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'KKSKNTKI)   HY 


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Q^Ac  Q^i?./A-yii(<7rc   O/-  nAJ/^, 


(RROOMBKfflJC'E  AS©   SO'KS. 


THE 


POETICAL    WOEKS 


ROBERT    BURNS. 


^^^ 


LONDON: 
GKOOMBRIDGE    AND     SONS, 

PATEimoSTEtt  now. 
MDCCCLIX. 


^o^ 


m.  HUTCHESON. 

2iMr'06 


LONUON: 

XnOMAS    HARRILD,    ^ '^^[1^^-^    SALISBURY   SOUARE, 

FLEET     STREET. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION, 

BEAKI.Vi;   THE    IMPRINT,    "KILMARNOCK,    1786. 


The  foUoAving  triHes  are  not  the  production  of  the  poet  who,  with 
all  the  advantages  of  learned  art,  and,  perhaps,  amid  the  eleganciea 
and  idlenesses  of  upper  life,  looks  down  for  a  rural  theme,  with  an 
eye  to  Theocritus  or  Virgil.  To  the  Author  of  this,  these,  and 
other  celebrated  names,  their  countrymen,  are,  at  least,  in  their 
original  language,  a  fountain  shut  up,  and  a  book  sealed.  Unac- 
quainted with  the  necessary  requisites  for  commencing  poet  by  rule, 
he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners  he  felt  and  saw  m  himself 
and  his  rustic  compeers  around  him,  in  his  and  their  native  lan- 
guage. Though  a  rhymer  from  his  earliest  years,  at  least  from  the 
earliest  impulses  of  the  softer  passions,  it  was  not  till  very  lately  that 
the  applause,  perhaps  the  partiality,  of  friendship,  awakened  his 
vanity  so  far  as  to  make  liim  think  anything  of  hia  worth  showing  ; 
and  none  of  the  following  works  were  composed  with  a  view  to  the 
press.  To  amuse  himself  with  the  little  creations  of  his  own  fancy, 
amid  the  toil  and  fatigues  of  a  laborious  life ;  to  transcribe  the 
various  feelings,  the  loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears,  in  his 
o-\vn  breast ;  to  find  some  kind  of  counterpoise  to  the  struggles  of  a 
world,  always  an  alien  scene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind— 
these  were  his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses,  and  in  these  he 
found  Poetry  to  be  its  own  reward.  Now  that  he  appears  in  the 
public  character  of  an  Author,  he  does  it  with  fear  and  trembling. 
So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  that  even  he,  an  obscure, 
nameless  Bard,  shrinks  aghast  at  the  thought  of  being  brjmded  as 
— an  impertinent  blockhead,  obtruding  his  nonsense  on  the  world  ; 
and  because  he  can  make  a  shift  to  jingle  a  few  doggerel  Scotch 
rhymes  together,  looking  upon  himself  as  a  poet  of  no  small  conse- 
quence forsooth  !  It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet, 
Shenstone,  whose  divine  elegies  do  honour  to  our  language,  our 


VI  PREFACE   TO   THE   FIRST   EDITION. 

nation,  and  our  species,  that  ♦'  Humility  has  depressed  many  a 
genius  to  a  hei-mit,  but  never  raised  one  to  fame.'"  If  any  critic- 
catches  at  the  word  Genius,  the  Author  tells  him,  once  for  all,  that 
he  certainly  looks  upon  himself  as  possessed  of  some  poetic  abilities, 
otherwise  his  publishing  in  the  manner  he  has  done,  would  be  a 
manoeuvre  below  the  worst  character  which,  he  hopes,  his  worst 
enemy  will  ever  give  him.  But  to  the  genius  of  a  Ramsay,  or  the 
glorious  da\vnings  of  the  poor  unfortimate  Fcrgusson,  he,  with  equal 
unaffected  sincerity,  declares  that,  even  in  his  highest  pulse  of 
vanity,  he  has  not  the  most  distant  pretensions.  These  two  justly 
admired  Scotch  poets  he  has  often  had  in  his  eye  in  the  following 
jiieces :  but  rather  with  a  view  to  kindle  at  their  flame,  than  for 
servile  imitation. 

To  his  subscribers,  the  Author  returns  his  most  sincere  thanks — 
not  the  mercenary  bow  over  a  counter,  but'the  heart -throbbing  gra- 
titude of  the  Bard,  conscious  how  much  he  owes  to  benevolence  and 
friendship,  for  gratifying  him,  if  he  deserves  it,  in  that  dearest  wish 
of  every  poetic  bosom — to  be  distinguished.  He  begs  his  readers, 
particularly  the  learned  and  the  polite,  who  may  honour  him  with 
a  perusal,  that  they  will  make  every  allowance  for  education  and 
circumstances  of  life ;  but  if,  after  a  fair,  candid,  and  impartial 
criticism,  he  shall  stand  convicted  of  dulness  and  nonsense,  let 
him  be  done  by  as  he  would  in  that  case  do  by  others — let  him  iw 
uonilsmned,  without  mercy,  to  contempt  and  oblivion. 


DEDICATION    TO  THE   SECOND    EDITION. 


l-*}  THK  NOBLEMEN  AND  GENTLEMEN  OF  THE 
CALEDONIAN  HUNT. 

1\Ty  Lords  and  Gentlemen, — A  Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  the  name, 
and  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  sing  in  his  Country's  service — where 
shall  he  so  properly  look  for  patronage  as  to  the  illustrious  names  of 
his  native  land ;  those  who  bear  the  honours  and  inherit  the  virtues 
of  their  ancestors  ?  The  Poetic  Genius  of  my  country  found  me.  as 
the  prophetic  bard  Elijah  did  Elisha — at  the  plough,  and  threw 
her  inspiring  mantle  over  me.  She  bade  me  sing  the  loves,  the 
Joys,  the  rural  scenes,  and  rural  pleasures  of  my  native  soil,  in  my 
native  tongue :  I  tuned  my  wild,  artless  notes  as  she  inspired. — 
She  whispered  me  to  come  to  this  ancient  Metropolis  of  Caledonia, 
and  lay  my  Songs  under  your  honoured  protection  :  I  now  obey  her 
dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I  do  not  approach  you, 
my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  in  the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank 
you  for  past  favours ;  that  path  is  so  hackneyed  by  prostitute<l 
Learning,  that  honest  Rusticity  is  ashamed  of  it.  Nor  do  I  present 
this  Address  with  the  venal  soul  of  a  servile  author,  looking  for  a 
continuation  of  those  favours  :  I  was  bi-ed  to  the  plough,  and  am 
independent.  I  come  to  claim  the  common  Scottish  name,  with 
you,  my  illustrious  Countrymen  ;  and  to  tell  the  Avorld  that  I  glory 
in  the  title.  I  come  to  congratulate  my  country,  that  the  blood  of 
her  ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncontaminated  ;  and  that  from  your 
courage,  knowledge,  and  public  spirit,  she  may  expect  protection, 
wealth,  and  liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to  proffer  my 
warmest  Avishes  to  the  Great  Fountain  of  Honour,  the  Monarch  of 
the  Universe,  for  your  welfare  and  happiness. 


VUl  DEDICATION    TO    THE    SECOND    EDITION. 

'When  you  go  forth  to  waken  the  Echoes,  in  the  ancient  and 
favourite  amusement  of  your  forefathers,  may  Pleasure  ever  be  of 
your  party  ;  and  maj-  Social  Joy  await  your  return  :  when  harassed 
in  courts  or  camps,  with  the  jostlint^s  of  had  men  and  bad  measures, 
may  the  honest  consciousness  of  injured  AYorth  attend  your  return 
to  your  native  seats  ;  and  may  Domestic  Happiness,  with  a  smiling 
welcome,  meet  you  at  your  gates  !  Jlay  Corruption  shrink  at  your 
kindling  indignant  glance ;  and  may  tyranny  in  the  Ruler,  and 
licentiousness  in  the  People,  equally  find  you  an  inexorable  foe  ! 

I  have  the  honour  to  he, 
"With  the  sincerest  gratitude,  and  highest  respect. 
My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

Youi'  most  devoted  humble  Servant. 
ROBERT  PURX3. 
J'Jdinburi/h,  April  A, 
17^7. 


MEMOIR 


THE    LIFE    OF    ROBERT    BURNS. 


Thh  Aiithoi-  of  the  immortal  Poems  which  are  now  presented  to 
the  public  in  a  novel  form, — poems,  of  which  Mr.  Pitt  declared 
that  he  could  think  of  none  since  Sliakspeare's  that  had  so  much 
the  appearance  of  sweetlj'  coming  from  nature,  was  horn  in  a  clay- 
built  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  Poon,  on  the  25th  day  of  January, 
1759,  under  auspices  which  but  too  truly  predicted  the  fate  of  him 
who,  amid  storm  and  tempest,  was  brought  into  this  inhospitable 
world.  Robert  Burns  was  the  eldest  son  of  William  Burness,  and 
Agnes  Brown  his  wife.  William  Burness,  who  was  born  in  1721, 
was  the  son  of  a  small  Kincardineshire  farmer,  whose  family  had 
been  retainers  of  the  noble  house  of  Keith  Marshall,  attainted  for 
having  been  out  in  171-'>;  their  fortunes  affected  the  prosperity  of 
their  tenantry,  and  at  the  age  of  nineteen  William  Burness  found 
himself  obliged  to  leave  tlie  paternal  roof,  and  seek  his  fortune  in 
the  wide  world.  "  Never  shall  I  forget,"  he  often  said,  "  the  bitter 
feelings  with  whicli  I  parted  from  my  younger  brother  on  the  top 
of  a  lonelj'  hill,  and  turned  my  steps  towards  the  Border."  He  first 
sought  employment  at  Edinburgh  as  a  gardener,  from  thence  he 
removed  to  Ayrshire,  and  lived  for  two  years  in  the  service  of  the 
laird  of  Fairly,  and  afterwards  with  Cra^vford  of  Doonside.  He 
was  next  induced  to  take  a  pei-petual  lease  of  seven  acres  of  land, 
with  the  intention  of  establishing  himself  as  a  nurseryman  and 
public  gardener  ;  he  built  a  house  on  this  land  with  his  o\vn 
hands,  and  in  December,  1757,  brought  home  Agnes  Brown  to  his 
humble  dwelling.  Before  he  made  much  progress  in  preparing  his 
nursery-ground,  he  was  engaged  by  Mr.  Ferguson,  who  had  lately 
purchased  tlie  neighbouring  estate  of  Doonholm,  in  the  double 
capacity  of  gardener  and  overseer,  and  such  was  his  condition  when 
Robert  Burns  was  born.  The  storms  of  winter  howled  around  the 
cradle  of  the  Poet ;  the  frail  walls  of  the  clay-buiit  hovel  yielded 
to  the  blast ;  and  at  midnight  the  mother  and  her  helpless  infant 
were  bnme  from  their  tottering  house  to  the  shelter  of  a  neighbour- 
ing cottage.  This  evil  was  however  soon  repaired,  and  for  nine  years 
William  Burness  continued  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Ferguson,  whilst 
his  wife  occupied  herself  in  t)ie  management  of  her  family,  and^  of 


X  iMEAIOIR   OF    THE 

a  small  dairy.  They  lived  contented  and  happy,  and  comparatively 
prosperous.  This  peaceful  life  was  not  however  of  long  continu- 
ance. In  an  evil  hour,  Burnoss,  desirous  of  making  a  better  pro- 
vision for  his  rising  family  than  his  present  circumstances  allowed, 
resolved  to  become  a  farmer.  Mr.  Ferguson,  to  whom  he  had 
proved  a  valuable  and  faithful  servant,  granted  him  a  lease  of  a 
farm  called  Mount  Oliphant,  on  which  he  entered  at  Whitsuntide, 
1766,  and  lent  him  a  hundred  poimds  to  assist  in  stocking  it.  This 
step  was  but  the  commencement  of  a  series  of  misfortunes,  which 
pursued  him  to  the  grave.  The  soil  of  Moimt  Oliphant  was  poor, 
the  rent  was  high  ;  his  friendly  landlord  died,  and  the  estates  fell  into 
the  management  of  "  a  stern  factor,  whose  threatening  letters," 
says  Robert  Burns,  '•  set  us  all  in  tears."  Hard  labour  and  rigid 
economy  were  vainly  opposed  to  the  tide  of  misfortims.  Gilbert 
Burns,  the  poet's  younger  brother,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  thus 
feelingly  describes  their  condition.  "  Fqr  several  years  butcher's 
meat  was  a  stranger  in  the  house,  while  all  the  members  of  the 
family  exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  of  their  strength,  and 
rather  beyond  it,  in  the  labours  of  the  farm.  My  brother,  at  the 
age  of  thirteen,  assisted  in  thrashing  the  crop  of  corn,  and  at  iif- 
teen  was  the  principal  labourer  on  the  farm,  for  we  had  no  hired 
servant,  male  or  female.  The  anguish  of  mind  we  felt  at  our 
tender  years,  under  these  straits  and  difficulties,  was  very  great. 
To  think  of  our  father  growing  old  (for  he  was  now  above  fifty), 
broken  do^vn  with  the  long-continued  fatigues  of  his  life,  with  a 
wife  and  five  other  children,  and  in  a  declining  state  of  circum- 
stances,— these  reflections  produced  in  my  brother's  mind  and  mine 
sensations  of  the  deepest  distress." 

For  eleven  years  William  Burness  continued  to  struggle  on  at 
Mount  Oliphant:  at  Whitsuntide,  1777,  he  removed  to  Lochlea,  a 
better  farm,  of  130  acres,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  about  ten  miles 
from  Mount  Oliphant.  Here  for  four  years  he  met  with  better 
success,  but  in  the  fifth  the  sky  was  again  overcast.  The  markets 
were  unfavourable,  and  a  dispute  arose  concerning  the  tenns  of  his 
lease,  the  conditions  of  which  had  never  been  reduced  to  writing. 
The  diflTerence  was  at  length  referred  to  arbitration  ;  the  result  was 
his  ruin.  He  lived  to  be  acquainted  with  the  decision  which  de- 
stroyed his  last  hopes  of  worldly  prosperity,  but  death  spared 
him  from  further  suffering ;  he  died  of  consumption  on  the  13th 
February,  1784. 

"William  Burness  was  not  an  ordinary  man.  Of  his  integrity, 
the  confidence  reposed  in  him  by  Mr.  Ferguson  is  an  honourable 
testimony ;  of  his  care  of  the  education  of  his  children,  not  only  his 
illustrious  first-born,  but  his  whole  family,  and  especially  his  second 
Kon,  Gilbert,  were  convincing  proofs.  He  was  himself  possessed  of 
considerable  information  ;  to  the  ordinarj'  education  of  a  Scottish 
peasant,  he  added  an  extensive  and  ehrewd  knowledge  of  mankind : 
'•  I  have  met  with  few,"  said  his  son  Robert,  "  who  understood  men, 
their  manners,  and  their  ways,  better  than  my  fatlier."  Amidst  all 
the  pressure  of  hardship  and  misfortime,  the  care  of  his  children's 
minds  was  ever  uppermost  with  William  Burness.  His  .son  Robert 
was  sent,  in  his  sixth  year,  to  a  school  at  Alloway  Miln,  but  the 


LIFE   OF    ROBERT   BURNS.  xi 

teacher  being  shortly  removed  to  another  situation.  ■\Villiam 
Burness,  and  five  of  his  neighbours,  engaged  J'llin  Murdoeh,  a 
student  of  divinity,  in  his  stead,  hedging  him  by  turns  in  their 
houses.  The  character  of  William  Burness  is  well  depicted  in  a 
letter  from  Mr.  ]Murdoch  to  Dr.  Currie,  published  in  his  life  of  the 
Poet.  "  He  vi'as,"  says  Mr.  INlurdoch,  "a  tender  and  affectionate 
father;  he  took  pleasure  in  leading  his  children  in  the  path  of 
virtue  ;  not  in  driving  them,  as  some  parents  do,  to  the  performance 
of  duties  to  which  they  themselves  aro  averse.  He  took  care  to  find 
fault  but  very  seldom ;  and  therefore,  when  he  did  rebuke,  he  waa 
listened  to  with  a  kind  of  reverential  awe.  A  look  of  disapprobation 
was  felt ;  a  reproof  was  severely  so ;  and  a  stripe  with  the  tawz 
(securge) ,  even  on  the  skirt  of  the  coat,  gave  heartfelt  pain,  produciHi 
a  loud  lamentation,  and  brought  forth  a  flood  of  tears.  .  .  .  But  I 
must  not  pretend  to  give  you  a  description  of  all  tbe  manly  quali- 
ties, the  rational  and  Christian  virtues,  of  the  venerable  William 
Burness.  Time  would  fail  me.  I  shall  only  add  that  he  cai-efully 
practised  every  known  dutj',  and  avoided  everything  that  was  cri- 
minal :  or,  in  the  apostle's  words,  «  Herein  did  he  exercise  himself, 
in  living  a  life  void  of  offence  towards  God,  and  towards  men.'" 

Both  Robert  and  Gilbert  evinced  great  aptitude  in  learning,  and 
Murdoch  was  a  kind  and  skilful  master.  In  reading,  writing,  and 
arithmetic,  they  made  rapid  progress,  and  were  generally  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  class,  even  when  ranged  with  boys  by  far  their 
seniors. 

They  remained  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Murdoch  for  about  two  years, 
when  he  left  that  part  of  the  country  ;  but  William  Burness  con- 
tinued to  instruct  his  family.  In  the  winter  evenings  he  taught 
them  ai-ithmetic ;  he  borrowed  Salmon's  Geographical  Grammar, 
Derham's  Physico  and  Astro  Theology,  and  Ray's  Wisdom  of  God 
in  the  Creation,  and  gave  them  to  his  children  to  read  ;  in  their 
walks  and  at  their  labours  he  would  lead  the  conversation  to  sub- 
jects tending  to  increase  their  knowledge  or  confirm  their  virtuous 
habits.  For  their  religious  instruction,  he  himself  compiled  a 
manual,  still  existing,  in  which  the  rigid  Calvinism  of  the  more 
orthodox  presbyteriuns  is  somewhat  tempered  by  the  milder  doc- 
trines of  Arminianism. 

In  noticing  the  education  which  Burns  received,  a  somewhat  curi- 
ous fact  should  not  be  omitted.  Murdoch  attempted  to  teach  hig 
pupils  a  little  church  music,  but  the  two  Burnsos  were  far  behind 
their  companions  in  this  exercise,  and  Robert's  ear  was  so  dull,  and 
his  voice  so  untuneable,  that  it  was  some  time  before  he  cotild  dis- 
tinguish one  tune  from  another ;  yet  in  after  days  his  facility  in 
exquisitely  adapting  the  rhythm  of  his  verses  to  the  melody  to  which 
they  were  attached,  was  remarkable. 

The  year  after  the  departure  of  Mr.  Murdoch,  who  was  then 
establislied  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  our  poet  enjoyed  the  advantage  of 
three  weeks'  further  tuition  from  him, — one  week  before  the  harvest, 
and  two  at  its  conclusion.  This  short  space  was  occupied  in  per- 
fecting his  knowledge  of  English  grammar,  and  in  some  attempts 
at  a  knowledge  of  the  French  language  ;  but  although  he  returned 
with  a  dictionary  and  a  TeUmaque,  and  by  dint  of  laborious  stully 


Xll  MEMOIR   OF    THE 

made  some  progress  in  the  language,  yet  he  never  mastered  it,  and 
does  not  appear  to  have  resumed  the  study  at  a  later  period. 

