + + =Sleeest=, slyest. + + =Slypet=, slipped down. + + =Smoor’d=, smothered. + + =Smytrie=, a smattering, a clump. + + =Snapper=, to stumble along. + + =Snash=, abuse, insolence. + + =Snaw-broo=, melted snow. + + =Sned=, to crop, lop, prune; + =Sned besoms=, make birch-brooms. + + =Snell=, bitter, biting. + + =Sneeshin-mill=, the snuff-box. + + =Snick= (or =sneck=), the door latchet. + + =Snool=, to snub; to bear snubbing, cringe. + + =Snoove=, to go slowly and steadily on. + + =Snowkit=, pried with the nose. + + =Sonsie=, plump and pleasant. + + =Sough=, a sighing sound. + + =Soupe= (or =Sowpe=), a “sup” of anything. + + =Souter=, a cobbler. + + =Sowth=, the low humming or whistling of one trying over a tune. + Cp. “soothe.” + + =Sowther=, solder. + + =Spairge=, sprinkle. + + =Spate=, the flooding of a river or stream. + + =Spavie=, the spavin. + + =Spean=, to wean. + + =Speel=, to climb. + + =Speer=, =spier=, to inquire. + + =Splore=, a jollification. + + =Spotting=, ? making =spates=. + + =Sprattle=, to scramble. + + =Spring=, a quick dancing air on the pipes. + + =Spritty=, full of roots of sprits, or rushes. + + =Spunkies=, Will-o’-the-wisps. + + =Stacher=, to stagger. + + =Stang=, to sting. + + =Stank=, a pool. + + =Starns=, stars. + + =Staumrel=, doltish, half-witted. + + =Staw=, stole. + + =Staw=, to disgust, turn the stomach. + + =Stechin=, cramming. + + =Steek=, to close, fasten. + + =Steeks=, stitches, links (of a purse). + + =Steer=, to stir, molest. + + =Steeve=, firm, compact. + + =Sten=, a leap, bound. + + =Stents=, assessments, dues. + + =Stey=, steep. + + =Stilt=, to limp, halt. + + =Stimpart=, a dry measure = about ½ peck. + + =Stirk=, a young bullock or heifer (over a year old). + + =Stocks=, heads (of cabbage, etc.) + + =Stoiter=, to stagger. + + =Stookit raw=, row of =stooks=, or shocks of corn. + + =Stoor=, harsh, deep-sounding. + + =Stoure=, dust (of toil, etc.) + + =Stown=, (could) have stolen. + + =Stowlins=, by stealth. + + =Streekit=, stretched. + + =Stroan’d=, spouted. + + =Studdie=, an anvil. + + =Sturt=, trouble. + + =Sucker=, sugar. + + =Swank=, limber, agile. + + =Swarf=, to swoon. + + =Swat=, sweated. + + =Swats=, new ale. + + =Swither=, hesitation. + + =Syne=, then; since. + + + =Tapetless=, headless = silly. + + =Tapsalteerie=, topsyturvy. + + =Tassie=, a cup. + + =Tawie=, quiet to handle. + + =Tawted=, matted. + + =Teat= (pron. =tait=), a little, a small quantity. + + =Temper-pin=, the wooden pin that regulates (tempers), the motion + of the spinning-wheel. + + =Tent=, care, heed; to care for, attend to. + + =Tentie=, careful. + + =Thack=, thatch. + + =Thae=, those. + + =Thairm=, fiddlestrings; intestines. + + =Theekit=, thatched. + + =Thegither=, together. + + =Thieveless=, dry, unfriendly. + + =Thir=, these. + + =Thirl=, to thrill. + + =Thole=, to endure, suffer. + + =Thowe=, a thaw. + + =Thowless=, lazy, good-for-nothing. + + =Thrang=, busy; a throng. + + =Thrave=, 24 sheaves (= 2 shocks) of corn. + + =Thraw=, to cross, contradict; to twist; + =Thraw saugh woodies=, make (and peddle) baskets. + + =Thrissle=, the thistle. + + =Throu’ther=, =throwther=, pell-mell, mixed up. + + =Till=, to; + =till’t=, to it. + + =Timmer=, timber; the woods. + + =Tine=, lose; be lost. + + =Tint=, lost. + + =Tinkler=, a tinker. + + =Tirlin’=, rattling on the door-pin (= knocking for admittance.) + + =Tittie=, sister. + + =Tocher=, dowry; =tocher-band=, marriage-contract. + + =Tod=, a fox. + + =Toun= (often spelt =town=), a farm-house and the buildings + a-near; a hamlet. + + =Towmond=, a twelvemonth. + + =Toyte=, totter. + + =Trig=, smart, neat. + + =Tyke=, a vagrant dog. + + + =Unco=, great; very; strange. + + =Uncos=, news; strangers. + + + =Vauntie=, proud, in high spirits. + + =Virl=, the ring of metal round the point of a staff or umbrella. + + + =Wabster=, a weaver. + + =Wad=, would; wager. + + =Wae=, sorrowful. + + =Waft=, a side excursion. + + =Wair=, to spend, bestow. + + =Wale=, to choose; a choice. + + =Walie= (adj.), choice; goodly; large. + + =Wame=, the belly. + + =Wanchancie=, risky. + + =Wanrestfu’=, restless. + + =Wark-lume=, a tool. + + =Warstle=, to wrestle, struggle. + + =Waught=, a draught, or hearty drink. + + =Wauken=, to awaken. + + =Waukin’=, watching. + + =Waukit=, hardened with work. + + =Waukrife=, wakeful. + + =Waur=, worse. + + =Weans= (= =wee anes=), children. + + =Weasan=, the weasand. + + =We’se=, we will, or shall. + + =Whaizle=, to wheeze. + + =Whiddin=, scudding; =whids=, gambols. + + =Whigmaleeries=, fantastical notions. + + =Whins=, furze bushes. + + =Whirligigums=, flourishes. + + =Whitter=, a hearty draught. + + =Whyles=, sometimes. + + =Widdle=, the wriggle and struggle. + + =Wimple=, to meander. + + =Winnock-bunker=, a window-seat. + + =Wintie=, a staggering motion. + + =Woodie=, the gallows; a wand. + + =Wordy=, worthy. + + =Writers=, lawyers. + + =Wud=, wild, mad. + + =Wyte=, blame. + + + =Yell=, dry, milkless. + + =Ye’se=, you shall or will. + + =Yestreen=, last night. + + =Yett=, gate. + + =Yokin=, a yoking; a spell of work; a set to. + + =Yont=, beyond. + + =Yowe=, a ewe. + + =Yowie= (dim. of =yowe=), a pet ewe. + + =Yule=, Christmas (old style, however, + and therefore January 5). + + + [N.B.