The  thirst  for  knowledge  was  now,  however,  awakened  in  him  ; 
:ind  he  perused  with  avidity  every  book  he  could  obtain.  In  his 
situation  it  was  difficult  to  gain  access  to  any,  and  it  was  impossible 
f')r  him  to  choose;  yet  such  circimistances  have  their  advantages. 
The  man  limited  to  one  book  will  read  it  thoroughly,  when,  if 
turned  loose  into  a  library,  he  would  perhaps  dip  into  many  and 
read  none.  Burns  has  left  a  list  of  the  books  he  had  perused  before 
t!ie  family  left  Mount  Oliphant,  that  is  to  say,  at  the  age  of  eighteen. 
The  collection  is  heterogeneous ;  but,  properly  applied,'  contains  a 
fund  of  real  knowledge,  and  there  is  good  evidence  that  Burns  did 
properly  apply  it.  "What  I  knew  of  ancient  story,"  saj's  Burns,"  was 
gathered  from  Salmon's  and  Guthrie's  Geographical  Grammars; 
and  the  ideas  I  had  formed  of  moaem  manners,  of  literature,  and 
criticism,  I  got  from  the  Spectator.  These,  with  Pope's  works,  some 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  Tate  and  Dickson  on  Agriculture,  the  Heathen 
Pantheon,  Locke  on  the  Human  Understanding,  Stackhouse's  His- 
tory of  the  Bible,  Justice's  British  Gardener's  Dictionary,  Boyle's 
Lectures,  Allan  Ramsay's  Works,  Taylor's  Scriptui-e  Doctrine  of 
Original  Sin,  a  Select  Collection  of  English  Songs,  and  Hervey's 
Meditations,  had  formed  the  Avhole  of  my  reading."  To  these  studies 
must  be  added  the  songs  and  ballads  of  his  coimtry,  which  he 
delighted  to  listen  to,  and  which  probably  first  awakened  the  poetic 
fire  in  his  breast. 

Burns's  poetical  predilections  had  manifested  themselves  long 
before  quitting  Alount  Oliphant ;  Love  and  Poetry  were  the  twin- 
birth  of  his  ai-dent  bosom  ;  but  in  his  o%vn  words  must  the  tale  be 
told.  In  a  letter  to  his  friend.  Dr.  IMoore,  he  says,  "  You  know 
our  country  custom  of  coupling  a  man  and  woman  together  as  part- 
ners in  the  labours  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn,  my  partner 
was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year  younger  than  myself.  My 
scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of  doing  her  justice  in  that 
language ;  but  you  know  the  Scottish  iditmi,  '  she  was  a  bonnie 
sweet  sonsie  lass.'  In  short,  she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself, 
initiated  me  in  that  delicious  passion  which,  in  spite  of  acid  dis- 
appointment, gin-horse  prudence,  and  book-worm  philosophy,  I 
hold  to  be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our  deai-est  blesning  here  below  ! 
How  she  caught  the  contagion  I  cannot  tell.  You  medical  people 
talk  much  of  infection  from  breathing  the  same  air,  the  touch,  &c. ; 
hut  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved  her.  Indeed,  I  did  not  know 
myself  why  1  liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her,  when  return- 
ing in  the  evening  from  our  labours  ;  why  the  tonesof  her  voice 
made  my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  Eolian  harp ;  and,  particularly, 
why  my  pulse  beat  such  a  furious  ratan  when  I  looked  and  fingered 
over  her  little  hand  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle-stings  and  thistles. 
Among  her  other  love-inspiring  qualities  she  sang  sweetly;  and  it 
was  her  favourite  reel  to  which  I  attempted  giving  an  embodied 
vehicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so  presumptuous  as  to  imagine  that 
I  could  make  verses  like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men  that  had 
Greek  and  Latin ;  but  my  girl  sang  a  song  which  was  said  to  be 
composed  by  a  country  laird's  son,  on  one  of  his  father's  maids,  with 


LIFE    OF    ROBERT    BURNS.  XIU 

whom  he  was  in  love  ;  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhj-me 
as  well  as  he ;  for,  excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep  and  cast 
peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had  no  more  scholar- 
craft  than  mj'self.  Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry."  Does  not 
this  give  tenfold  interest  to 

O,  once  I  loved  a  bonnie  lass. 

Ay,  and  I  love  her  still. 
And  whilst  that  virtue  warms  my  breast, 

I'll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

The  fire  once  kindled,  ceased  not  to  bum  ;  almost  all  his  earlier 
pieces  were  inspired,  not  by  ethereal  goddesses,  but  substantial 
charms,  invested  by  the  genius  of  the  poet  with  a  celestial  radiance. 
They  are  the  genuine  feelings  of  the  heart  exhibited  in  glowing  verse. 

The  youthful  lover,  "to  give  his  manners  a  brush,"  as  he  ex- 
presses it,  ventured  on  his  father's  displeasure,  and  went  to  a  dancing 
school.  The  displeasure  was,  however,  transient,  and  his  father 
-suffered  the  rest  of  his  family  to  attend  during  the  second  month. 
In  his  nineteenth  year,  Burns  attended  a  mathematical  school  at 
Kirkoswald :  but  here  we  must  again  refer  to  his  letter  to  Dr. 
Moore.  "  A  circumstance,"  says  he,  "  which  made  some  altera- 
tion in  my  mind  and  manners,  was,  that  I  spent  my  nineteenth 
summer  on  a  smuggling  coast,  a  good  distance  from  home,  at  a 
noted  school,  to  learn  mensuration,  surveying,  dialling,  &c.,  in 
which  I  made  a  good  progress.  But  I  made  a  greater  progress  in 
mankind.  The  contraband  trade  was  at  that  time  very  successful, 
and  it  sometimes  happened  to  me  to  fall  in  with  those  who  carried 
it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot  and  roaring  dissipation  were  till 
tliis  time  new  to  me;  but  I  was  no  enemy  to  social  life.  Here, 
though  I  learnt  to  fill  my  glass,  and  to  mix  without  fear  in  a  drunken 
squabble,  yet  I  went  on  with  a  high  hand  with  my  geometry,  till 
the  sun  entered  Virgo,  a  month  which  is  always  a  carnival  in  my 
bosom,  when  a  chiirxning Jillette,  who  lived  next  door  to  the  school, 
overset  my  trigonometry,  and  set  me  off  at  a  tangent  from  the 
sphere  of  my  studies.  I  however  struggled  on  with  my  si?ies  and 
cosines  for  a  few  days  more ;  but  stepping  into  the  garden  one 
charming  noon  to  take  the  sun's  altitude,  there  I  met  my  angel, 
like 

'  Proserpine  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flovver.' 

"  It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more  good  at  school.  Tlje 
remaining  weeks  I  staid,  I  did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  my 
soul  about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her ;  and  the  two  last  nights 
of  my  stay  in  the  couutry,  had  sleep  been  a  mortal  sin,  the  image 
of  this  modest  and  innocent  girl  had  kept  me  guiltless. 

"  I  returned  home  very  considerably  improved.  My  reading  was 
enlarged  with  the  very  important  addition  of  Thomson's  and 
Shenstone's  works ;  I  had  seen  human  nature  in  a  new  phasis ;  and 
I  engaged  several  of  my  schoolfellows  to  keep  up  a  literary  cor- 
respondence with  me.  This  imjiroved  me  in  composition.  I  had 
met  with  a  collection  of  letters  by  the  wits  of  queen  Anne's  reign, 
and  I  pored  over  them  most  devoutly ;  I  kept  copies  of  any  of  my 
own  letters  that  pleased  me;    and  a  comparison  between  thoni 


XIV  MEMOIR  OF   THE 

and  the  composition  of  most  of  my  correspondents  flattered  my 
vanity.  I  carried  this  whim  so  far,  that  though  I  had  not  three  far- 
things' worth  of  business  in  the  world,  yet  almost  every  post  brought 
me  as  many  letters  as  if  I  had  been  a  broad  plodding  son  of  day- 
book and  ledger. 

"  My  life  flfowed  on  much  in  the  same  course  till  my  twenty-third 
year.  Vive  I'amour,  et  vive  la  bagatelle,  were  my  sole  principles  of 
action.  The  addition  of  two  more  authors  to  my  library  gave  me 
great  pleasure ;  Sterne  and  Mackenzie — Tristram  Shandy  and  The 
Man  of  Feeling — were  my  bosom  favourites.  Poesy  was  still  a  dar- 
ling walk  for  my  mind  ;  but  it  was  only  indulged  according  to  the 
humour  of  the  hour.  I  had  usually  half  a  dozen  or  more  pieces  on 
hand  ;  I  took  up  one  or  the  other  as  it  suited  the  momentary  lone 
of  the  mind,  and  dismissed  the  work  as  it  bordered  on  fatigue.  My 
passions,  once  lighted  tip,  raged  like  so  many  devils,  till  they  found 
vent  in  rhyme  ;  and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses,  like  a  spell, 
soothed  all  into  quiet." 

In  t})is  letter  there  is  miich  of  disturbed  and  imsatisfactory  reflec- 
tion on  by-gone  hours.  It  is  explained  by  another  passage  from  his 
letters,  in  which  the  workings  of  his  mind  are  forcibly  displayed. 
"  The  great  misfortune  of  my  life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I  saw  my 
father's  situation  entailed  on  me  perpetual  labour.  The  only  two 
openings  by  which  I  could  enter  the  temple  of  Fortune  were, 
the  gate  of  niggardly  economy,  or  the  path  of  little  chicaning 
bargain-making.  The  first  is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  I  could 
never  squeeze  myself  into  it ; — the  last  I  always  hated— there  was 
contamination  in  the  very  entrance.  Thus  abandoned  of  aim  or 
view  in  life,  with  a  strong  appetite  for  sociability,  as  well  from 
native  hilarity  as  from  a  pride  of  observation  and  remark :  a  consti- 
tutional melancholy  or  hypochondriacism  that  made  me  fly  from 
solitude ;  add  to  these  incentives  to  social  life,  my  reputation  for 
bookish  knowledge,  a  certain  wild  logical  talent,  and  a  strength  of 
thought,  something  like  the  rudiments  of  good  sense;  and  it  will 
not  seem  surprising  that  I  was  generally  a  welcome  guest  where 
I  visited,  or  any  great  wonder  that,  always  when  two  or  three  met 
together,  there  was  I  among  them.  But  far  beyond  all  other  impulses 
of  my  heart,  was  im  penchant  pour  I'adorable  moitid  du  genre 
humain.  My  heart  was  completely  tinder,  and  was  eternally  lighted 
up  by  some  goddess  or  other :  and,  as  in  every  other  warfaie  in  this 
world,  my  fortune  was  various:  sometimes  I  was  received  with 
favour,  and  sometimes  I  was  mortified  with  a  repulse.  At  the 
plough,  scythe,  or  reaping-hook,  I  feared  no  competitor,  and  thus  I 
set  absolute  want  at  defiance ;  and  as  I  never  cared  farther  for  my 
labours  than  while  I  was  in  actual  exercise,  I  spent  my  evenings 
in  the  way  after  my  own  heart.  A  country  lad  seldom  carries  on 
a  love  adventure  without  an  assisting  confidant.  I  possessed  a 
curiosity,  zeal,  and  intrepid  dexterity,  that  recommended  me  as  a 
proper  second  on  these  occasions ;  and  I  dare  say  I  felt  as  much 
pleasure  in  being  in  the  secret  of  half  the  loves  in  the  parish  of 
Tarbolton,  as  ever  did  statesman  in  knowing  the  intrigues  of  half  the 
courts  in  Europe." 

Thus  passed  the  Poet's  life  till  the  year  1781,  when  he  went  to 


LIFE   OF    ROBERT   BURNS.  XV 

Irvine  to  leai-n  the  trade  of  a  flax-dresser.  His  father  entertained 
the  idea  of  devoting  the  whole  or  great  part  of  his  farm,  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  fi-ix  ;  and  to  keep  as  much  of  the  profits  as  possible  in  the 
family,  he  wished  to  breed  his  eldest  son  up  as  a  flax-dresser.  But 
this  scheme  fell  to  the  ground.  In  a  New-year's  carousal  the  shop 
took  fire  and  was  burnt  to  ashes,  and  Burns  returned  to  Lochlea. 

His  residence  at  Irvine,  although  not  of  long  continuance,  pro- 
duced a  very  unfavourable  effect  upon  him,  and  to  this  period  of 
bis  life  may  be  traced  the  formation  of  those  habits  of  convivial 
intemperance  which  he  subsequently  indulged.  "  He  contracted 
some  acqiuiintance,"  says  his  brother  Gilbert,  "of  a  freer  manner 
of  thinking  and  living,  than  he  had  been  used  to ;  whose  society- 
prepared  him  for  overleaping  the  bounds  of  rigid  virtue,  which 
had  hitherto  restrained  him."  He  became  a  Freemason,  and  was 
a  constant  attendant  at  the  convivial  meetings  of  tlie  brethren  at 
Irvine  and  Tarbolton,  Company  was  a  relief  to  the  hypochon- 
driacal melancholy  which  preyed  upon  him.  He  evidently  felt 
his  owTi  powers  witliin  him ;  he  had  achieved  a  sort  of  reputation, 
of  superior  ability  among  his  neighbours,  but  he  wanted  a  field  for 
exertion  ;  he  had  no  aim  in  life,  and,  forced  back  upon  himself,  he 
almost  despaired.  A  letter  to  his  father,  written  only  a  few  days 
before  the  accident  which  put  an  end  to  his  flax-dressing  scheme,  is 
extant.  It  exhibits  a  mournful  picture  of  his  situation  at  Irvine, 
where  he  possessed  a  single  room  for  his  lodging,  subsisted  chiefly 
on  oatmeal  sent  him  from  his  father's  house,  and  passed  his  days 
i]i  flax-dressing.     It  is  as  follows  : — 

•  ♦'  Honoured  Sir, — I  have  purposely  delayed  writing,  in  the  hope 
that  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  New-year's  day  : 
but  woik  comes  so  hard  upon  us  that  I  do  not  choose  to  be  absent 
on  that  accoimt.  My  health  is  nearly  the  same  as  when  you  were 
here,  ouly  my  sleep  is  a  little  sounder,  and  on  the  whole  I  am  rather 
better  than  otherwise,  though  I  mend  by  very  slow  degrees.  The 
weakness  of  my  nerves  has  so  debilitated  my  mind,  that  I  dare 
ueither  review  past  wants  nor  look  forward  into  futurity,  for  the 
least  anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast  produces  most  unhappy 
effectson  my  whole  frame.  Sometimes  indeed,  when  for  an  hour  or 
two  my  spirits  are  a  little  lightened,  I  fjlimmer  a  little  into  futurity  ; 
but  my  principal,  and  indeed  my  only  pleasurable,  employment  is 
looking  backwards  and  forwards  in  a  moral  and  religious  way.  I 
am  quite  transported  at  the  thought  that,  ere  long,  perhaps  very  soon, 
I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all  the  pains,  and  uneasinesses,  and 
disquietudes,  of  this  weary  life,  for  I  assure  yoii  I  am  heartily  tired 
of  it ;  and  if  I  do  not  very  much  deceive  myself,  I  could  contentedly 
and  gladly  resign  it. 

'  The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  at  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  lite  to  come.' 

"  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am  more  pleased  with  the  15th,  16th, 
and  17th  verses  of  the  7th  chapter  of  Revelations*,  than  with  any 

*  15th.  Therefore  are  they  before  the  throne  of  God,  and  ser\e  him  day  and 
night  in  his  temple;  and  he  that  sitteth  on  the  throne  shall  dwell  ainon)^  them. 

16ih.  They  shall  hiiiiper  no  more,  neither  thirst  anymore;  reither  shall  th« 
fUn  light  on  them,  nor  any  heat. 

17th.  For  the  lanih  that  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed  them,  and 
shall  lead  them  unto  living  fountain*  of  waters;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all 
tears  from  their  eyes. 


XVI  MEMOIR   OF    THE 

ten  times  as  many  verses  in  the  whole  Bible,  and  would  not  exchange 
the  noble  enthusiasm  with  which  they  inspire  me  foi*  all  that  this 
woi-ld  has  to  offer.  As  for  this  world,  I  despair  of  ever  making  a 
figure  in  it.  I  am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the  flutter 
of  the  gay.  I  shall  never  again  be  capable  of  entering  into  such 
scenes ;  indeed,  I  am  altogether  unconcerned  at  the  thoughts  of  this 
life.  I  foresee  that  poverty  and  obscurity  probably  await  me,  and  1 
am  in  some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  preparing,  to  meet  them. 
I  have  but  just  time  and  paper  to  return  you  my  grateful  thanks 
for  the  lessons  of  virtue  and  piety  you  have  given  me,  which  were 
too  much  neglected  at  the  time  of  giving  them,  but  which  I  hope 
have  been  remembered  ere  it  is  yet  too  late.  Present  my  dutiful 
respects  to  my  mother,  and  my  compliments  to  Mr.  and  Sirs.  Muir ; 
and  wishing  you  a  merry  New-year's-day,  I  shall  conclude. 

*'  lam,  honoured  Sir,  your  dutiful  son, 

"  Robert  Eurness. 

"  P.S.— My  meal  is  nearly  out,  but  I  am  going  to  borrow  till  I  get 
more." 

Shortly  before  the  death  of  their  father,  Robert  aad  Gilbert 
jointly  took  a  lease  of  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  near  Mauchline,  con- 
sisting of  118  acres,  at  an  annual  rent  of  ninety  pounds.  This  they 
did  to  provide  a  shelter  for  their  parents  from  the  impending  storm ; 
but  William  Burness  died  before  the  family  could  remove.  After  his 
death,  what  relics  could  be  gathered  from  the  wreck  of  their  fortunes 
were  cai'efully  collected,  and  the  family  was  established  atJIossgiel. 
"  It  was  stocked  by  the  property  and  individual  savings  of  the  whole 
family,"  says  Gilbert,  "  and  was  a  joint  concern  among  us.  Every 
member  of  the  family  was  allowed  ordinary  wages  for  the  labour  he 
performed  on  the  farm.  I\Iy  brother's  allowance  and  mine  was 
seven  pounds  per  annum  each.  And  during  the  whole  time  this 
family  concern  lasted,  which  was  four  years,  as  well  as  during  the 
preceding  period  at  Lochlea,  Robert's  expenses  never,  in  any  one  . 
year,  exceeded  his  slender  income." 

Burns  went  to  Mossgiel  with  the  full  determination  of  applying 
all  his  energies  to  his  farm,  and  for  two  seasons  he  appears  to  have 
done  so ;  but  this  period  of  his  life  Avas  marked  by  an  event  which 
did  not  testify  much  improvement  in  the  habits  of  the  Poet.  This 
was  the  birth  of  an  illegitimate  child,  his  "  sonsie,  smirking,  dear- 
bought  Bess,"  the  offspring  of  one  of  his  mother's  servants,  by  no 
/neans  attractive  in  her  person.  For  this  misdemeanor  he  was  called 
to  account  by  the  Kirk  Session,  and  he  and  the  partner  of  his  guilt 
were  condemned  to  the  cutty  stool.  The  poet  revenged  himself 
by  witty  rhymes,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  was  not  benefited  by  the 
eoolesiastieal  scourge. 

Whilst  at  Tarbolton,  Burns  and  his  brother,  and  some  other 
young  men  of  the  parish,  established  a  society,  which  they  called 
the  Bachelors'  Club,  meeting  one  evenmg  in  every  month  for  the 
purposes  of  mutual  entertainment  and  improvement.  The  question 
proposed  at  one  meeting  was  debated  at  the  next ;  and,  to  prevent 
;J!»  intemperancf  the  expenditure  of  each  party  was  limited  to  three 


LIFE    OF    ROBERT    BURNS.  XVli 

pence.  On  their  removal  to  Mossgiel  they  established  a  similar 
society  at  Mauchline,  but  here  they  more  wisely  devoted  all  fines 
and  subscriptions  to  the  purchase  of  books,  and  soon  obtained  a 
pretty  good  stock.  The  exercise  which  these  debating  societies 
afforded  him,  and  constant  practice  in  parties  of  all  sorts,  into  wliich 
his  eager  spirit  led  him,  contributed  to  perfect  the  brilliant  con- 
versational powers  for  which  he  was  afterwards  so  celebrated ; 
with  which  he  fascinated  not  only  the  hard-drinking  members  of 
a  Mason's  Lodge,  but  gentlemen  and  philosophers;  not  only  the 
rustic  maiden  but  the  high-born  lady ;  Ranken  and  Dugald  Stewart ; 
Mary  Campbell  and  the  Duchess  of  Gordon  *. 

His  best  poems  were  produced  during  his  residence  at  Mossgiel, 
a  period  of  four  years :  but  he  first  attracted  general  notice  as  a  Poet, 
by  his  satires;  which  were  called  forth  by  a  schism  at  that  time 
agitating  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  and  distinguished  as  the  contro- 
versy between  the  Old  and  New  Lights.  "  The  Holy  Tuilzie,  or 
the  Twa  Herds;"  "  Holy  Willies  Pr.ayer,"  and  "  The  Ordination," 
followed  each  other  in  rapid  succession,  and  were  univei sally 
sought  after.  Even  reverend  clergj'men,  professors  of  the  New  Light, 
scrupled  not  to  praise  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer;"  which  has  been 
described  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  "  a  piece  of  satire  more  exquisitely 
severe  than  any  which  Burns  ever  afterwards  wrote,  but  daringly 
profane."  About  this  time  he  discarded  the  ancient  spelling  of  his 
name,  and  began  to  write  Burns  instead  of  Burness ;  no  reason  for 
this  change  has  been  assigned,  but  it  was  probably  occasioned  by 
his  desire  to  be  distinguished  from  others  of  his  own  name. 

His  growing  poetical  reputation  introduced  him  into  more  ex- 
tended society.  With  Gavin  Hamilton,  a  writer  attorney)  of 
Mauchline,  under  whom  the  farm  of  Mossgiel  was  held  ;  Mr.Aitken, 
a  writer  in  Ayr,  and  several  other  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood, 
he  was  on  intimate  terms ;  and  we  have  already  noticed  the  appro- 
bation the  New  Light  clergy  bestowed  upon  his  works,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, upon  himself. 

His  times  and  modes  of  composition  were  not  regular.  "N^Tierever 
he  might  be,  if  the  idea  presented  itself,  he  pursued  it ;  frequently 
he  would  weave  the  fancy  which  had  suggested  itself  into  a  stanza, 
and  at  a  future  period  compose  the  commencement  or  ending  of  the 
poem  :  so  that  it  not  unfrequently  happened  that  the  middle  portion 
was  the  first  composed.  His  "  Mountain  Daisy,"  and  "  The  Mouse," 
were  composed  while  holding  the  plough  ;  and  "  Death  and  Doctor 
Hornbook,"  whilst  sitting  "  easing  his  shanks"  on  the  road-side, 
"  by  Willie's  Mill,"  on  his  return  from  a  Mason  meeting,  w)iere  the 
redoubted  Doctor  had  made  himself  too  conspicuous.  "  Man  was 
made  to  mourn,"  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  "Hallowe'en," 
and  many  others  of  his  best  productions,  were  the  fruit  of  this 
period. 

During  his  residence  at  Mossgiel,  he  formed  an  acquaintance 
with    Mary  Campbell,  a  Highland  lassie,  whose  name  is  rendered 

■  This  lady  said  that  Burns,  in  his  address  to  tlte  ladies,  was  extremely  de- 
ferential, and  aJvvays  with  a  turn  to  the  pathetic  or  the  humorous  which  won 
their  attention;  and  added,  with  much  iialvei^,  that  she  never  met  with  a 
man  whose  i:oaverAation  carried  her  so  completely  off  her  teet — Cunningham' t 
Life  I  J  Burnt. 

b 


XVIU  MEMOIR   OF    THE 

smmortal  as  his  Highland  Mary.  To  her  he  addressed  the  lines, 
"Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary  ?"  "Ye  hanks  and  braes,  and 
it  reams  aroimd  the  castle  of  Jlontgomery,"  and  many  others;  and 
her  memory,  years  after  her  death,  when  Burns  was  married  and 
had  a  family,  inspired  those  pathetic  lines  "To  IMary  in  Heaven," 
which  hreatlie  the  soul  of  tender  melancholy.  She  was  a  servant 
at  Castle  Montgomery ;  and  Burns  had  long  courted  her,  in  the 
fashion  of  the  country  ;  their  marriage  liad  been  determined  on, 
when  deatli  stepped  in,  and  blasted  the  fond  hopes  of  the  lovers. 

"  After  a  pretty  long  time  of  the  most  ardent  reciprocal  feeling," 
says  Burns,  in  a  note  to  one  of  his  poems  on  Mary,  "we  met  by 
appointment  on  the  second  Sunday  of  May,  in  a  sequestered  spot 
by  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  where  we  spent  a  day  in  taking  a  farewell 
before  she  should  embark  for  the  West  Highlands,  to  arrange  matters 
among  her  friends  for  our  projected  change  of  life.  At  the  close  of 
the  autumn  following,  she  crossed  the  sea  to  meet  me  a^  Greenock, 
where  she  had  scarce  landed  when  she  was  seized  with  a  malignant 
fever,  which  hurried  my  dear  girl  to  her  grave,  before  I  could  even 
hear  of  her  illness."  The  love  which  Burns  felt  for  Mary  Campbell, 
appears  to  have  been  deeper  than  any  he  ever  felt  before  or  after; 
for  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  was  acquainted,  nay,  too 
intimately  acquainted,  with  Jean  Ai-mour,  his  future  wife,  during 
the  life-time  of  Mary.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  entertained  any 
idea  of  going  to  America,  till  the  last  j'ear  of  his  residence  at  Moss- 
giel,  and  it  would  seen\  that  the  unfortxmate  result  of  his  intercourse 
with  .Jean  Armour  was  the  cause  of  that  determination;  yet  he 
addresses  "  Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,"  to  Mary,  and  her  last  act  is  to 
come  to  meet  him  at  Greenock,  from  whence  the  vessel  which  was 
to  transport  him,  sailed;  years  afterwards,  we  find  the  lover  bewail- 
ing his  lost  IMary  in  the  most  touching  strains.  In  this  digression 
we  have  somewhat  anticipated  our  story.  We  must  now  give  an 
accoimt  of  the  Poet's  connexion  with  Jean  Armour,  an  event 
which  regulated  the  destinies  of  his  life.  This  young  lady  was 
the  daughter  of  a  respectable  man,  a  master  mason  and  builder, 
in  Mauchline,  and  was  distinguished  by  considerable  personal 
attractions.  She  fell  "a  prey  to  Rob  Mossgiel,"  notwithstanding 
the  warning  he  had  himself  given,*  and  the  result  of  their  in- 
tercourse soon  became  apparent.  The  intelligence  nearly  drove 
Burns  distracted.  His  plighted  faith  given  to  one,  and  honour 
calling  on  him  to  rescue  another,  he  resolved  to  fly  the  country. 
To  his  friend,  James  Smith,  of  oNIauchline,  his  confidant  in  this 
amour,  he  thus  wrote :  "  Against  two  tilings  I  am  fixed  as  fate- 
staying  at  home  and  owning  her  conjugall}'.  The  first,  by  Heaven 
I  will  not  do  .' — the  last,  by  hell,  I  will  never  do ! — A  good  God  bless 
you,  and  make  you  happy,  up  to  the  warmest  weeping  wish  of 
parting  friendship  ....  If  you  see  Jean,  tell  her  I  will  meet  her, 
60  help  me  God  in  my  horn-  of  need." 

The  whole  of  this  affair  is  left  in  obscurity,  and  by  some  it  has 
been  believed  that  Mary  was  dead  before  the  poet's  acquaintance 
ivith  Jean ;  but,  for  the  reasons  before  stated,  we  differ  in  out 


*  See  "  O  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  btllM." 


I,IFE   OF    ROBERT   BURNS.  XIX 

opinion,  and  are  inclined  to  believe  that  Mary's  death  happened  at 
this  critical  moment.  The  vehemence  of  expression  used  by  Bums 
in  the  lettor  just  quoted  cannot  well  be  accoimted  for,  otherwise 
than  by  his  existing  bonds  to  Mary.  She  died ;  the  poet  met  the 
unhappy  Jean,  and  gave  her  a  written  acknowledgment  of  mar- 
riage, sufficient,  by  the  Scottisli  law,  to  legalise  the  tie.  But  when 
a  disclosure  of  her  condition  was  no  longer  to  be  avoided,  her  father, 
a  man  of  stern  disposition,  an  elder  adhering  to  the  old  light,  and 
probably  from  that  cause  the  more  incensed  against  Burns,  whose 
character  he  detested,  refused  to  give  his  consent  to  the  marriage, 
obliged  his  daughter  to  give  up  the  precious  "  lines,"  the  sole  evidence 
she  possessed  to  redeem  her  honour ;  he  destroyed  the  document, 
and  forced  his  child  to  diso^vn  him  who  was  her  husband  in  the 
sight  of  both  God  and  man.  Under  these  singular  circumstances 
she  became  the  mother  of  twins. 

Burns, — who  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  soften  the  obdurate 
father ;  who  had  declared  his  readiness  even  to  toil  as  a  day- 
labourer  for  the  support  of  his  wife  and  family,  if  his  proposal 
to  go  to  Jamaica  and  remit  them  the  proceeds  of  his  exertions 
were  rejected,— finding  all  his  efforts  vain,  resumed  his  pin-pose 
of  emigration.  He  procured  the  situation  of  assistant  overseer  on 
the  estate  of  a  Dr.  Douglas  in  Jamaica.  But  now  a  fresh  difficulty 
arose.  He  had  not  the  means  of  paying  his  passage.  For  the  first 
time  the  thought  suggested  itself,  that  his  poems  might  be  made 
a  source  of  profit.  His  friends,  especially  Hamilton  and  Aitken, 
warmly  seconded  his  proposition.  A  negotiation  with  a  printer  at 
Kilmarnock  was  opened,  and  an  edition  of  six  hundred  copies,  three 
hundred  and  fifty  of  which  were  subscribed  for,  was  printed.  It 
was  rapidly  disposed  of,  and  Burns  found  himself,  after  paying  all 
expenses,  master  of  nearly  twenty  pounds.  This  success  did  not 
cause  him  to  change  his  resolution.  He  was  pursued  by  the  pai'ish 
officers  for  security  against  the  charge  of  his  illegitimate  children, 
and  was  driven  into  hiding.  He  had  taken  leave  of  all  his  friends, 
and  his  chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock  ;  he  had  composed  the 
last  song  he  should  ever  measure  in  Caledonia,  "  The  gloomy 
night  is  gathering  fast,"  when  he  received  a  letter,  written  by  Dr. 
Thomas  Blacklock,  of  Edinburgh,  to  Dr.  Laurie,  minister  of  Loudon, 
who,  unknown  to  Burns,  had  forwarded  a  copy  of  the  poems  to 
Dr.  Blacklock,  whose  reputation  as  a  critic  stood  high,  and  who  was 
himself  a  poet.  This  letter,  which  was  full  of  kindness  and  encou- 
ragement, raised  up  those  hopes  which  had  still  been  drooping, 
although  his  Kilmarnock  edition  had  introduced  him  to  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Dugald  Stewart,  Mis.  Dunlop,  and  several  others,  who  ever 
afterwards  were  his  friends.  But  Dr.  Blacklock's  praise  roused  up 
his  slumbering  hopes  ;  he  at  once  gave  up  all  idea  of  leaving  Scot- 
land, and  hastened  to  Edinburgh. 

When  he  reached  that  city,  he  sought  out  8ome  of  his  Ayrshire 
friends,  and  took  up  his  lodgings  with  Mr.  Richmond,  at  that  time 
a  writer's  apprentice,  or,  in  English  phrase,  an  attorney's  articled 
clerk  :  he  shared  the  humble  accommodations  of  this  young  man,  a 
single  room  and  a  single  bed,  during  the  greater  part  of  his  stay  in 
the  capital.  He  did  not  hastilv  Foek  the  introduction  to  Dr.  Black- 
'  b  2 


XX  MEMOIR   OF   THE 

lock,  or  the  publicity  which  he  felt  would  be  the  consequence. 
He  had  hurried  to  Edinburgh,  but  on  the  threshold  of  fame  he 
paused  with  modest  trembling.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  that,  from 
the  society  into  which  his  Kilmarnock  edition  had  introduced 
him,  including  more  than  one  titled  head,  he  in  some  degree 
anticipated  the  kind  of  reception  he  was  likely  to  meet  with,  and 
that  there  was  a  shrinking  on  his  part  to  put  himself  forward. 
He  was  stimulated  by  a  letter  from  Dr.  Laurie.  He  visited  Dr. 
Blacklock ;  he  was  introduced  to  Lord  Glencaim,  who  proved  a  good 
friend;  and  in  a  little  space  found  himself  the  lion  oi  Edinburgh. 
His  society,  or  perhaps  rather  his  presence,  was  sought  after  eagerly 
by  the  highest  companies  of  P2dinburg-h.  Lord  Glencaim  easily 
induced  Creech,  the  chief  bookseller  in  the  city,  to  imdertake  an 
edition  of  the  poems  formerly  published,  to  which  Bui"ns  now  ma^e 
many  additions.  The  terms  of  his  bargain  with  Creech  were  that 
the  poet  should  receive  one  hundred  pounds  for  the  copyright  of 
one  edition,  and  the  profits  of  all  the  subscription  copies.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  months  2800  and  odd  copies  were  subscribed  for  by 
upwards  of  1500  subscribers.  He  found  admirers  in  all  ranks,  and 
his  name  was  established  on  a  proud  eminence,  from  which  it  will 
never  descend. 

It  has  been  made  a  ground  of  reproach  to  Bums,  that  although 
welcomed  by  the  highest,  though  duchesses  bowed  down  their 
heads  to  listen  to  the  glowing  eloquence  which  had  formerly 
entranced  the  peasant,  yet  he  gradually  withdrew  himself  from 
society  so  disproportioned  to  his  rank-  It  is  true  he  did  so  ;  but  he 
who  vv^ould  draw  an  unfavourable  conclusion  from  the  fact,  does 
injustice  both  to  the  poet  and  to  human  nature.  We  much  regret 
that  our  limits  preclude  our  giving  so  much  of  his  history,  in  hLs 
own  words,  as  would  present  a  more  lively  view  of  his  situation  and 
prospects,  hopes  and  wishes,  than  it  is  possible  to  do  in  a  condensed 
narration.  The  poet  felt,  keenly  and  bitterly,  that  he  was  regarded 
as  a  wonder,  almost  as  a  tamed  wild  beast :  those  who  knew  not 
what  is  the  discipline  of  a  Scottish  cottage ;  who  were  astonished 
more  at  the  description  of  the  labourer's  "  Satm-day  Night,"  than 
at  the  genius  which  displayed  that  scene  in  such  exquisite  vei-ses, 
thought  that  a  ploughman  poet  was  a  prodigy,  which  they  flocked 
to  see,  with  a  curiosity  not  much  more  intellectual  than  that  which 
draws  servant-maids  and  children  to  stare  at  a  dancing  bear.  Now 
(it  is  painful  to  remember  it)  not  one  of  his  friends  suggested  to 
Burns  any  pursuit,  any  course  of  life,  which  might  secure  for  him 
the  independence  he  so  much  panted  after,  which  if  he  had  secured, 
would  have  afforded  him  the  leisure  which  alone  he  required  for 
the  production  of  works  surpassing  even  the  unrivalled  poems  he 
has  left. 

Creech's  edition  appeared  in  March,  1787,  and  was  eagerly 
bought  up ;  and  the  poet  feeling  himself  now  authorised  to  draw 
upon  the  fruits  of  his  genius,  set  out  on  a  tour  through  tl.e 
southern  parts  of  Scotland,  and  the  borders  of  Englmd.  On  the 
8th  of  June,  1787,  he  again  found  himself  at  Mossgiel :  his  mother 
met  hira  at  the  door,  and  clasping  him  in  her  arms,  exclaimed 
••  Oh,  Robert !  "—He  had  left  her  house  almost  an  outcast  from  iho 


LIFE   OF    ROBERT    BURNS.  XXI 

world— he  returned  croAvned  with  glory ;  the  mother's  heart  was 
full,  and  she  fell  on  her  son's  neck  and  wept.  That  moment  repaid 
the  bard  for  many  bitter  hours. 

The  following  summer  was  chiefly  occupied  by  Burns  in  some 
tours  through  the  Highlands,  in  the  course  of  which  he  visited 
the  Dukes  of  Athole  and  Gordon,  and  many  other  of  his  friends, 
but  nothing  with  regard  to  his  future  prospects  was  proposed  to  him 
by  any.  His  intercourse  with  Jean  he  desired  to  renew,  but  he 
was  rudely  repulsed  from  her  father's  door.  He  was  still  without 
an  aim.  In  the  autumn  he  returned  to  Edinburgh,  and  he 
remained  there  till  the  spring,  when  he  effected  a  settlement  with 
Creech,  and  found  himself  the  master  of  about  five  hundred  pounds. 
He  now  sought  for  the  best  means  of  establishing  himself  for 
life.  The  second  winter's  experience  proved  that  the  attractions 
of  theZiOJthad  vanished,  and  that  the  reputation  of  tJie  bard  incited 
none  to  provide  him  with  even  a  mean  support.  It  was  not  without 
reluctance  that  he  addressed  himself  to  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  and 
expressed  his  wish  to  be  employed  in  the  Excise ;  a  project  which 
had,  at  the  time  of  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  been  agitated  by  his  old 
friends  Hamilton  and  Aitken.  None  of  his  new  friends  had  troubled 
tliemselves  about  the  poet's  welfare,  and  even  the  Earl  of  Glencairn 
waited  to  be  asked  ;  and  it  was  Graham  of  Fintray,  to  whom  Bums 
had  been  introduced  in  his  northern  toiu-,  who  at  length  procured 
him  a  poor  appointment,  worth  about  thii-ty-five  pounds  a  year.  Mr. 
Miller  of  Dalswinton  had  made  him  the  ofifer  of  any  farm  on  his 
estate  a  twelvemonth  before;  he  now  made  choice  of  that  of  Ellis- 
land  in  Nithsdale,  more  with  the  eye  of  a  poet  than  that  of  a 
farmer,  for  it  was  about  the  worst  on  the  estate,  but  its  situation 
was  the  most  picturesque. 

Having  first  sent  two  hundred  pounds  to  his  brother  Gilbert  to 
assist  him  in  the  struggling  life  he  maintained  at  Mossgiel,  he 
settled  himself  at  EUisland  in  May  1788,  and  his  first  employment 
was  to  erect  a  house  and  farm  steading,  to  do  which  he  was  bound 
by  the  terms  of  his  lease :  and  to  this  house,  the  first  he  could  ever 
call  his  own,  he  brouglat  Jean  Armour,  whom  he  now  publicly 
proclaimed  as  his  wife :  she,  at  this  time,  probably  from  Jier 
renewed  intercourse  with  Bums,  was  suffering  under  a  fiesh  out- 
break of  paternal  anger,  and  with  her  helpless  children  had  been 
ab&<dutely  turned  out  of  doors !  Bums's  manly  bosom  received 
back  again  with  joy  the  woman  whom  he  had  ever  strongly 
loved,  and  whose  renunciation  of  him  had  therefore  caused  him 
tenfold  pain.  As  soon  as  his  house  vvas  ready,  he  brought  her  home  ; 
and  now  he  hoped  that  the  prospect  before  him,  thougli  not  very 
cheering,  would  brighten,  and  that  at  least  no  heavy  clouds  would 
intervene  to  blast  the  hopes  he  cherished.  Eight  disastrous  years 
chsed  the  poet's  career ! 