—The reader will do well to bear in mind that where Burns + uses, seemingly, a mixed dialect, the bias of feeling is towards + the vernacular; so that many words that are spelt as English must + be pronounced as Scotch in order to get the sense or rhyme or + both. See (e.g.) toun above.] + + + + +Index of First Lines + +[The first lines of Choruses, as well as of the opening verses, are +given in this Index.] + + + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 73 + + Again rejoicing nature sees, 58 + + A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie, 37 + + Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, 72 + + Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, 150 + + An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam, 34 + + An’ O! my Eppie, 148 + + As cauld a wind as ever blew, 119 + + As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither, 94 + + Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms, 132 + + Ay waukin, O, 163 + + + Bannocks o’ bear meal, 155 + + Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 20 + + Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 7 + + Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 3 + + Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, 75 + + By Ochtertyre there grows the aik, 7 + + By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day, 12 + + + Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, 108 + + Cauld is the e’enin’ blast, 130 + + Coming through the rye, poor body, 156 + + Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair, 47 + + + Dear Smith, the sleest pawkie thief, 114 + + Does haughty Gaul invasion threat, 169 + + Duncan Gray came here to woo, 18 + + + Edina, Scotia’s darling seat, 69 + + + Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face, 154 + + Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 74 + + First when Maggie was my care, 130 + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 9 + + For a’ that, and a’ that, 167 + + For auld lang syne, my dear, 170 + + + Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night, 51 + + Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, 6 + + Green grow the rashes O, 22 + + + Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, 61 + + Hark, the mavis’ e’ening sang, 108 + + Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 112 + + Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 168 + + He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn, 142 + + Husband, husband, cease your strife, 131 + + + I am my mammie’s ae bairn, 103 + + I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’, 57 + + I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 164 + + I gat your letter, winsome Willie, 98 + + I hae a wife o’ my ain, 91 + + I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend, 151 + + I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, 36 + + I mind it weel, in early date, 164 + + I’m owre young, I’m owre young, 103 + + I see a form, I see a face, 36 + + Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, 161 + + Is there, for honest poverty, 167 + + I tell you now this ae night, 135 + + It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 90 + + It was a’ for our rightfu’ King, 11 + + It was upon a Lammas night, 21 + + + Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body, 156 + + John Anderson my jo, John, 58 + + + Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 96 + + Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, 41 + + Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 101 + + Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies, 82 + + Let other Poets raise a fracas, 78 + + Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 138 + + + Meet me on the warlock knowe, 10 + + My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 32 + + My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 33 + + My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 139 + + My heart was ance as blythe and free, 104 + + My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, 43 + + My lord a-hunting he is gane, 43 + + My Lord, I know your noble ear, 135 + + My love is like a red red rose, 6 + + My love she’s but a lassie yet, 84 + + + November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough, 180 + + Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 74 + + Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea, 41 + + Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, 10 + + Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 3 + + Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns, 120 + + + O cam ye here the fight to shun, 16 + + Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, 90 + + O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 84 + + Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, 111 + + O how can I be blithe and glad, 89 + + O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, 13 + + O lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 134 + + O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel, 146 + + O let me in this ae night, 134 + + O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 15 + + O Luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, 42 + + O Mary, at thy window be, 2 + + O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet, 129 + + O poortith cauld, and restless love, 122 + + O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, 51 + + O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 71 + + O that I had ne’er been married, 150 + + O this is no my ain lassie, 36 + + O Thou unknown Almighty Cause, 159 + + O Thou, whatever title suit thee, 125 + + O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 123 + + Out over the Forth I look to the north, 113 + + O, wat ye wha’s in yon town, 34 + + O were I on Parnassus hill, 92 + + O, wert thou in the cauld blast, 140 + + O wha my babie-clouts will buy, 63 + + O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad, 62 + + O why should fate sic pleasure have, 123 + + O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, 50 + + O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 106 + + + Robin was a rovin’ boy, 1 + + + Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 74 + + Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 166 + + She is a winsome wee thing, 93 + + Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 170 + + Simmer’s a pleasant time, 163 + + + The bonniest lad that e’er I saw, 68 + + The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, 57 + + The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 162 + + The gloomy night is gathering fast, 67 + + The lovely lass o’ Inverness, 140 + + The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockades, 17 + + Then guidwife, count the lawin, 51 + + Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, 132 + + There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 122 + + There’s naught but care on ev’ry han’, 22 + + There was a lad was born in Kyle, 1 + + There was a lass, and she was fair, 109 + + There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg, 60 + + There was three Kings into the east, 48 + + The sun had closed the winter day, 200 + + The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 157 + + The wintry wast extends his blast, 46 + + Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, 31 + + Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 113 + + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 14 + + To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 105 + + ’Twas even—the dewy fields were green, 141 + + ’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle, 172 + + ’Twas when the stacks got on their winter-hap, 186 + + + Up in the morning’s no’ for me, 92 + + + We are na fou’, we’re no that fou’, 50 + + Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, 44 + + Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, 4 + + What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 104 + + When biting Boreas, fell and dour, 23 + + When chapman billies leave the street, 193 + + When chill November’s surly blast, 64 + + When I think on the happy days, 12 + + When o’er the hill the eastern star, 145 + + Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea, 147 + + While briers an’ woodbines budding green, 52 + + While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake, 85 + + While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 26 + + Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene, 160 + + Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, 76 + + Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 133 + + Wow, but your letter made me vauntie, 149 + + + Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, 8 + + Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, 120 + + + WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. + PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH + + + + +List of Poem Titles + + + Songs and Lyrics + +THERE WAS A LAD +MARY MORISON +THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY +TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 +GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O’ WINE +MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED RED ROSE +BLYTHE AND MERRY +HIGHLAND MARY +AFTON WATER +DAINTY DAVIE +IT WAS A’ FOR OUR RIGHTFU’ KING +WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS +THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME +KENMURE’S ON AND AWA +TO MARY IN HEAVEN +LOGAN BRAES +ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFFMUIR +DUNCAN GRAY +MY NANNIE O +THE RIGS O’ BARLEY +GREEN GROW THE RASHES +A WINTER NIGHT +THE RICHES OF THE POOR +THO’ CRUEL FATE +TAM GLEN +FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY +O, FOR ANE AN’ TWENTY, TAM! +O, WAT YE WHA’S IN YON TOWN? +O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE +I’LL AYE CA’ IN BY YON TOWN +THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, +LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS +THE POSIE +MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T +TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY +THOUGHTS IN WINTER +CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE +JOHN BARLEYCORN +WILLIE BREWED +COUNT THE LAWIN +RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE +AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP +THE CARDIN’ O’T +JOHN ANDERSON MY JO +AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT +DUNCAN DAVISON +AN EXHORTATION TO DAVIE +WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD +THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T +MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN +THE GLOOMY NIGHT +THE HIGHLAND LADDIE +ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH +BONNIE LESLEY +AH, CHLORIS +AE FOND KISS +MY NANNIE’S AWA +MACPHERSON’S FAREWELL +BRAW LADS +IN A FRIEND’S CAUSE +SCOTCH DRINK +ANOTHER OF THE SAME +A BOUSING CATCH +THE MALTWORM’S RUNE +POETS FOR EVER! +THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S FAR AWA +OF A’ THE AIRTS +IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE +I HAE A WIFE +UP IN THE MORNING +O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL +MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE THING +THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE +POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY +THE BARDS OF AYR +LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER +I’M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET +WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN? +TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO +ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS +CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES +AYE SHE WROUGHT HER MAMMIE’S WARK +OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! +WANDERING WILLIE +OUT OVER THE FORTH +THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE +ROWTH O’ RHYMES THE POET’S RICHES +THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON +YE BANKS AND BRAES +NOW WESTLIN WINDS +AULD ROB MORRIS +POORTITH CAULD +TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY +ADDRESS TO THE DEIL +O MAY, THY MORN +PEG-A-RAMSEY +WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O’T +HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE +HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER +SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD +O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? +THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE +YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER +MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS +THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS +O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST +THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE +ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON +MY AIN KIND DEARIE O +BESSY AND HER SPINNIN’ WHEEL +THE GALLANT WEAVER +EPPIE ADAIR +FOR WEANS AND WIFE +CROWDIE EVER MAIR +‘BRAW SOBER LESSONS’ +TO A HAGGIS +BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY +COMING THROUGH THE RYE +LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN +A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH +STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION +A BARD’S EPITAPH +THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE +AY WAUKIN, O +IN EVIL DAYS +THE POETIC DAYSPRING +SCOTS WHA HAE +FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT +HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA +DOES HAUGHTY GAUL +AULD LANG SYNE + + Longer Poems + +THE TWA DOGS +THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT +THE BRIGS OF AYR +TAM O’ SHANTER +THE VISION + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75462 *** |