Bums,  though  in  the  works  of  the  field  equal  to  the  best  labourer ; 
tliough  he  could  challenge  the  country  round  at  the  plough,  the 
scythe,  or  the  flail,  yet  was  not  a  skilful  farmer  :  the  attention 
necessary  to  his  avocations  in  the  Excise,  in  which  he  was  never 
deficient,  materially  interfered  with  that  due  to  his  own  affairs;  and 
the  temptations  of  the  muse  woro  stronger  than  tliosc  of  tlio  pli^d 


XXU  MEMOIR   OF    THE 

ding  duties  of  a  farm.  It  is  not  therefore  surprising  that  he  found 
EUisland  a  losing  concern.  At  the  end  of  1791  he  gave  up  his  farm 
and  took  a  house  at  Dumfries,  his  sole  dependence  being  his 
salary  as  an  excise  oflBcer,  which  now  amounted  to  seven tj'  pounds 
a-year,  and  which  he  had  every  hope  of  soon  seeing  increased.  In 
this  to\vn,  and  on  this  humble  stipend,  he  continued  to  exist,  till 
his  death. 

The  years  he  spent  at  EUisland  and  Dumfries  were  not  unproduc- 
tive of  poetry :  for  the  first  year  at  least  of  his  residence  on  his 
farm,  he  enjoyed  tlie  pleasures  of  an  indei>endent  man,  and  his  soul 
appeared  to  expand,  relieved  from  the  hea\^  burden  of  care  which 
had  hitherto  pressed  upon  him.  Before  he  left  Edinburgh,  he  had 
contributed  some  pieces  to  a  collection  of  Scottish  songs,  published 
bj'  Mr.  Johnson,  under  the  title  of  the  "  Musical  Museum ;"  and 
to  this,  and  the  collection  published  by  Mr.  Thomson,  he  furnished 
a  vast  number  of  songs  which,  had  he  never  written  anything  else, 
would  have  established  his  celebrity.  From  the  time  of  Creech's 
edition  he  wrote  scarcely  any  piece  of  length  except  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
the  work  of  one  day,  but  chiefly  confined  himself  to  the  writing  of 
songs  and  ballads,  and  the  correction  and  alteration  of  old  songs,  for 
these  two  collections,  to  which  we  owe  most  of  those  inimitable 
lyrics  which  will  continue  to  be  sung  and  recited  in  all  quarters 
of  the  globe,  till  the  English  tongue  shall  cease  to  be  spoken. 

A  false  pride  caused  him  to  decline  pecuniary  recompense  for  these 
invaluable  productions,  and  he  even  made  it  a  ground  of  quarrel 
with  Thomson,  who  on  one  occasion  forwarded  liim  five  pounds 
on  account  of  his  services  ;  and  when  dying,  and  pressed  by  urgent 
want,  he  was  obliged  to  apply  for  a  further  sum,  it  cost  him 
more  pangs  than  can  be  imagined  by  any  mind  not  akin  to  his 
own  ;  and  although  so  weak  that  his  pen  trembled  in  his  hand,  he 
forced  himself  to  write  the  last  verses  he  ever  composed,  "  Fairest 
maid  on  De%on  Banks,"  and  enclosed  them,  in  this  humiliating  epistle. 

The  character  and  conduct  of  Burns  have  been  made  the  subject 
of  much  discussion,  not  always  conducted  in  the  most  friendly 
spirit.  It  is  easy  for  those  who  have  never  felt  the  temptations  of 
poverty,  to  condemn  the  conduct  of  others  who  have  writhed  beneath 
its  pangs. 

Burns  was  by  nature  careless,  fond  of  society, — for  therehe  felt  his 
powers  appreciated, — but  of  an  unbending  and  independent  spirit. 
In  prosperity  these  powers  would  not  improbably  have  produced 
effects  very  different  from  those  displayed  by  the  influence  of  an 
unceasing  train  of  misfortune.  In  prosperity  he  might  have  chosen 
his  society — in  poverty  he  had  no  choice,  except  at  one  period  of  his 
life ;  and  was  it  not  natural  for  him  to  become  somewhat  shy  of 
Decking  company, where  he  was  regarded  more  as  a  curiosity,  than  as 
on  an  equal  footing  with  those  he  met  ?  Yet  he  has  been  accused  of 
shunning  the  better  class  of  society,  towards  the  end  of  his  first  visit 
to  Edinburgh.  The  occasional  roughness  and  vehemence  of  his 
opposition  in  debate  has  been  made  a  plea  for  the  neglect  he  experi- 
enced. It  is  an  ungenerous  one.  His  feelings  of  independence,  and 
desire  to  assert  them,  frequently  carried  him  too  far,  and  sometimes 
Resumed  the  character  of  almost  morbid  irritability,  but  the  noble 


LIFE   OF    ROBERT    BURNS.  XXUl 

cause  of  this  was  always  sufRciently  obvious ;  and  no  generous 
mind  could  have  misunderstood  the  man,  who,  brought  suddenly 
from  a  lower  station,  exhibiting  powers  which  astonished  his  audi- 
tors, and  seeing  himself  regarded  as  a  wonder,  instead  of  servilely 
seeking  applause,  endeavoured  to  find  opportunities  of  asserting 
his  independence,  and  dreaded  the  supposition  that  he  could  flatter 
to  win  favour. 

When  Burns  left  Ellisland,  it  was  not  without  a  pang;  and  he 
went  to  Dumfries  with  the  embittered  feelings  of  a  disappointed 
man.  Always  inclined  to  social  life,  he  was  now  more  than  ever 
exposed,  both  by  the  pressing  invitation  of  his  near  neighbours  and 
by  the  imsatisfied  state  of  his  ovm  mind,  to  indulge  more  deeply 
than  ever  in  those  dissipations  and  drinking  bouts  which  were  the 
fashion  of  the  day.  Even  in  these  excesses,  which  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged became  too  habitual,  he  has  been  misrepresented ;  and  by 
many  he  is  to  this  day  considered  as  having  in  his  latter  years  given 
himself  up  to  the  degi-ading  habits  of  a  confirmed  drunkard.  Nothing 
can  be  more  contrary  to  the  fact.  He  never  indulged  except  in 
company ;  and,  to  the  end  of  his  life,  his  conduct  towards  his 
family,  and  care  of  his  children's  education,  were  most  exemplary ; 
and  well  would  it  be  for  many  of  those  who  have  regarded  Burns 
with  scornful  pity,  if  they  could  produce  such  good  evidence  of  the 
discharge  of  that  great  moral  duty  as  he.  Mr.  Findlater,  his  superior 
in  the  Excise,  amongst  others,  bears  honourable  testimony  to  his 
conduct.  "My  connexion  with  Burns,"  he  says,"  commenced  im- 
mediately after  his  admission  to  the  Excise,  and  continued  to  the 
hour  of  his  death.  In  all  that  time,  the  superintendence  of  his 
behaviour,  as  an  officer  of  the  revenue,  was  a  branch  of  my  especial 
province ;  and  I  was  not  an  inattentive  observer  of  the  general  con- 
duct of  a  man  and  a  poet  so  celebrated  by  his  countrjTiien.  He  was 
exemplary  in  his  attention,  and  was  even  jealous  of  any  imputa- 
ticm  on  his  vigilance.  It  was  not  till  near  the  latter  end  of  his  days 
that  there  was  any  falling  off  in  this  respect ;  and  this  was  well 
accoimted  for  by  the  pressure  of  disease  and  accumulating  infirmi- 
ties. I  will  further  avow  that  I  never  saw  him — which  was  very 
frequently  while  he  lived  at  Ellisland,  and  still  more  so,  almost 
every  day,  after  he  removed  to  Dumfries — in  hours  of  business,  but 
he  was  quite  himself,  and  capable  of  discharging  the  duties  of  his 
office ;  nor  was  he  ever  known  to  drink  by  himself,  or  seen  to  in- 
dulge in  the  use  of  liquor  in  a  forenoon.  I  have  seen  Burns  in  all  his 
various  phases— in  his  convivial  moments,  in  his  sober  moods,  and 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  Indeed,  I  believe  I  saw  more  of  him 
than  any  other  individual  had  occasion  to  see,  and  I  never  beheld 
anything  like  the  gross  enormities  with  which  he  is  now  charged. 
That,  when  he  sat  down  in  the  evening  with  friends  whom  he  liked, 
he  was  apt  to  prolong  the  social  houis  beyond  the  bounds  which 
prudence  would  dictate,  is  unquestionable ;  but  in  his  family,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  he  was  never  seen  otherwise  than  as  attentive  and 
affectionate  in  a  high  degree."  The  times,  in  which  an  elder  of 
the  church  could,  like  Mr.  Riddel  of  Friars  Carse,  engage  in  such 
a  contest  as  is  related  in  "  The  Whistle,"  were. more  in  fault  than 
the  Poet. 


XXIV  MEMOIR   OF    THE   LIFE   OF    RORF.RT   BURNS. 

Bums,  when  he  went  to  Dumfries,  had  entertained  sanguine 
hopes  of  promotion ;  his  salary  had  been  raised  to  £70  a  year,  and 
his  name  was  on  the  list  of  supervisors ;  the  latter  situation  was 
worth  about  £200  per  ann.  and  was  the  stepping-stone  to  a  collector- 
ship,  which  would  have  rendered  him  easy;  but  his  o\vn  imprudent 
conduct  destroyed  these  hopes.  In  the  commencement  of  the  French 
revolution,  he  ardently  embraced  the  doctrines  of  the  liberal  party 
of  the  time,  and  vehemently  advocated  the  cause  of  the  Directory 
in  all  companies.  His  enthusiasm  carried  him  to  lengths  that  his 
better  judgment  would  have  disclaimed,  and  when  it  was  reported 
at  head-quarters  that  an  exciseman  had  refused  to  stand  up  in  the 
theatre  when  the  National  anthem  was  played,  and  had  sent  two 
brass  cannon,  taken  from  a  smuggler  (which  he  himself  assisted  in 
capturing)  with  a  complimentary  letter  to  the  French  Directory, 
they  directed  an  inquiry  to  take  place,  and  he  was  reprimanded  and 
told  that  his  business  was  to  act  and  not  to  thmk.  This  somewnat 
absurd  rebuke  sunk  deep  into  his  heurt ;  thenceforth  he  despaired 
of  advancement,  and  grew  less  careful  of  himself  and  his  reputation. 
His  health  began  to  fail ;  and,  in  the  spring  of  1796,  he  was  attacked 
with  violent  rheumatism.  He  continued  to  sink,  and  in  the  sum- 
mer was  advised  to  go  into  the  country  :  he  went  to  a  lonely  plaoe 
called  the  Brow,  on  the  shore  of  Solway,  in  Annandale,  to  try  the 
efiFect  of  sea-bathing,  but  all  was  of  no  avail :  on  the  18th  of  July 
he  returned  home  a  dying  man.  He  lived  only  to  the  22d,  and  died 
in  desolation.  Four  helpless  infants  and  a  wife,  who,  whilst  ner 
husband's  corpse  was  being  carried  do^vn  the  street,  was  delivered 
of  a  fifth  child,  were  left  behind  him. 

A  happier  fate  awaited  his  family.  Public  sympathy  was  at  last 
aroused.  A  handsome  subscription  was  raised  ;  and  Dr.  Currie,  of 
Liverpool,  collected  and  published  his  poems  for  their  benefit. 

The  poor  child,  born  in  so  disastrous  an  hour,  did  not  long  survive ; 
hut  three  other  children  survived,  a  credit  to  their  illustrious 
sire.  The  eldest,  Robert,  held  a  situation  in  the  Stamp  Office ; 
Francis  Wallace,  the  second,  died  in  1803;  William  NicoU,  the  third, 
went  to  Madras  in  1811,  and  James  Glencairn,  the  youngest,  in  1812 
-—both  as  cadets  in  the  East  India  Company's  service. 

Mrs.  Burns,  who  was  enabled  to  live  in  cimifort  for  the  residue 
of  her  life,  and  of  whose  exemplary  conduct  as  a  wife  and  a  mother 
we  would,  did  our  limits  allow,  speak  more  at  large,  died  in  1834, 
and  was  buried  beside  her  husband,  but  not  in  his  original  grave, 
his  body  having  been  removed,  in  1815,  to  a  mausoleum  raised  to 
his  memory.  May  the  earth  lie  light  on  them  ;  and  may  we  seek 
rather  to  profit  by  the  example  of  their  virtues,  than  to  triumph 
over  their  errors ! 


v:^ 


y^y/^&^yy.ryi^  ^."^^^^  S^^J^y^/^^^-^ 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Wtnter,  a  Dirge  .  ,  .1 
Death  &  Dying  Words  of  Poor 

Mailie 2 

Poor  Mailie's  Elegy  .  .  3 
First  Epistle  to  Davie  .  .  .  5 
Address  to  the  De'il  .  .  9 
The  Auld  Farmer's  New-year 

Morning  Salutation  to  his 

Auld  Mare  Maggie  .    .  12 

To  a  Haggis .  .  .  .15 
A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of 

Death  .  .  .  .16 
Stanzas  on  the  same  occasion  17 
A  Prayer  imder  the  Pressure 

of  violent  Anguish  .  .  ib. 
A  Winter  Night  .         .  18 

The  Jolly  Beggars,  aCantata  .  21 
Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook  .  .  30 
The  Kirk's  Alarm  .         .  35 

The  Twa  Herds  .    .  37 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer  .  .  40 
Epitaph  on  Holy  Willie  .  42 

Lament  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots  43 
The  Holy  Fair  ,  .  .  44 
The  Ordination  .         .    .  50 

The  Calf  .  .  .  .53 
To  James  Smith,  Mauchline  .  54 
The  Vision    .  .  .  .58 

Man  was  made  to  Mourn  .  .  65 
To  Ruin  .  .  .  .67 
Letter  to  John  Goudie  .  .  68 
Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik  .  .  69 
To  the  Same  .  .  •  .  72 
ToWilliam  Simpson,  Ochiltree  75 
To  J.  Lapraik       .  .  ,80 

To  the  Rev.  John  M'Math.  .  81 
To  a  Mouse  .  .  .  .  84 
Scotch  Drink    .         .         .    .  85 


PAOH 

The  Author's  earnest  Cry  and 
Prayer  to  the  Scotch  Repre- 
sentatives      .         .         .    .  88 
Hallowe'en  .         .  .         .93 

Address  to  the  Unco  Gude  .  101 
Tam  Samson's  Elegy  .  .103 
Per  Contra  .  .  .  .  105 
Second  Epistle  to  Davie  .  106 
Lament  .         .         .     .  107 

Despondency,  an  Ode  .  .109 
The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  111 
First  Six  Verses  of  Fsabn  XC.116 
Verses  left  at  a  Friend's  Housell7 
To  a  Mountain  Daisy  .  .  ib. 
Epistle  to  a  young  Friend  .  119 
To  a  Louse .         .  .         .121 

Epistle  to  John  Rankine  .  .122 
On  a  Scotch  Bard,  gone  to  the 

West  Indies       .  .  .124 

Dedicationto  G.Hamilton, Esq.126 
Elegy  on  Robert  Ruisseaux  129 
Letter  to  J.  Tait,  Glenconne  r  130 
On  the  Birth  of  a  Posthumous 

Child 131 

To  Miss  Cruikshank  .  .  132 
The  First  Psalm         .  .133 

To  Gavin  Hamilton.  Esq.  .134 
To  Mr.  M'Adam,  of  Craigen- 

Gillan      .  .  .  .135 

To  a  Tailor .  .  .  .136 
A  Dream      .  .         .         .137 

The  Twa  Dogs,  a  Tale .  .  141 
Interview  with  Lord  Daer  .  147 
Address  to  Edinburgh  .  .  148 
A  Bard's  Epitaph  .    .  1.50 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr  .  .  1.51 

The  Dean  of  Faculty,  a  Ballad  157 
To  fin  old  Sweetheart   .         .  158 


TABLE   OF    CONTENTS. 


Death  of  John  M'Leod,  Esq.   158 
Clarinda  .  .  .159 

To  Miss  Logan       .  .  .  ih. 

A  Fragment        .  .  .  160 

T(p  theGuidwife  of  Wauchope- 

House      .  .  .  .162 

Humhle    Petition   of    Bruar- 

Water 164 

On  Scaring  some  Water-fowl  166 
Verses  ■vvTitten  under  the  Por- 
trait of  Fergusson.the  Poet  167 
To  a  Lady,  with  the  present  of 

a  pair  of  Drinking-glasses  .  lb. 
Written  with  a  Pencil  in  the 
Parlour  of  the  Inn  at  Ken- 
mure        ....  168 
Written  with  a  Pencil,  stand- 
ing by  the  Fall  of  Fyers     .  169 
Poetical  Address  to  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Tytler,  of  AVoodhouse- 

lee ib. 

Written  in  Friars-Carse  Her- 
mitage .         .         .  170 
Epistle  to  R.  Graham,  Esq.  .  172 
To  Captain  Riddel,  Glenriddel  174 
A  Mother's  Lament  for  the 

Death  of  her  Son     .  .     .  ib. 

Verses  on  the  Death  of  Sir 

James  Hunter  Blair  .        .  1 75 
Elegy  on  the  Year  1788  .  176 

Address  to  the  Tooth-ache    .  177 
Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs, 

Oswald  .  .  .178 

Scots  Prologue       .  .  .179 

On  seeing  a  woimded  Hare   .  181 
Prologue  spoken  at  the  The- 
atre, Dumfries        .  .    .  ib. 
Delia,  an  Ode                   .        .  182 
Fragment  inscribed  to  C.  J. 

Fox 18,3 

To  Dr.  Blacklnck  .         .184 

Sketch — New  Year's  Day      .  185 
To  a  Gentleman  who  had  sent 

Bums  a  Newspaper  .  187 

Elegy  on  Capt.  INIatthew  Hen- 
derson      .         .  .         .188 
The  Five  Carlines,  an  Election 

Ballad     .         .         .         .191 
Answer  to  a  Mandate  sent  by 
the  Surveyor  of  Taxes   .    .194 


PAOB 

Tam  O'Shanter         ,         .    .  196 

On  the  late  Capt.  Grose's  Pere- 
grinations through  Scotland  201 

Written  in  a  Wrapper  enclos- 
ing a  Letter  to  Capt.  Grose  203 

Verses  to  Chloris  .  .  204 

The  AVhistle,  a  Ballad      .     .  205 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of 
Glencairn  .  .  .  207 

Lines  sent  to  Sir  .John  "NAHiite- 
foord  with  the  foregoing    .  209 

Poem  addressed  to  3Ir.  Mit- 
chell     210 

Extempore  in  the  Court  of 
Session     .  .  .  .211 

Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thom- 
son        .         >         .         .    .ib. 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  Fin- 
tray  .  .  .  .212 

To  the  Same,  on  receiving  a 
Favour         .         .  .     .  214 

A  Vision      ....  215 

To  John  Maxwell,  of  Ter- 
raughty    .         .  .  .216 

Poetical  Inscription  for  an 
Altar  to  Independence    .     .  ib. 

The  Rights  of  Woman       .    .217 

Monody  on  a  Lady  famed  for 
her  Caprice       .  .  .  218 

On  Pastoral  Poetry    .         .    .  ib. 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Robert 
Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Glen-riddel  220 

Sonnet  Avritten  on  the  Birth- 
day of  the  Author       .  .  ib. 

Impromptu  on  Mrs.  Riddel's 
Birth-day     .  .  .     .  221 

The  Vowels,  a  Tale         .         .  ib. 

Liberty,  a  Fragment         .    .  222 

Elegy  on  the  late  Miss  Burnet, 
of  Monboddo     .  .  .  223 

Address,  spoken  by  MissFon- 
tenelle  .  .  .     .  224 

Versec  to  a  Young  Lady       .   225 

To  a  Young  Lady       .  .    .  ib. 

Verses  to  J.  Rankine         .     .  226 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  .  .  ib. 

To  Colonel  De  Peyster       .    .  227 

Lines  sent  to  a  Gentleman 
whom  he  had  ofTended       .  228 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


EPITAPHS,    EPIGRAMS,    &c. :- 


rAOB 

For  the  Author's  Father       .  229 

Inscription  to  the  Memory  of 
Fergusson      .  .  .     .  ib. 

For  R.  A.,  Esq.      .  .  .  ib. 

On  a  Friend      .         .  .     .  ib. 

On  Wee  Johnny  .  .  .230 

On  John  Dove    .        .         .     .  ib. 

For  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.      .  ib. 

On  a  celebrated  Ruling  Elder  ib. 

On  a  Noisy  Polemic  .         .     .  ib. 

On  a  Writer  in  Dumfries       .  231 

On  a  Schoolmaster         .         .  ib. 

On  a  Hen-pecked  Country 
Squire ib. 

On  the  Same  .         .         .  ib. 

On  the  Same         .         .         .  ib. 

On  Wat 232 

On  Captain  Francis  Grose      .  ib. 

On  a  NVag  in  Mauchline     .     .  ib. 

On  a  Country  Laird        .  .  ib. 

Lines  on  Mrs.  Kemble      .     .  233 

To  air.  Syme,  in  Answer  to 
an  Invitation  to  join  a  Din- 
ner Party  •         .         .  ib. 

To  Mr.  SjTne,  with  a  Present 
of  a  Dozen  of  Porter        .     .  ib. 

On  Hearing  that  there  was  a 
Falsehood  in  the  Rev.  Dr. 
B — 's  looks         .         .         .  ib. 


On  Elphinstone's  Translations 
of  Martial's  Epigrams       .  2.33 

On  Miss  J.  Scott,  of  Ayi-  .     .  234 

Written  on  a  Window  of  the 
Globe  Tavern,  Dumfries     .  ib. 

On  seeing  the  beautiful  Seat 
of  Lord  Galloway        .  .  "/H 

On  the  Same     .         .         .    .  ib. 

To  the  Same,  on  being  threat- 
ened with  his  Resentment  .  ib. 

On  being  asked  why  God  made 
Miss  Davies  so  little,  and 
Mrs. so  large      .         .  23.5 

Written  at  Inverary  .  .     .  ib. 

A  Highland  Welcome    .  .  ib. 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Pocket 
Book     .         .  .         .    .  ib. 

The  Creed  of  Poverty  .     .  ib. 

Verses  written  on  a  Window 
of  the  Inn  at  Carron   .         .  236 

On  being  appointed  to  the  Ex- 
cise       .  .  .  .    .  ib. 

Written  on  a  Window  at  the 
King's  Arms  Tavern,  Dum- 
fries .  .  .         .  ib. 

A  Grace  before  Dinner  .  236 

Extempore     .         .  .     ,   237 

Extempore  Lines  .         .         .  ib. 

The  Hen-peck'd  Husband.    .  ib. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS:— 


Handsome  Nell  .  .  .238 
Bonnie  Lesley .  .  .    .  239 

Fragment  .  .  .  .  ib. 
Tibbie,  I  ha'c  seen  the  Day  .  240 
1  Dream 'd  I  lay  where  Flowers 

were  springing  .  .  241 

Luckless  Fortune  .  .  ib. 

The  Higliland  Lassie    .  .  242 

John  Barleycorn       .  .     .  243 

JMontgomerie's  Peggy   .  .  244 

The  Rigs  o'  Barley        ,  ,  245 

My  Father  was  a  Fanner     .  246 


Song  composed  in  August 

248 

The  Rantin'Dog  the  Daddie  o" 

t249 

0  leave  Novels 

.  ib. 

Nannie 

2.i0 

Forlorn  my  Love,  no  Comfort 

near     .... 

251 

Her  Flowing  Locks   . 

.  ib. 

There's  nought  but  Care 

252 

Robin 

253 

Bonnie  Peggy  Alison 

2.'>4 

My  Jean      . 

ib. 

Young  Peggy  . 

255 

TABLE    OP    CONTENTS. 


On  Cessnock  Banks 

Mary  .... 

The  Cure  for  aU  Care        .    . 

Menie  .... 

The  Lass  o"  Ballochmyle  .    . 

The  Farewell 

Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  You, 

my  Lad    .  .  .  • 

Eliza  .  .  .  .  . 
I  am  my  Mammy's  ae  Bairn 
The  Author's  Farewell  to  his 

Native  Country 
Bonnie  Lassie,  will  ye  go  .    . 
The  Young  Highland  Rover 
M'Pherson's  Farewell . 
Thickest  Night,  o'erhang  my 

Dwelling 
Up  in  the  Morning  early  .    . 
Blithe  was  She     . 
Stay,  my  Charmer   .  .     . 

The  Banks  of  the  Devon  .  . 
Raving  Winds   around   her 

Blowing 
How  Long  and  Drearj'  is  the 

Night  

A  Rose-bud  by  my  Early  Walk 

0  were  I  on  Parnassus'  Hill  . 
Streams  that  Glide  .  .  . 
Tibbie  Dunbar     . 

Musing  on  the  Roaring  Ocean 

^Vhe^e  braving  Angry  Win- 
ter's Storms 

My  Harry 

My  Bonnie  Mary 

Blooming  Nelly        .  .    . 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can 
Blaw        .... 

The  Day  returns,  my  Bosom 
bums  .         .         .         .    . 

The  Lazy  Mist      . 

My  Heart 's  in  the  Highlands 

Beware  o'  Bonnie  Ann      .    . 

First  when  Maggie  was  my 
Care  .... 

Ca'  the  Ewes 

There's  a  Youth  in  this  City 

John  Anderson  my  Jo  . 

Willie  Brew'd  a  Peck  o'Maut 

To  Mary  in  Heaven  .  .     . 

The  Battle  of  SherifiF-Muir    . 

1  gaed  aWaefu'  Gate,Yestreen 


]My  Heart  is  a -breaking.  Dear 

Tittie 285 

Young  Jockey      .  .  .  286 

The  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle  .  .  il». 
Craigie-bum  Wood  .  .  287 
Gane  is  the  Day  .  .  .  ib. 

Meikle  Thinks  my  Love  .  .  288 
The  Banks  of  Nith        .  .   ib. 

AVhat  can  a  Young  Lassie  .  289 
The  Bonnie  Wee  Thing  .  .  ib. 
Yon  Wild  Mossy  Mountains.  290 
How  can  I  be  Blithe  and  Glad  ib. 
Wha  is  that  at  my  Bower 

Door?       .  .  .  .201 

Tliere  '11  never  be  Peace  •  292 
I  do  Confess  Thou  art  saeFair  fb. 
O  Saw  Ye  my  Deai-ie  .  .293 
Naebody  .  .  .     .   ib. 

Chloris        .  .  .  .294 

Ae  Fond  Kiss  .  .  .     .    ib. 

O  for  Ane-and-Twenty,  Tarn  29.5 
Bess  and  her  Spinning-wheel  296 
Sic  a  Wife  as  WilUe  had  ,.  297 
Song  of  Death  .  .     .  298 

As  I  was  a- Wandering  .  .  ib. 
O  Luve  will  venture  in  .  29& 

Country  Lassie  .  .     .  300 

Jockey's  ta'en    the    parting 

Kiss  .  .  .301 

The  Chevalier's  Lament        .    ib. 
The  Banks  o'  Doon,  First  Ver- 
sion .  .  .  .302 
The  Banks  o'  Doon,   Second 

Version         .  .  .     .    ib. 

Fair  Eliza  ....  303 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton  .  304 
Bonnie  Bell     .  .  .     .    ib. 

Tlie  Gallant  Weaver  .  .  305 
Out  over  the  Forth  .  .    .    ib. 

TheBaii-nsgatout  .  .  .  306 
She 's  Fair  and  Fause  .  .  ib. 
The  Exciseman         .  .    .  307 

The  battle  of  Culloden  .   ib. 

A  Red,  Red  Rose  .  .308 

Polly  Stewart      .  .  .    ib. 

For  the  Sake  of  Somebody  .  309 
I'll  ay  Ca'  in  by  yon  To^vn  .  ib. 
"WTien  Januar'  Wind  .  .  3i0 
O  May,  thy  Morn  .  .311 

O  Avat  ye  Wha's  in  yon  Town  312 
Louis,  what  Reck  I  by  Thee .  313 


TABLE    OP    CONTENTS. 


Anua,  thy  Charms  . 

.  313 

The  Lover's  Morning  Salute 

To  Thee/loved  Nith 

.   ib. 

to  his  Mistress 

.  .344 

Wae  is  my  Heart      . 

.  314 

But  lately  Seen 

.    ib. 

Gloomy  December 

.    ib. 

Ca'  the  Yowes      , 

345 

Cassillis'  Banks 

.  315 

O  ay  my  Wife  she  dang  me 

.  346 

Amang  the  Trees     . 

.    ib. 

To  Alary 

ib. 

3Iy  Peggy's  Face 

.  316 

Here  is  the  Glen  . 

347 

The  Winsome  Wee  Thing 

.    ib. 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face  ib. 

My    Lady's   Gown,    there's 

Lovely  Davies  . 

348 

Gairs  upon't      . 

.  317 

Sae  far  awa' 

349 

Highland  Mary 

.  318 

Let  not  Woman  e'er  Complain  ib. 

Duncan  Gray 

.  319 

Chloe      .... 

350 

Auld  Rob  Morris    . 

.  320 

Lassie  wi'  the  Lint-white  Locks  ib. 

The  Gowden  Locks  of  Anna 

.  ib. 

Farewell,  thou  Stream 

.351 

My  ain  Kind  Dearie,  0 

.  321 

0  PhiUy,  happy  be  that  Day 

.S52 

To  Mary  Campbell  . 

.  322 

0  wha  is  She  that  Lo'es  me 

.353 

0  Poortith  Cauld 

ib. 

Contented  wi'  little 

354 

Oh!  Open  the  Door  to  Me 

323 

Canst  Thou  Leave  Me  Thus 

ib. 

Wandering  Willie 

324 

My  Nannie's  awa'     .          .     . 

355 

Galla  Water    . 

.    ib. 

To  General  Dumourier 

ib. 

She  says  She  Lo'es  me  best  of  a'325 

Here's  a  Health    . 

35(i 

Lord  Gregory 

326 

Caledonia    .... 

357 

Mary  IMorison 

ib. 

0  lay  thy  Loof  in  mine,  Lass 

ib. 

Meg  o'  the  Mill 

327 

Caledonia    .... 

358 

When    wild    War's    deadly 

0  Tjassie,  art  Thou  sleeping 

Blast  was  blawn 

328 

yet 

359 

Jessie      .... 

329 

Her  Answer    .         .         .    . 

360 

Fragment 

33<} 

Saw  Ye  ray  Phely 

ib. 

Miss  Lesley  Baillie       . 

ib. 

Is  there,  for  Honest  Poverty 

.361 

Logan  Water 

331 

To  Mr.  Cunningham          .     . 

362 

Bonnie  Jean    . 

332 

Address  to  the  Woodlark  .    . 

3(i3 

Phillis  the  Fair  . 

333 

How  Cruel  are  the  Parents   . 

ib. 

Had  I  a  Cave  . 

334 

Chloris         .... 

36-1 

Auld  Lang  Syne  . 

ib. 

This  is  no  my  ain  T<assie  .     . 

ib. 

By  Allan  Stream 

335 

On  Chloris  being  111      . 

365 

A  down  Winding  Nith  . 

336 

The  Dumfries  Volunteers      . 

366 

Come,  let  me  take  Thee    .    . 

337 

Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer 

367 

Behold  the  Hour 

ib. 

The  tither  Morn  . 

368 

Dainty  Davie  .          .          .     . 

338 

O  Bonnie  was  yon  Rosy  Brier  369 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever     .     . 

ib. 

There  was  a  Bonnie  Lass 

ib. 

Deluded  Swain,  the  Pleasure  339  | 

Coming  through  the  Rye 

370 

Nancy         .... 

ib. 

Altho'  Thou  maun  never  be 

Fair  Jenny 

340 

Mine        .... 

ib. 

Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie?      . 

ib. 

Hey  for  a  Lass  wi'  a  Tocher 

871 

liannockburn  .          .          .     . 

341 

'Twas  na  her  Bonnie  Blue  Een  372 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your        | 

To  Charlotte  Hamilton 

ib. 

Strife 

342  1 

Fragments       .         .         .    . 

373 

On  the  Seas  and  Far  Away   . 

3431 

THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


ROBERT    BURNS, 


WINTER :    A  DIRGE. 


The  wintry  west  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  be?st  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  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil. 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best. 

Because  they  are  Thy  Will ! 
Then  all  L  want  (0,  do  thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine  !), 
Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign  ! 

*  Dr.  Young. 
B 


BURNS  S   POEMS. 


THE    DEATH   AND   DYING   WORDS   OF 
POOR  MAILIE, 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ONLY  PET  YO^VB, 

An  unco  mournfu*  Tcu'e. 

As  Mailie  and  her  lambs  thegither, 
Were  ae  day  nibbling  ou  the  tether, 
Upon  her  elect  she  coost  a  hitch, 
And  owre  she  warsled  in  the  ditch ; 
There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie. 
When  Hughoc*  he  came  doytin  by. 

Wi'  glowrin  een,  and  lifted  ban's. 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  stan's ; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  endit. 
But,  waes  my  heart !  he  cou'dna  mend  it ! 
He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak' ! 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak' : 

"  0  thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case ! 
My  djing  words  attentive  hear. 
And  bear  them  to  my  Master  dear : 

"  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep, 
0 !  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair. 
But  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill. 
And  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  and  grow 
To  scores  o'  lambs  and  packs  o'  woo'. 

"  Tell  him,  he  was  a  Master  kin', 
And  aye  was  gude  to  me  and  mine ; 
And  now  my  dying  charge  I  gi'e  him, 
My  helpless  lambs  I  trust  them  wi'  him. 

"  0,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives, 
Frae  dogs,  and  tods,  and  butchers'  knivea ! 
But  gi'e  them  gude  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel' ; 
And  tent  them  duly,  e'en  and  morn, 
Wi'  teats  o'  hay  and  rips  o*  corn. 

*  A  neighbour  herd-callan. 


BURNS  S   POEMS. 

**  And  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  ither  vile  wanrestfu'  pets  ! 
To  slink  thro'  slaps,  and  reave  and  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  gi'e  them  bits  o'  bread, 
And  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they're  dead. 

"  My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  and  heir, 

0  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care ! 
And  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 

To  pit  some  havins  in  his  breast ; 
And  warn  him,  what  I  winua  name, 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  at  hame ; 
And  no'  to  rin  and  wear  his  cloots, 
Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

"  And  neist,  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 
Gude  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  string ! 
0,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up 
Wi'  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop ! 
But  aye  keep  mind  to  nioop  and  mell 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel'. 

"  And  now,  my  baims,  wi'  my  last  breath, 

1  leave  my  blessin'  wi'  you  baith  ; 
And  when  you  think  upon  your  mither, 
Mind  to  be  kind  to  ane  anither. 

'^  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale  ; 
And  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether ; 
And  for  thy  pains  thou's  get  my  blether." 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn'd  her  head. 
And  closed  her  een  amang  the  dead ! 


POOR  MAILIE-S  ELEGY. 


Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi'  saut  tears  trickling  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 ! 
B  2 


BURNS  S    FOEMS. 

It's  no  the  loss  o'  wai'ld's  gear 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 
Or  mak'  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed ; 
He's  lost  a  friend  and  neebor  dear 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Thro'  a'  the  town  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  fi-iend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam'  nigh  him. 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wot  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense, 
And  could  behave  hersel'  wi'  mense ; 
I'll  say't,  she  never  brak'  a  fence 

Thro'  thievish  greed  ; 
Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 

Sin'  Maihe's  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe. 
Her  living  image,  ux  her  yowe. 
Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  knowe. 

For  bits  o'  bread  ; 
And  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o'  muirland  tips, 

Wi'  tawted  ket,  and  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  gude  fellows  gu-n  and  gape, 

Wi'  chokin'  dread; 
An'  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi'  ci'ape. 

For  Mailie  dead. 

O,  a'  ye  bards  on  bonny  Doon  ! 

And  wha  on  A}t  your  chanters  tune ! 

Come,  join  the  melancholious  ci'oon 

O'  Robin's  reed  I 
His  heart  will  never  get  aboon 

His  Mailie  dead. 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 


FIRST  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE*, 

A  BROTHER   POET. 


January,  1784. 
While  winds  frae  afF  Ben-Lomond  blaw. 
And  bar  the  doors  wi'  driving  snaw, 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 
I  set  me  do\vn  to  pass  the  time, 
And  spin  a  verse  or  twa  o'  i-hyme, 

In  hamely  westUn'  jingle. 
While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  ehimla-lug, 
I  grudge  a  wee  the  gi-eat  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  cursed  pride. 

It's  hardly  in  a  body's  power 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour. 

To  see  how  things  are  shared ; 
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. 

Though  we  ha'e  little  gear, 
We're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread. 
As  lang's  we're  hale  and  fier : 
"  Mair  spier  na,  nor  fear  naf," 
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  crazed,  and  blude  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. 

*  David  Sillar,  schoolmaster,  one  of  the  chib  at  Tarbolton,  an 
author  of  a  volume  of  Poems  in  the  Scottish  dialect. 
t  Ramsay. 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 

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  stQl, 

A  comfort  this  nae  sma' ; 
Nae  mail*  then,  we'll  care  then, 
Nae  farther  can  we  ia'. 

What  tho'  like  commoners  of  air. 
We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where. 

But  either  house  or  hall  1 
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  blackbu'ds  whistle  clear, 
Wi'  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound, 
To  see  the  coming  year : 

On  braes,  when  we  please,  then. 

We'll  sit  an'  sowth  a  tune ; 
Syne  rhjTue  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  makin'  muckle  mair  : 
It's  no  in  books,  its  no  in  lair. 

To  make  us  truly  blest : 
If  Happiness  ha'e  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  ay's  the  part  ay 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  through  wet  and  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  1 


BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Alas !  how  aft  in  haughty  mood, 
God's  creatures  they  oppi'ess  1 
Or  else,  neglectm'  a'  that's  gude, 
They  riot  in  excess ! 

Baith  careless,  and  fearless 
Of  either  heav'n  or  hell  j 
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,  ha'e  met  wi'  some, 

An's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gi'e  the  wit  o'  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, 
Thei'e's  wit  there,  ye'll  get  there, 
Ye'll  find  nae  ither  where. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts, 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  ^vrang  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  and  the  frien' ; 
Ye  ha'e  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. 

0,  all  ye  Pow'rs,  who  rule  above ! 
0,  Thou,  whose  vei'y  self  art  Love  1 

Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere  ! 
The  life-blood  streaming  thro'  my  heart, 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear ! 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 

When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 
Her  dear  idea  brings  x-elief, 
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  eveiy  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. 

0,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style  ! 
The  words  come  skelpin'  rank  and  file, 

Amaist  before  I  ken ! 
The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 

Were  glowrin'  owre  my  pen. 
My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  he's  fairly  het ; 
And  then  he'll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimp. 
And  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  Jtiide. 


BURNS  S   POEMS. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DE'IL. 


O  Prince  !    O  Chief  of  many  throned  pnw'rs. 
That  led  the  embattled  Seraphim  to  war, 

MiLTOM. 

O  Thou,  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  and  sootie. 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie. 

To  scaud  poor  wretches ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
And  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  de'il, 
To  skelp  and  scaud  poor  dogs  Uke  me. 

And  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  pow'r,  and  great  thy  fame, 
Far  ken'd  and  noted  is  thy  name ; 
And  tho'  yon  lowan  heugh's  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far ; 
And  faith,  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  rangin'  like  a  roarin'  lion, 
For  prey,  a'  holes  and  corners  tryin' ; 
Whyles,  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin', 

Til-ling  the  kirks ; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin'. 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I've  heard  my  rev'rend  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 ! 


10  BURNS  S  POEMS. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter,  night. 

The  stars  shot  down  wi"  sklentin  light, 

Wi'  you,  mysel',  I  gat  a  fright, 

Ayout  tlie  loch ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sugh. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 
Each  bi"istled  hair  stood  like  a  stake. 
When  wi'  an  eldritch  stoor,  quaick — quaick- 

Araang  the  springs 
Awa'  ye  squatter'd,  like  a  drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  and  wither'd  hags. 
Tell  how  wi'  you,  on  ragweed  nags, 
They  skim  the  muirs  and  dizzy  crags 

Wi'  wicked  speed. 
And  in  kirkyards  renew  then-  leagues 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  A\'ives,  wi'  toil  and  pain. 
May  plunge  and  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain ; 
For,  oh  !  the  yellow  treasure's  ta'en 

By  v>'itchin'  skill ; 
And  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie's  gaen 

As  yeU's  the  bill. 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak'  great  abuse 

On  young  gudeman,  fond,  keen,  and  crouse ; 

When  the  best  wark-loora  i'  the  house. 

By  cantrip  wit. 
Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse. 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snaAvy  hoord. 
And  float  the  jinglin'  icy  boord, 
Then  Water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord 

By  your  direction. 
And  'nighted  trav'llers  are  allured 

To  their  destruction. 

And  aft  your  moss-traversing  Spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  is : 
The  bleezin',  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 

Delude  his  eyes. 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is. 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  H 

When  Masons'  mystic  word  and  grip 
In  storms  and  tempests  raise  ye  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell ! 
The  yomigest  Britlier  ye  wad  whup 

Aff  straight  to  hell ! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonnie  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
And  a'  the  soul  of  love  they  shared. 

The  raptured  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow'ry  swaird. 

In  shady  bow'r : 

Then  you,  ye  auld  sneck-drawin'  dog ! 

Ye  cam'  to  Paradise  incog.. 

And  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa' !) 
And  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

'Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 
Wi'  reekit  duds  and  reestit  gizz. 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

'Mang  better  folk, 
And  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uz 

Your  spitefu'  joke? 

And  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall. 
And  brak  him  out  o'  house  and  hall. 
While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall, 

Wi'  bitter  claw. 
And  lowsed  liis  ill-tongued,  wicked  scawl. 

Was  warst  ava ! 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 
Your  wily  snares  and  fechtin'  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  *  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Ei-se, 

In  prose  or  rhjTne. 

And  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye're  thinlcin*, 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin',  drinldn'. 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin' 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But,  faith !  he'll  turn  a  corner,  jinkin'. 

And  cheat  you  yet. 

*  Vide  Milton,  Book  vL 


12  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

But,  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 
O  wad  ye  tak'  a  thought  and  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  diuna  ken — 

Still  ha'e  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  youi'  sake  ! 


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  GuDE  New- Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie ! 
Hae,  there's  a  ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie ; 
Tho'  thou's  howe-backit  now,  and  knaggie, 

I've  seen  the  day. 
Thou  could  ha'e  gaen  like  ony  staggie 

Out-owre  the  lay. 

Tho'  now  thou's  dowie,  stiff,  and  crazy. 
And  thy  auld  hide's  as  white's  a  daisy, 
I've  seen  thee  dapplet,  sleek,  and  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,  and  swank. 
And  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank 

As  e'er  trod  yird  ; 
And  could  ha'e  flown  out-owre  a  stank 

Like  ony  bird. 

It's  now  some  nine-and-twenty  year. 
Sin'  thou  was  my  guid  father's  meere. 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear. 

And  fifty  m'lrk : 
Though  it  was  sma'.  'twas  weel- won  gear. 

And  thou  was  stavk. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin'  wi'  your  minnie : 
Tho'  ye  was  trickle,  slee,  and  funny. 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie ; 
But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  and  cannie, 

And  unco  sonsie. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  13 

That  day  ye  pranced  wi'  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonny  bride : 
And  sweet  and  graeefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air ! 
Kyle-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide. 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Tho'  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hobble. 
And  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble, 
That  day  ye  was  a  j  inker  noble, 

For  heels  and  win'. 
And  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  Avauble 

Far,  far  behin'. 

When  thou  and  I  were  young  and  skeigh. 

And  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigb, 

How  thou  wad  prance,  and  snort,  and  skreigh, 

And  tak'  the  road, 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh. 

And  ca't  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't,  and  I  was  mellow. 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow : 
At  brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fallow, 

For  pith  and  speed ; 
But  every  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Whare'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma',  droop-rumpl't  hunter  cattle, 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle ; 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle. 

And  gar't  them  whaizle ; 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

0'  saugh  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan' 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  di'awn ; 

Aft  thee  and  I,  in  aught  hours'  gaun, 

In  gude  March  weather, 
Ha'e  turn'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han'. 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg't,  and  fech't,  and  fliskit^ 
But  tliy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 
And  spread  abi'eed  thy  weel-fill'd  brisket, 

Wi'  pith  and  power, 
Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  riskit, 

An'  slypet  owre. 


14  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  and  snaws  were  deep, 
And  tlireaten'd  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee  bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 
I  ken'd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  ha'e  faced  it ; 

Thou  never  lap,  and  sten't,  and  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw  j 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov't  awa'. 

My  plough  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a' ; 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw ; 
Forbye  sax  mae,  I've  sell'd  awa, 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  and  twa. 

The  very  warst. 

Mony  a  sair  darg  we  twa  ha'e  wrought. 
And  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ! 
And  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', 
And  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  j 
We'll  toyte  about  wi'  ano  anither ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I'll  fit  thy  tether 

To  some  hain'd  rig, 
Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

With  sma'  fatigue. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  15 


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  thairra ; 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  o'  a  grace 

As  lang's  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill. 
Your  hurdies  like  a  distant  hUl, 
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, 
And  cut  you  up  wi'  ready  sleight. 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright. 

Like  ony  ditch ; 
And  then,  0  what  a  glorious  sight ! 

Warm-reekin',  j*ich. 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  and  strive, 
De'il  tak'  the  hindmost !  on  they  drive, 
Till  a'  their  weel-swall'd  kytes,  belyve. 

Are  bent  like  drums ; 
Then  auld  gudeman,  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'  sneeriug,  seornfu'  view, 

On  sic  a  dinner? 

Poor  devil  I  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, 

0  how  unfit! 


16  BURNS  S  POEMS. 

But  mark  the  rustic  haggis-fed, 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread. 

Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a  blade, 

He'll  niak'  it  whistle  ; 
And  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads  will  sned. 

Like  taps  o'  thristle. 

Ye  powers,  wha  mak'  mankind  your  care. 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  higgles ; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu'  pray'r, 

Gi'e  her  a  Haggis  ! 


A  PRAYER 

IN  THE   PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

P  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  formed  me 
With  passions  mid  anc^  strong ; 

And  list'ning  to  theii*  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 — Tliou  art  good ;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 


Bl'RNSS    POEMS.  17 


STANZAS 

ON  THE   SA.MK    OCCASION. 


Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  .scene  ? 

Have  I  so  found  it  lull  of  pleasing  charms? 
Some  drops  of  joy,  with  draughts  of  ill  between : 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  *nid  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, 


Fain  would  I  say,  "  Forgive  my  foul  offence ! " 

Fam  promise  never  moi-e  to  disobey ; 
But,  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 

Again  I  might  desert  fail'  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 ! 

0  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below  ! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea : 
With  thut  controlling  pow'r  assist  e'en  me, 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  confine  ; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  pow'rs  to  be. 

To  I'ule  their  torrent  in  th'  allowed  line  ; 
O,  aid  me  with  thy  help.  Omnipotence  Divine  ! 


A   PRAYER, 

UNDER  THE    PRKSSURE  OF  VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 


0  Thoit  Great  Being !  what  thou  art 

Sui-passes  me  to  know : 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  thee 

Are  all  thy  works  below. 
C 


18  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Thy  creature  here  before  thee  stands, 
All  wretched  and  distrest ; 

Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 
Obey  thy  high  behest. 

Sure  thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
0,  free  rny  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 
To  suit  some  wise  design  ; 

Then  man  my  soul  with  lirm  resolves 
To  bear  and  not  repine ! 


A   WINTER   NIGHT. 


Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are. 
That  bide  the  peltias  of  this  pitiless  storm  1 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sidf  s. 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 

From  seasons  such  as  these  ? 

Shakspearii. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  through  the  leafless  bow'r  ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-lived  glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift — • 
Dim-dark'ning  thro'  the  flaky  show'r. 

Or  whii'ling  drift  : 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked, 
Poor  Labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked, 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up-chokedj, 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd, 

Down  headlong  hui'l. 

List'ning  the  doors  and  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

0'  winter  wai'. 
And  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lay'ring,  sprattle 

Beneath  a  scar. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  19 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing  ! 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  v/ilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 

And  close  thy  e'e  ? 

Ev'n  you  on  murd'ring  errands  toil'd, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exiled, 
The  blood-stain'd  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoil'd, 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 

Soi'e  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark  muffled,  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-illumined  Man  on  brother  Man  bestows. 

See  stern  Oppression's  iron  grip. 
Or  mad  Ambition's  gory  hand, 

Sendmg,  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  glittering  show, 

A  cx'eature  of  another  kind, 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefined. 
Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile  below. 

Where,  where  is  Love's  fond,  tender  throe, 

With  lordly  Honour's  lofty  brow, 
c  2 


20  BURNS  R   POEMS. 

The  powers  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  prayers ; 
Perhaps,  this  houi-,  in  Mis'17's  squalid  nest. 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast. 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  slu'inks  at  the  rocking  blast  I 
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  clunky  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  crushed  low 
By  cruel  fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress  ; 
A  brother  to  reheve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss  !" 

I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 

Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw. 
And  hail'd  the  morning  wi'  a  cheer, 

A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impress'd  ray  mind — 

Through  all  His  works  abroad. 
The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 

The  most  resembles  Groii, 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  21 


THE   JOLLY  BEGGARS. 
A  Cantata. 

RECITATIVO. 

When  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird, 
Oi',  wavering  like  the  bauckie*  bird, 

Bedim  cauld  Boreas'  blast : 
When  hailstanes  drive  wi'  bitter  akyte. 
An'  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoaiy  cranreuch  drest ; 
Ae  night,  at  e'en,  a  merry  corps 

0'  randie  gangrel  bodies. 
In  Poosie-Nansie's  held  the  splore. 
To  drink  their  orra  duddies  ; 
Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing, 

They  ranted  and  they  sang  ; 
Wi'  jumping  and  thumping, 
The  vera  girdle  rang. 

First,  niest  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 
Ane  sat,  weel  braced  wi'  mealy  bags, 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order  ; 
His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 
Wi'  usquebae  and  blankets  warm, 

She  blinliet  on  her  sodger  ; 
And  aye  he  gies  the  touzie  drab 

The  tither  skelpin'  kiss. 
While  she  held  up  her  gi'eedy  gab. 
Just  lilie  an  aumis-dish  : 

Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still. 

Just  like  a  cadger's  whup. 
Then  staggering,  and  swaggering. 
He  roar'd  this  ditty  up — 


Tune—"  Soldier's  Joy." 
I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars, 
And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  come  ; 
This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other  in  a  trench. 
When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 
Lai  de  dandle,  &c. 

*  The  old  Scottish  name  for  a  bat. 


22  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

My  'prenticeship  1  past  where  my  leader  breath'd  his  last, 
When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights  of  Abram  ; 
I  served  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game  was  play'd, 
And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

I  lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floating  batt'ries. 
And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a  limb  ; 
Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  to  head  me, 
I'd  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

And  now,  though  I  must  beg,  with  a  wooden  arm  and  leg, 
And  many  a  tattered  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 
I  'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle,  and  my  callet, 
As  when  1  used  in  scarlet  to  follow  t-he  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

What  tho'  with  hoary  locks,  I  must  stand  the  winter  shocks, 
Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks,  oftentimes  for  a  home ; 
When  the  tother  bag  I  sell,  and  the  tother  bottle  tell, 
I  could  meet  a  troop  of  hell  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He  ended  ;  and  the  kebars  sheuk 

Aboon  the  chorus'  roar  ; 
While  frighted  rattons  backward  leuk, 

And  seek  the  benmost  bore  ; 
A  fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 

He  skirl'd  out  Encore  ! 
But  up  arose  the  Martial's  chuck. 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 


Tune — "  Soldier  Laddie." 
I  once  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men  ; 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie, 
No  wonder  I'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie  ! 
Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  &c. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering  blade. 
To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade  ; 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so  ruddy. 
Transported  I  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 


BL'KNS  S    POEMS.  23 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  lurch, 
So  the  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the  church  ; 
He  ventured  the  soul,  and  I  risked  the  body  : 
'Twas  then  I  proved  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  «&c. 

Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot. 
The  regiment  at  large  for  a  husband  I  got ; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I  was  ready 
I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

But  the  peace  it  reduced  me  to  beg  in  despair. 
Till  I  met  my  old  boy  at  a  Cunningham  fair, 
His  rags  regimental  they  flutter'd  sae  gaudy. 
My  heart  it  rejoiced  at  a  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

And  now  I  have  lived — 1  know  not  how  long, 
And  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  and  a  song  ; 
But  whilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  tlie  glass  steady, 
Here's  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie  ! 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor  Merry  Andrew,  in  the  neuk. 

Sat  guzzling  wi'  a  tinkler  hizzie ; 
They  mind't  na  wha  the  chorus  took. 

Between  themselves  they  were  sae  bizzy ; 
At  length,  wi'  drink  and  courting  dizzy. 

He  stoiter'd  up  and  made  a  face ; 
Then  turn'd  and  laid  a  smack  on  Grizzy, 

Syne  tuned  his  pipes  wi'  grave  grimace. 


Tune — ''Aidd  Sir  Symon." 

Sir  Wisdom's  a  fool  when  he's  fou. 
Sir  Knave  is  a  fool  in  a  session ; 

He's  there  but  a  'prentice  I  trow. 
But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a  beuk, 
And  T  held  awa'  to  the  school ; 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk ; 
But  what  will  ye  ha'e  of  a  fool  ? 


24  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

For  drink  I  wad  venture  my  neck ; 

A  hizzie's  the  hauf  o'  my  craft  • 
Bat  what  could  ye  other  expect 

Of  ane  that's  avowedly  daft  I 

I  ance  was  tied  up  like  a  stirk, 
For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffin' ; 

I  ance  was  abused  i'  the  kirk, 
For  towzling  a  lass  i'  my  daffin. 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport. 
Let  naebody  name  wi'  a  jeer ; 

There's  even,  I'm  tauld,  i'  the  court, 
A  tumbler  ca'd  the  Premier. 

Observed  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 
Mak's  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ; 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad ; 
It's  rivalship  just  i'  the  job. 

And  now  my  conclusion  I'll  tell, 
For  faith  I'm  confoundedly  dry, 

The  chiel  that's  a  fool  for  himsel', 
Gude  L — d,  is  far  dafter  than  I. 

EECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  outspak  a  raucle  carlin, 
Wha  kent  fu'  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling, 
For  mony  a  pursie  she  had  hook'd. 
And  had  in  mony  a  well  been  duck'd  ; 
Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 
But  weary  fa'  the  waefu'  woodie  ! 
Wi'  sighs  and  sabs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  High  landman. 

AIR. 
Tune—"  0,  an'  ye  were,  dead,  Gudeman." 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born. 
The  Lalland  laws  he  held  in  scorn  ; 
But  he  still  was  faithfu'  to  his  clan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Higlilandman. 


Sing,  hey,  my  braw  John  Ilighlandman ! 
Sing,  ho,  my  braw  John  Highlandsiiiiu  ! 
There's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Was  match  for  my  Jolm  Highlandman. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  25 


"Wr  his  philibeg  and  tartan  plaid, 
And  gude  clajTiiore  do\vn  by  his  side, 
The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &e. 

We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
And  lived  like  lords  and  ladies  gay ; 
For  a  Lalland  face  he  feared  nane. 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

They  banish'd  him  beyond  the  sea : 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 


But,  oh  !  they  catch'd  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast ; 
My  curse  upon  them  evei'y  one  ! 
They've  hang'd  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  retui'n ; 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can, 
When  I  think  on  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

A  pigmy  scraper  wi'  his  fiddle, 

Wha  used  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle. 

Her  strappin'  limb  and  gaucy  middle 

(He  reach'd  nao  higher) 
Had  holed  his  heartie  like  a  riddle. 

And  blawn't  on  fire, 

Wi'  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  e'e, 
He  eroon'd  his  gamut,  ane,  twa,  three, 
Then,  in  an  arioso  key, 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  aff',  wi'  allegretto  glee, 

His  Qiqa  solo. 


26  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


AIR. 

Tune--"  Whistle  o'er  the  Lave  o'U 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear, 
And  go  wi'  me  and  be  my  dear, 
And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 


I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 
And  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  play'd. 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 
Was  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we'se  be  there. 
And  0 !  sae  nicely's  we  will  fare  ; 
We'll  bouse  about,  till  daddie  Care 
Smgs  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &c. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we'll  pyke. 

And  sun  oursel's  about  the  dyke. 

And  at  oiu'  leisure,  when  ye  like, 

We'll  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

I  am,  &c. 

But  bless  me  wi'  your  heav'n  o'  charm% 
And  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms. 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a'  sic  hanns. 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  Caird, 

\s  weel  as  poor  Gut-scraper  ; 
Be  tak's  the  fiddler  by  the  beard. 

And  draws  a  rusty  rapier — 
He  swoor  by  a'  was  swearing  worth. 

To  spit  him  like  a  pliver. 
Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 

Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi'  ghastly  e'e,  poor  Tweedle-dee 

Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 
And  pray'd  for  grace,  wi'  rueful  fac«j. 

And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  27 


But  tho'  his  little  heart  did  grieve 
When  round  the  tinkler  press'd  her, 

He  feign'd  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve, 
When  thus  the  Caird  address'd  her  : 


AIB. 

Tune—"  Clout  the  Cauldron.*' 

My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinker  is  my  station  ; 
I've  travell'd  round  all  Christian  ground 

In  this  my  occupation  ; 
I've  ta'en  the  gold,  I've  been  enroll'd 

In  many  a  noble  squadron  ; 
But  vain  they  search'd,  when  off  I  march'd 

To  go  and  clout  the  cauldron. 

I've  ta'en  the  gold,  &c. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither'd  imp, 

Wi'  a'  his  noise  and  cap'rin'. 
And  tak'  a  share  wi'  those  that  bear 

The  budget  and  the  apron  ; 
And  by  that  stowp,  my  faith  and  houp, 

And  by  that  dear  Kilbagie,* 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant. 

May  I  ne'er  weet  my  cragie. 

And  by  that  stowp,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

The  Caird  prevail'd — th'  unblushing  fair 

In  his  embraces  e  unk, 
Partly  wi'  love  o'ercome  sae  sair. 

And  partly  she  was  drunk. 
Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

That  show'd  a  man  o'  spunk, 
Wish'd  unison  between  the  paii', 

And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 

But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft. 

That  play'd  a  dame  a  shavie. 
The  fiddler  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

Behint  the  chicken-cavie. 

*  A  peculiar  sort  of  whisky  so  called;  a  great  favourite  'vith 
Poosie-Nansie's  clubs- 


28  BURNS  S    POE.MS. 

Her  lord,  a  wight  o'  Homer's  craff^, 

Tho'  limping  wi'  the  spavie. 
He  hu'pled  up,  and  lap  like  daft. 

And  shored  them  Dainty  Davie 

To  boot  that  night. 

He  was  a  care-defjing  blade 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed, 
Tho'  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid. 

His  heart  she  ever  miss'd  it. 
He  had  nae  T>'ish,  but — to  be  glad, 

Nor  want — but  when  he  thu-sted ; 
He  hated  nought  but — to  be  sad. 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 

His  sang  that  night. 

AIR. 
Tune—"  For  a'  that,  and  a'  that" 
I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard 

Wi'  gentlefolks,  and  a'  that : 
But  Homer-like,  the  glowran  byke 
Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that ; 

And  twice  as  meikle's  a'  that ; 
I've  lost  but  ane,  I've  twa  behin', 

I've  wife  enough  for  a'  that. 

I  never  drank  the  Muses'  stank, 

Castalia's  burn,  and  a'  that ; 
But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams^ 

My  HeUcon  I  ca'  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair, 
Their  humble  slave,  and  a'  that ; 

But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still, 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 

Wi'  mutual  love,  and  a'  that ; 
But  for  how  lang  the  flee  may  stang, 

Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

•  Homer  is  allowed  to  be  the  oldest  ballad-singer  on  record. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  29 

Their  tricks  aud  craft  hae  put  me  daft, 

They've  ta'en  me  in,  and  a'  that ; 
But  clear  your  decks,  and  "  Here's  the  sex ! " 

I  hke  the  jads  for  a'  that. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that ; 

And  twice  as  meikle's  a'  that, 
My  dearest  blude  to  do  them  gude. 

They're  welcome  till't  for  a'  that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So  sung  the  bard — and  Nansie's  wa's 
Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 

Re-echo'd  from  each  mouth ; 
They  toom'd  their  pocks,  and  pawn'd  their  duds. 
They  scarcely  left  to  co'er  their  fuds. 

To  quench  their  lowan  drouth. 

Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  thrang 

The  poet  did  request. 
To  lowse  his  pack,  and  wale  a  sang, 

A  ballad  o'  the  best ; 

He  i-ising,  rejoicing. 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 
Looks  round  him,  and  found  them 

Impatient  for  the  chorus. 

AIR. 
Tune—"  Jolly  Mortals,  fill  your  Glasses." 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ; 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus. 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing : 


A  fig  for  tnose  by  law  protected ! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast ! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ?  what  is  treasure  ? 

What  is  reputation's  care  1 
If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

'Tis  CO  matter  Jiow  or  where  I 
A  fig,  &c. 


30  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Witli  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day  j 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 
Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 
A  fig,  &c. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Thro'  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 


Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes ; 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum 
Who  have  characters  to  lose. 
A  fig,  &c. 

Here's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets ! 

Here's  to  all  the  wandering  train  I 
Here's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets ! 

One  and  all  cry  out.  Amen ! 
A  fig,  &c. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 


Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end. 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn'd  ; 
Ev'n  ministers,  they  ha'e  been  kenn'd, 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid  at  times  to  vend. 

And  nail't  wi'  Scripture 

But  this  that  1  am  gaun  to  tell, 
Which  lately  on  a  night  befell, 
Is  just  as  true 's  the  Deil's  in  hell. 

Or  Dublin  city  ; 
That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel' 

'S  a  muckle  pity. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  31 

The  Clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 

I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty  ; 

I  stacher'd  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 

To  free  the  ditches  : 
And  hillocks,  stanes,  and  bushes,  kenn'd  ay 

Frae  ghaists  and  witches. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre  : 
To  count  her  horns  wi'  a'  my  pow'r 

I  set  niysel' ; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I  cou'dna  tell. 

I  was  come  round  about  the  hill, 
And  toddlin'  down  on  Willie's-mill, 
Setting  my  staff,  wi'  a'  my  skill. 

To  keep  me  sicker  ; 
Though  leaward  whyles  against  my  will, 

I  took  a  bicker. 

I  there  wi'  Something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither  ; 

An  awfu'  scythe,  out-owre  ae  shouther. 

Clear-dangling,  hang  ; 
A  three-taed  leister  on  the  ither 

Lay,  large  and  lang. 

Its  stature  seem'd  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
The  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw. 
For  fient  a  wame  it  had  ava  ! 

And  then  its  shanks, 
They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp,  an'  sma'  «.. 

As  cheeks  o'  branks  ! 

*'  Gude-een,"  quo'  I ;  "  Friend  !  ha'e  ye  been  mawin. 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ?  "  * 
It  seem'd  to  mak'  a  kind  o'  staun. 

But  naething  spak' : 
At  length  says  I,  "  Friend  !  whare  ye  gauu  ? 

Will  ye  gae  back  ? ' ' 

It  spak'  right  howe  : — "  My  name  is  Death — 
But  be  na  fley'd." — Quoth  i,  "  Gude  faith, 
Ye're  maybe  come  to  stap  my  breath  ; 

But  tent  me,  billie, 
I  red  ye  weel,  take  care  o'  skaith. 

See,  there's  a  gully  !  " 
*  This  rencounter  happened  in  seed-time,  1785. 


32  BURNS  s  poe:hs. 

"  Gucleman,"  quo'  he,  "put  up  your  whittle, 
I'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle  ; 
But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 

To  be  mislear'd, 
I  wadna  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 

Out-owre  my  beard." 

*'  Weel,  weel,"  says  I,  "  a  bargain  be't  ; 
Come,  gie's  your  hand,  and  say  we're  gree't  j 
We'll  ease  our  shanks  and  tak'  a  seat, 

Come,  gie's  your  news  ; 
This  while  *  ye  ha'e  been  mony  a  gate, 

At  mony  a  house." 

"  Ay,  ay ! "  quo'  he,  and  shook  his  head, 
"  It's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 
Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread, 

And  choke  the  breath  : 
Folk  maim  do  something  for  their  bread, 

And  sae  maun  Death. 

"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled, 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

And  mony  a  scheme  in  vain's  been  laid 

To  stap  or  scaur  me  ; 
Till  ane  Hornbook's  +  ta'en  up  the  trade. 

And  faith !  he'll  waur  me. 

«  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  Clachan, 
De'il  mak  his  king's-hood  in'  a  spleuchan  ! 
He's  grown  sae  weel  acquaint  wi'  Buchan^: 

And  ither  chaps. 
The  weans  baud  out  their  fingers  laughin' 

And  pouk  my  hips. 

"  See,  here's  a  scythe,  and  there's  a  dart. 
They  ha'e  pierced  monie  a  gallant  heart : 
But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi'  his  art 

And  cursed  skill. 
Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  f — t, 

Damn'd  haet  they'll  kill. 

*  An  epidemical  fever  was  then  raging  in  that  country. 

fThis  gentleman,  Dr.  Hornbook,  is  professionally  a  brother  of 
the  Sovereign  Order  of  the  Ferula  ;  but,  by  intuition  and  inspira- 
tinn,  is  at  once  an  Apothecary,  Surgeon,  and  Physician. 

t  Buchan's  Domestic  Medicine. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  33 

"  'Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gane, 

I  tlirew  a  noble  throw  at  aue  : 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sui-e,  I've  hundreds  slain  ; 

But  deil-ma-care 
It  just  play'd  du'l  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 

"  Hornbook  was  by,  wi'  ready  art, 
And  had  sae  fortified  the  part. 
That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart. 

It  was  sae  blunt, 
Fient  haet  o't  wad  ha'e  pierced  the  heart 

0'  a  kail-runt. 

"  I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 
I  near-hand  cowpit  wi'  my  hurry. 
But  yet  the  bauld  Apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock  ; 
I  might  as  weel  ha'e  tried  a  quarry 

0'  hai-d  whin-rock. 

"  Ev'n  them  he  canna  get  attended. 
Although  their  face  he  ne'er  had  kenn'd  it. 
Just in  a  kail-blade  and  send  it  ; 

As  soon's  he  smells't, 
Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  mend  it. 

At  ance  he  tells' t. 

"  And  then  o'  doctor's  saws  and  whittles. 
Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  and  metals, 
A'  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  and  bottles. 

He's  sure  to  ha'e  : 
Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

As  A,  B,  C. 

"  Calces  o'  fossils,  earths,  and  trees  ; 
True  sal-marinum  o'  the  seas  ; 
The  farina  o'  beans  and  pease. 

He  has't  in  plenty  ; 
Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please. 

He  can  content  ye. 

"  Forbye  some  new  uncommon  weapons, 

Urinus  spiritus  o'  capons : 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 

Distill'd  perse  ; 
Sal-alkali  o*  midge-tail  clippings. 

And  monie  mae.' 

D 


34  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

*'  Waes  me  for  Johnny  Ged's  Hole  *  now," 
Quoth  I,  *'  if  that  thae  news  be  true  ! 
His  braw  calf- ward,  whare  go  wans  grew 

Sae  white  and  bonny, 
Kae  doubt  they'll  rive  it  wi'  the  plew  : 

They'll  ruin  Johnny !  " 

The  creature  graiu'd  an  eldritch  laugh. 
And  says,  "  Ye  needna  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kirk -yards  will  soon  be  till'd  eneugh, 

Tak'  ye  na  fear ; 
They'll  a'  be  trench 'd  wi'  mony  a  sheugh, 

In  twa- three  year 

"  Where  I  kill'd  ane  a  fair-strae  death. 
By  loss  o'  bluid,  or  want  o'  breath. 
This  night  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

That  Hornbook's  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith, 

By  di'ap  and  pill. 

"  An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whase  wife's  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel-bredj, 

Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head. 

When  it  was  sair  ; 
The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed. 

But  ne'er  spak'  mair. 

"  A  countra  laird  had  ta'en  the  batts, 
Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts  ; 
His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets. 

And  pays  him  well : 
The  lad  for  twa  gude  gimmer  pets, 

Was  laird  himsel'. 

*'  A  bonny  lass,  ye  kenn'd  her  name. 

Some  ili-brewn  drink  had  hoved  her  wame  ; 

She  trusts  hersel',  to  hide  the  shame. 

In  Hornbook's  care ; 
Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

"  That's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's  way  ; 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day. 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an'  slay, 

An's  weel  paid  for't  * 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lavfu'  prey 

Wi'  his  d-nin'd  dh't. 

*  The  grave-digger. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  35 

«  But,  hark  !  I'll  tell  you  of  a  plot. 
The'  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o't ; 
I'll  nail  the  self-conceited  sot 

As  dead's  a  herrin' : 
Neist  time  we  meet,  I  '11  wad  a  groat. 

He  gets  his  fairin' ! " 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell. 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak'  the  bell 

Some  wee  short  hour  avont  the  twal, 

Which  raised  us  baith  : 
I  took  the  way  that  pleased  mysel'. 

And  sae  did  Death, 


THE   KIRK'S   ALARM*. 

A   SATIRE. 


Orthodox,  Orthodox,  wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 
Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience  : 

There's  a  heretic  blast  has  been  blawn  in  the  wast ; 
That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Dr.  Macf,  Dr.  Mac,  you  should  stretch  on  a  rack. 

To-  strike  evil-doers  wi'  teiTor  ; 
To  join  faith  and  sense  upon  ony  pretence, 

Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ajt,  it  was  mad,  I  declare. 

To  meddle  wi'  mischief  a-brewin' ; 
Provost  John  is  still  deaf  to  the  church's  relief, 

And  orator  Bob  J  is  its  ruin. 

D'rjTTiple  mikUjD'rymple  mild,  tho' your  heart's  like  a  child 

And  your  life  like  the  new-driven  snaw. 
Yet  that  winna  save  ye,  auld  Satan  must  have  ye, 

For  preaching  that  three's  ane  an'  twa. 

Rumble  John||,  Rumble  John,  mount  the  steps  wi'  a  groan. 

Cry  the  book  is  wi'  h.eresy  cramm'd ; 
Then  lug  out  your  ladle,  deal  brimstane  like  adle, 

And  roar  ev'ry  note  of  the  damn'd. 

*  This  Poem  was  written  a  short  time  after  the  publication  ■  i 
Dr.  IM'Gill's  Essay.  t  Dr.  M'Gill. 

±  R— t  A— k— n.  §  :srr.  DalrjTnple.  ||  Mr.  Russell. 

D    2 


36  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Simper  James  i,  Simper  James,  leave  the  fair  Killie  dames, 

There's  a  hoHer  chase  in  your  view ; 
I'll  lay  on  your  head,  that  the  pack  ye'll  soon  lead, 

For  puppies  liive  you  there's  but  few. 

Singet  Sa-svney^,  Singet  Sawney,  are  ye  herding  the  penny, 

Unconscious  what  evils  await ; 
Wi'  a  jump,  yell,  and  howl,  alarm  every  soul, 

For  the  Foul  Thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Auld^,  Daddy  Auld,  there's  a  tod  in  the  fauld, 

A  tod  meikle  waur  than  the  clerk ; 
Tho'  ye  can  do  little  skaith,  ye'll  be  in  at  the  death, 

And  gif  ye  canna  bite,  ye  may  bark. 

Davie  Bluster*,  Davie  Bluster,  if  for  a  saint  ye  do  muster, 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits : 
Yet  to  worth  let's  be  just,  royal  blood  ye  might  boast. 

If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamie  Goose  5,  Jamie  Goose,  ye  ha'e  made  but  toom  roose, 

In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant ; 
But  the  Doctor's  your  mark,  for  the  L — d's  haly  ark, 

He  has  cooper'd  and  ca'd  a  wrang  pin  in't. 

Poet  Willie^,  Poet  Willie,  gie  the  Doctor  a  volley, 

Wi'  your  liberty's  chain  and  your  wit ; 
O'er  Pegasus'  side  ye  ne'er  laid  astride. 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  s — t. 

Andro  Gouk',  Andro  Gouk,  ye  may  slander  the  book, 
And  the  book  not  the  waur,  let  me  tell  ye  ! 

Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big,  but  lay  by  hat  and  wig. 
And  ye'll  ha'e  a  cah's  head  o'  sma'  value. 

Barr  Steenie^,  Barr  Steenie^what  mean  ye  1  what  mean  ye } 

If  ye'll  meddle  nae  mair  wi'  the  matter, 
Ye  may  ha'e  some  pretence  to  bavins  and  sense, 

Wi'  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine  side^,  Irvine  side,  wi'  your  turkey-cock  pride, 

Of  manhood  but  sma'  is  your  share  ; 
Ye've  the  figure,  'tis  true,  even  your  faes  will  allow. 

And  your  friends  they  dare  grant  you  nae  mair. 

1  IVIr.  M'Kinlay.  2  Mr.  Moodie.  s  Mr.  Auld, 

*  IMr.  G 1  of  Ochiltree.  *  Mr.  Y g  of  Cumnock. 

6  Mr.  Peebles  of  Ayr.    •  '  Dj.,  a.  M 11, 

s  Mr.  S n  Y— g  of  Barr.  »  Mr.  S h  of  Galston. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  37 

Muirland  Jock,*  Muirland  Jock,  when  the  L — d  makes  a 
To  crush  Common  Sense  for  her  sins,  [rock 

If  ill-mannei's  were  wit,  there's  no  mortal  so  fit 
To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will,t  Holy  Will,  there  was  wit  in  your  skull, 

When  ye  pilier'd  the  alms  o'  the  poor  ; 
The  timmer  is  scant  when  ye'i-e  ta'en  for  a  saunt, 

Wha  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  an  hour. 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons,  seize  your  sp'ritual  guns, 

Ammunition  ye  never  can  need  ; 
Your  hearts  are  the  stuff  will  be  powther  enough. 

And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o'  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Burns,  wi'  your  priest-skelping  tunii3, 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 
Your  muse  is  a  gipsy, — e'en  tho'  she  were  tipsy, 

She  cou'd  ea'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


THE    TWA     HERDS; 

OR   THE   HOLY  TflLZIE  ij:. 

0  a'  ye  pious,  godly  flocks, 
Weel  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 
Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox, 

Or  worrying  tykes, 
Or  wha  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks 

About  the  dykes  ? 

The  twa  best  Herds  in  a'  the  wast. 
That  e'er  ga'e  gospel  horn  a  blast. 
These  five-and-twenty  simmers  past, 

0  !  donl  to  tell, 
Ha'e  had  a  bitter,  black  out-cast 

Atween  themsel'. 

0,  Moodie,  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 
How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle, 
Ye'll  see  how  New-light  Herds  will  whistle, 

And  think  it  fine  ! 
The  L — d's  cause  ne'er  gat  sic  a  twist) e. 
Sin'  I  ha'e  min'. 
*  Mr.  S— d. 

t  [An  elder—or  kind  of  churchwarden— in  Mauchline,  and  the 
subject  of  the  two  pieces  in  pages  40 — 42. — Ed.] 

X  This  piece  was  nmong  the  first  of  our  Author's  productions  wliich 
he  submitted  to  the  public  ;  and  was  occasioned  by  a  dispnte  between 
two  Clergymen,  near  Kilmarnock. 


38  BUBNSS   POEJIS. 

O,  Sirs !  whae'er  wad  ha'e  expeckit 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit, 

Ye  wha  were  ne'er  by  lairds,  respeckit 

To  wear  the  plaid, 
But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit, 

To  be  their  guide. 

What  flock  wi'  Hoodie's  flock  could  rank, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank, 
Nae  poison'd  sour  Arminian  stank, 

He  let  them  taste, 
Frae  Calvin's  well,  ay  clear,  they  dranlc, 

0  sic  a  feast ! 

The  fovmiai't,  wil'-cat,  brock,  and  tod. 
Well  kenn'd  his  voice  thro'  a'  the  wood, 
He  smell'd  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in, 
And  weel  he  liked  to  shed  their  bluid, 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  Herd  like  Russell  tell'd  his  tale  ? 
His  voice  was  heard  thro'  muir  and  dale, 
He  kenn'd  the  Lord's  sheep,  ilka  tail 

O'er  a'  the  height, 
And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale. 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub. 

Or  nobly  fling  the  gospel  club, 

And  New-light  Herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  theii*  skin  ; 
Could  shake  them  o'er  the  burning  dub, 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa ! — 0,  do  I  live  to  see't ! 
Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 
An'  names,  Uke  villain,  In-pocrite, 

Ilk  ither,  gi'en, 
While  New-light  Herds,  wi'  laughm'  spite 

Say  neither's  lyin' ! 

A'  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauF, 

There's  D n  deep,  and  Peebles  shaul, 

But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  Auld, 

We  trust  ia  thee. 
That  thou  wilt  work  them  hot  and  cauld 

Till  they  agree. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  39 

Consider,  Sirs,  how  we're  beset ! 
Tliere's  scarce  a  new  Herd  tliat  we  get, 
But  conies  frae  'mang  that  cursed  set 

I  winna  name, 
1  hope  frae  heav'n  to  see  them  yet. 

In  fiery  flame. 

Dah'ymple  has  been  lang  our  fae, 
M'Gill  lias  wrought  us  meikle  wae. 
And  that  curs'd  rascal  ca'd  M e. 

And  baith  the  Shaws, 
That  aft  ha'e  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi'  vengefu'  paws. 

Auld  W w  lang  has  hatch'd  mischief, 

We  thought  ay  death  wad  bring  relief, 
But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 
A  chiel  wha'll  soundly  buff  our  beef ; 

I  meilvle  dread  him. 

And  monie  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 
Who  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forbye  turn-coats  among  oursel': 

There's  Smith  for  ane, 
1  doubt  he's  but  a  grey -nick  quill, 

Au'  that  ye'll  fin'. 

O !  a'  ye  flocks,  o'er  a'  the  hills. 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors,  and  fells. 

Come  join  your  counsel  and  your  sldlls, 

To  cowe  the  lairds, 
And  get  the  brutes  the  power  themsel's 

To  choose  their  Herds. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance. 
And  Learning  in  a  woodie  dance. 
And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair. 
Be  banish'd  o'er  the  sea  to  France  : 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw's  and  D'rymple's  eloquence, 
M'Gill's  close,  nervous  excellence, 
M'Q, — e's  pathetic,  manly  sense, 

And  guid  M'Math, 
Wi'  Smith,  wlia  thro'  the  heart  can  glance, 

May  a'  pack  aff". 


40  nURN'SS   POEMS. 


HOLY  WILLIE'S   PRAYER. 

0  Thou,  wha  in  the  lieav'ns  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleasest  best  tliysel'. 
Sends  ane  to  heav'n  and  ten  to  hell, 

A'  for  thy  glory, 
And  no  for  ony  good  or  ill 

They've  done  afore  thee  I 

1  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might. 
Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night, 
That  I  am  here  afore  thy  sight, 

For  gifts  an'  grace, 
A  bumin'  and  a  shinin'  light. 

To  a'  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation. 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation  ? 
I,  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation 

For  broken  laws, 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  creation, 

Thro'  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  ha'e  plunged  me  in  hell. 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  burnin'  lake, 
Whare  damned  Devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain'd  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample, 

To  show  thy  grace  is  great  and  ample  ; 

I'm  here  a  pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example 

To  a'  thy  flock. 

0  L — d !  thou  kens  what  zeal  I  bear 
When  drinkers  drink,  and  swearers  swear. 
And  singin'  there,  and  dancin'  hei'e, 

Wi'  great  an'  sma' ; 
For  I  am  keepit  ])y  thy  fear, 

i'vee  frae  them  a'. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  41 


But  yet,  0  L — d !  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I'm  fash'd  wi'  fleshly  lust, 
And  sometimes  too,  wi'  wai'ldly  trust. 

Vile  self  gets  iu  ; 
But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defiled  m  sin. 


Besides,  I  farther  maun  allow, 

Wi'  Lizzie's  lass,  three  times  I  trow ; 

But  L — d,  that  Friday  I  was  fou 

When  I  came  near  her, 
Or  else,  thou  kens,  thy  servant  true 

Wad  ne'er  ha'e  steer'd  her. 

Maybe  thou  lets  i\\\^  fleshly  thorn 
Beset  thy  servant  e'en  and  morn. 
Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 

'Cause  he's  sae  gifted  ; 
If  sae,  thy  han'  maun  e'en  be  boi-ne. 

Until  thou  hft  it- 

L — d,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place. 
For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race  ; 
But  G-d  confound  their  stubborn  face, 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 

An'  public  shame. 

L — d,  mind  GaAvn  Hamilton's  deserts. 
He  drinks,  an'  swears,  an'  plays  at  cartes, 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  grit  an'  sma', 
Frae  G-d's  ain  priest  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa'. 

And  when  we  chasten'd  him  therefore. 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore. 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O'  laughin'  at  us  ; 
Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store. 

Kail  an'  potatoes. 

L — d,  hear  my  earnest  cry  an'  pray'r. 

Against  the  presbytery  o'  Ayr  ; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  L — d,  make  it  bare 

Upo'  tlieir  lieads, 
L — d,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 


42  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

0  L — d,  ray  G-d,  that  glib-tongued  Aiken  : 

My  vera  heart  an'  saul  are  quakj.i', 

To  think  how  we  stood  groanin',  ahakin', 

And  swat  wi'  dread. 
While  he  wi'  hangin'  lip  and  sneakin' 

Held  up  his  head. 

L — d,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 
L — d,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 
And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  'em, 

Nor  hear  their  prayV  ; 
But,  for  thy  people's  sake,  destroy  'em. 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  L — d,  remember  me  and  mine 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine, 
That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excell'd  by  nane. 
An'  a'  the  glory  shall  be  thine  : 

Amen,  amen. 


EPITAPH  ON  HOLY  WILLIE. 


Here  Holy  Willie's  sair-woi'n  clay 

Tak's  up  its  last  abode  ; 
His  saul  has  ta'en  some  other  way, 

I  fear  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  !  there  he  is,  as  sure's  a  gun. 

Poor  silly  body,  see  him  ! 
Nae  wonder  he's  as  black's  the  grun. 

Observe  wha's  standin'  wi'  him. 

Your  brunstane  devilship,  I  see, 
Has  got  him  thei'e  before  ye ; 

But  baud  your  nine-tail  cat  a  wee, 
Till  ance  you've  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I  will  not  implore. 

For  pity  ye  ha'e  nane  ; 
Justice,  alas  !  has  gi'en  him  o'er. 

And  mercy's  day  is  gane  : 

But  hear  me,  sir,  de'il  as  ye  are. 
Look  something  to  your  credit  : 

A  coof  like  him  would  stain  your  name^ 
If  it  were  ken'd  you  did  it. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  43 

LAMENT  OF  MARY,   QUEEN   OF  SCOTS, 

O.V   THE   APPROACH    OF    SPRING. 

Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 

On  eveiy  blooming  tree, 
And  spreads  her  sheets  o'  daisies  white 

Out  o'er  the  grassy  lea : 
Now  Phoebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 

And  glads  the  azure  skies  ; 
But  nociit  can  glad  the  weary  n-ight 

That  fast  in  dui'ance  lies. 

Now  lav'rocks  wake  the  merry  morii, 

Aloft  on  dewy  wing  ; 
The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow'r, 

]\Iakes  woodland  echoes  ring  ; 
The  mavis  mild,  wi'  many  a  note, 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest : 
In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi'  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank. 

The  primrose  down  the  brae  ; 
The  hawthorn  's  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae  : 
The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 

May  rove  their  sweets  amang  ; 
But  I,  the  Queen  of  a'  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang. 

I  was  the  Queen  o'  bonnie  France, 

Where  happy  I  ha'e  been  ; 
Fu'  lightly  rase  I  in  the  morn, 

As  blythe  lay  down  at  e'en  : 
And  I'm  the  Sov'reign  of  Scotland, 

And  monie  a  traitor  there  : 
Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands. 

And  never-ending  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman ! 

My  sister  and  my  fae. 
Grim  Vengeance,  yet,  shall  whet  a  sv.'ord 

That  through  thy  soul  shall  gae ; 


44  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

The  weeping  blood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee  ; 
Nor  th'  balm  that  drops  on  wounds  of  woe 

Frae  woman's  pitying  e'e. 

My  son  !  my  son  !  may  kinder  stars 

\jpon  thy  fortune  shine  ; 
And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign. 

That  ne'er  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee  ; 
And  where  thoumeet'st  thy  mother's  friend, 

Remember  him  for  me  ! 

Oh  !  soon,  to  me,  may  summer  suns 

Nae  mah'  light  up  the  morn ! 
Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 

Wave  o'er  the  yellow  corn  ! 
And  in  the  narrow  house  o'  death 

Let  winter  round  me  rave  ; 
And  the  next  floAvers  that  deck  the  spring. 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  ! 


THE  HOLY  FAIR*. 


A  robe  of  seeminff  truth  and  trust 

Hid  crafty  Observation  ; 
And  secret  hung,  with  poison'd  crust, 

The  dirii  of  Defamation  : 
A  mask  that  like  the  gorget  show'd 

Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon; 
And  for  a  mantle  large  and  broad. 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion 

BYPOCRISy  A-LA-MOOR- 

Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  was  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn. 

And  snuff  the  caller  air  : 
The  rising  sun  owre  Galston  muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin'  ; 
The  hares  were  hh^pling  down  the  furs, 

The  lav'rocks  they  were  chantin' 

Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

*  Holy  Fair  is  a  common  phrase  in  the  "West  of  Scotland  for  a 
sacramental  occasion. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  45 

A  s  lightsomely  I  glowr'd  abroad, 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 
Three  hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam'  skclpin'  up  the  way  : 
/Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolefu'  black. 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  Iming  ; 
The  thu-d,  that  gaed  a-wee  aback. 
Was  in  the  fashion  shining, 

Fu'  gay  that  day. 

The  tAva  appear 'd  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  and  claes  ; 
Their  visage  wither'd,  lang,  and  thin. 

And  sour  as  ony  slaes  : 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-stap-an'-loup. 

As  light  as  ony  lambie. 
And  wi'  a  curchie  low  did  stoop. 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  day. 

Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  "  Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me  ; 
I'm  sure  I've  seen  that  bonnie  face, 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  and  laughing  as  she  spak'. 

An'  tak's  me  by  the  hands, 
"  Ye  for  ray  sake,  ha'e  gi'en  the  feck 

Of  a'  the  Ten  Commands 

A  screed  some  day. 

"My  name  is  Fun — your  crony  dear. 

The  nearest  friend  ye  ha'e  ; 
And  this  is  Superstition  here. 

And  that's  Hypocrisy. 
I'm  gaun  to  Mauchline  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin' : 
Gin  ye'll  gae  there,  yon  runkled  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin' 

At  them  this  day.'* 

Quoth  I,  «  Wi'  a'  my  heart  I'll  do't ; 

I'll  get  my  Sunday's  sark  on, 
And  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot  ; 

Faith,  we'se  ha'e  fine  remarkin' ! " 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time. 

And  soon  I  made  me  ready  ; 
For  roads  were  clad,  frae  side  to  side, 

Wi'  niony  a  weary  body. 

In  droves  that  day. 


46  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Here  farmei's  gash,  in  ridin'  gi'aith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters  ; 
There,  swanicies  young,  in  braw  braid-claith. 

Are  spriDgm'  o'er  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang, 

In  silks  and  scarlet  glitter  , 
Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  niony  a  whang. 

And  farls  baked  wi'  butter, 

Fu'  crump  that  day. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  Black  Bonnet  throws. 

And  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show  : 

On  every  side  they're  gatherin', 
Some  carrying  dails,  some  chairs  and  stools, 

And  some  are  busy  blethrin' 

Right  loud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  show'rs, 

An'  screen  our  countra  gentry, 
There  Racer  Jess,  an'  twa-three  Avhores, 

Are  blinkin'  at  the  entry. 
Here  sits  a  raw  of  tittlin'  jades, 

Wi'  heaving  bi*east  and  bare  neck. 
And  there  a  batch  o'  wabster  lads, 

Blackguardin'  frae  Kilmarnock 

For  fun  this  day. 

Here  some  are  thinkin'  on  their  sins. 

An'  some  upon  their  claes  ; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl'd  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  and  prays  : 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  screwed-up  grace-proud  faces  ; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin'  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day. 

0  happy  is  that  man  and  blest  ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him  ! 
Wha's  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best. 

Comes  cliukin'  down  beside  him. 
Wi'  arm  reposed  on  the  chair  back, 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him. 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An's  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkenn'd  that  day. 


BURNS  S   POE31S.  47 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation  ; 
For  Moodie  speels  the  lioly  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  damnation. 
Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him, 
The  vera  sight  o'  Hoodie's  face 

To  's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  faith, 

Wi'  rattlin'  and  wi'  thumpin' ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath. 

He's  stampin'  and  he's  jumpin' ! 
His  .'engthen'd  chin,  his  turn'd-up  snout, 

His  eldi'itch  squeel  and  gestures. 
Oh  !  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 

On  sic  a  day. 

But  hark  !  the  tent  has  changed  its  voice ; 

There's  peace  and  rest  nae  langer ; 
For  a'  the  real  judges  rise. 

They  canna  sit  for  anger ! 
Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues 

On  practice  and  on  morals ; 
And  atf  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs. 

To  gi'e  the  jars  and  barrels 

A  lift  that  day. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

0'  moral  powers  and  reason  ? 
His  English  style,  and  gesture  fine. 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen. 
The  moral  man  he  does  define. 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That's  right  that  day. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 

Against  sic  poisoned  nostrum  ; 
For  Peebles,  frae  the  Water-fit, 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 
See,  up  he's  got  the  word  o'  God, 

And  meek  and  mini  has  view'd  it,     • 
While  Common  Sense  has  ta'en  the  road, 

^nd  aff,  and  up  the  Cowgate,* 

Fast,  fast  that  day. 
*  A  street  so  called,  which  faces  tlic  tent  in  3Iauchline 


48  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Wee  Miller,  neist,  the  guard  relieves, 

Aud  orthodoxy  raibles, 
Though  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes 

And  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables  : 
But,  faith  !  the  birkie  wants  a  manse, 

So  eannily  he  hums  them  ; 
Although  his  carnal  wit  and  sense 

Like  hafflin's-ways  o'ereomes  him 

At  times  that  day. 

Now  butt  and  ben,  the  change-house  fill? 

Wi'  yill-caup  commentators ; 
Here's  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills. 

And  tliere  the  pint-stoup  clatters ; 
While  thick  and  thrang,  and  loud  and  laug. 

Wi'  logic  and  wi'  scripture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that  in  the  end 

Is  like  to  breed  a  ru])ture 

0'  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  me  on  drink  !  it  gi'es  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college. 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fu'  o'  knowledge  : 
Be't  whiskey  gill,  or  penny  wheep. 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep. 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  and  lasses,  blythely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  and  body, 
Sit  round  the  table,  weel  content, 

And  steer  about  the  toddy. 
On  this  ane's  dress,  and  that  ane's  leuk, 

They're  making  observations ; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk, 

And  formin'  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 

But  now  the  Lord's  ain  Trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin. 
And  echoes  back  return  the  shouts, 

Black  Russell  is  nae  sparin' ; 
His  piercing  words,  lilce  Highland  swords, 

Divicie  the  joints  and  mai'row  ; 
His  talk  o'  hell,  whare  devils  dwell, 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow*  ^ 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 
*  Shakspeare's  Hamlet. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  49 

A  vast,  unbottom'd,  boundless  jnt, 

FiU'd  fu'  o'  lowin'  bi'unstane, 
Whase  ra^in'  flame,  and  scorchin'  heat, 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whunstane  ! 
The  hauf  asleep  start  up  wi'  fear, 

And  think  they  hear  it  roarin', 
When  presently  it  does  appear 

'Twas  but  some  neebor  snorin' 

Asleep  that  day. 

*Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  mony  stories  past, 
And  how  they  crowded  to  the  jdll 

When  they  were  a'  dismist  ; 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  and  caups, 

Amang  the  farms  and  benches. 
And  cheese  and  bread,  frae  women's  laps, 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches. 

An'  dawds  that  daj. 

In  comes  a  gaucie,  gash  gudewife, 

And  sits  down  by  the  fire. 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  and  her  knife  ; 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 
The  auld  gudemen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother. 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays. 

And  gi'es  them't  like  a  tether, 

Fu'  lang  that  day. 

Waesuoks  !  for  him  that  gets  uae  lass. 

Or  lasses  that  ha'e  naething  ! 
Sraa'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing  ! 
0  wives,  be  mmdfu',  ance  yoursel' 

How  bonnie  lads  ye  wanted. 
And  dinna,  for  a  kebbuck-heel, 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day. 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  rattlin'  tow. 

Begins  to  jow  and  croon  ; 
Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  dow. 

Some  wait  the  afternoon, 
At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon  : 
Wi'  faith  and  hope,  and  love  and  drink. 

They're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 


50  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

How  mony  hearts  this  day  converts 

0'  sinners  and  o'  lasses  ! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night,  are  gano 

As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 
There's  some  are  fu'  o'  love  divine  ; 

There's  some  are  fu'  o'  brandy  ; 
An'  mony  jobs,  that  day  begun. 

May  end  in  houghmagandie 

Some  ither  day. 


THE  ORDINATION. 

For  sense  they  little  owe  to  frugal  Heaven,— 
To  please  the  mob  they  hide  the  little  given. 

Kilmarnock  wabsters,  fidge  and  claw, 

And  pour  your  creeshie  nations ; 
And  ye  wha  leather  rax  and  draw, 

0'  a'  denominations ; 
Swith  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  and  a', 

And  there  tak'  up  your  stations ; 
Then  afif  to  Begbie's  in  a  raw. 

And  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day. 

Curst  Common-Sense,  that  imp  o'  hell. 

Cam'  in  wi  Maggy  Lauder  *, 
But  Oliphant  aft  made  her  yell, 

And  Russell  sair  misca'd  her ; 
This  day  M'Kinlay  taks  the  flail, 

And  he's  the  boy  will  blaud  her ! 
He'll  clap  a  shangan  on  her  tail, 

And  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 
Wi'  dirt  this  day. 

Mak'  haste  and  turn  King  David  owre. 

And  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor ; 
0'  double  verse  come  gi'e  us  four, 

And  skirl  up  the  Bangor  : 
This  day  the  kirk  kicks  up  a  stoure, 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her. 
For  Heresy  is  in  her  power. 

And  gloriously  she'll  whang  her 
Wi'  pith  this  day. 

*  Alluding  to  a  scoffing  ballad  which  was  made  on  the  admi-^sion 
of  the  late  Reverend  and  worthy  Mr. Lindsay  to  the  Laigh  Kiik. 


BURNS  S  POEMS.  51 

Come,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

And  touch  it  aff  wi'  vigour, 
How  graceless  Ham  *  leugh  at  his  dad. 

Which  made  Canaan  a  niger ; 
Or  Phineas  +  drove  the  murdering  blade, 

Wi'  whore-abliorring  rigour ; 
Or  Zipporah  J,  the  scauldin'  jade, 

Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

I'  th'  iim  that  day. 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed. 

And  bind  him  down  wi'  caution, 
That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

He  tak's  but  for  the  fashion ; 
And  gi'e  him  o'er  the  flock,  to  feed. 

And  punish  each  transgression  ; 
Especial  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gi'e  them  sufficient  threshin'. 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

Now,  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail, 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty ; 
Nae  mair  thou'lt  rowte  out-o^\Te  the  dale. 

Because  thy  pasture's  scanty ; 
For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty. 
And  runts  o'  grace,  the  pick  and  wale. 

No  gi'en  by  way  o'  dainty. 
But  ilka  day. 

Nae  mair  by  Babel's  streams  we'll  weep, 

To  think  upon  our  Zion  ; 
And  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin' : 
Come,  screw  the  pegs  wi'  tunefu'  cheep, 

And  o'er  the  thairms  be  tx'yin' ; 
Oh,  rare  !  to  see  our  elbucks  wheep, 

And  a'  like  lamb-tails  flyin' 

Fu'  fast  this  day ! 

Lang  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  airn, 

Has  shored  the  kii'k!s  undoin'. 

As  lately  Fenwick,  sair  fox^fairn. 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin : 
Our  patron,  honest  man !  Glencairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin' ; 
And,  like  a  godly  elect  bairn. 
He's  waled  us  out  a  ti'ue  ane. 

And  sound,  this  day. 
*  Genesis,  ix.  22.     t  Numbers,  xxv.  8.      :j:  Exodus,  iv,  25. 
£   2 


52  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Now,  Robinson,  harangue  nae  mair, 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever ; 
Or  try  the  wicked  to\v'n  o'  Ayr, 

For  there  they'll  thmk  you  clever ; 
Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lair. 

You  may  commence  a  shaver ; 
Or  to  the  Netherton  repair, 

An'  turn  a  carpet- weaver 

Aflf-hand  this  day, 

Mutrie  and  you  were  just  a  match. 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones  ; 
Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch. 

Just  like  a  winkin'  baudrons : 
And  aye  he  catch'd  the  tither  wretch. 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons ; 
But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi'  a'  his  brimstane  squadrons, 
Fast,  fast  this  day. 

See,  see  auld  Oi'thodoxy's  faes. 

She's  swingein'  through  the  city. 
Hark,  how  the  nine-tail'd  cat  she  plays ! 

I  vow  it's  unco  pretty : 
There  Learning,  wi'  his  Greekish  face. 

Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty ; 
And  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says. 

To  mak'  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  plaint  this  day. 

But  there's  Morality  hmisel'. 

Embracing  a'  opinions ; 
Hear,  how  he  gi'es  the  tither  yell. 

Between  his  twa  companions ; 
See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  and  fell. 

As  ane  were  peeling  onions ! 
Now  there — they're  packed  aff"  to  hell, 

And  banish 'd  our  dominions. 

Henceforth  tliis  day. 

O  happy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come,  bouse  aix)ut.  the  porter ! 
Morality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter? 
M'Kinlay,  Russell,  are  the  boys 

That  Heresy  can  torture  ; 
They'll  gi'e  her  on  a  rape  a  hoyse, 

Aiid  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  th'  head  some  day- 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  53 


Come,  bring  the  tither  mutclikin  in, 

And  here's,  for  a  conclusion, 
"  To  every  New  Light  *  mother's  son, 

From  this  time  fortli,  confusion  !  " 
If  mair  they  deave  us  wi'  their  din, 

Or  patronage  intrusion, 
We'll  light  a  spunk,  and,  ev'ry  skin, 

We'll  rin  them  afF  in  fusion 

Like  oil,  some  day. 


THE  CALF. 

TO    THE    REVEREND    MR.   /AMES    STEVEN, 
OM  HIS  TKXT,   HALACHI,  CHAP.  IV.    VEA.  2. 

'And  they  shall  go  forth,  and  grow  up  like  calves  of  the  stall." 


Right,  Sir !  your  text  I'll  prove  it  true, 

Though  heretics  may  laugh ; 
For  instance,  there's  yoursel'  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  imco'  Calf  ! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na.  Sir,  but  then  we'll  find 

Ye 're  still  as  great  a  Stirk  ! 

But  if  the  lover's  raptured  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot. 
Forbid  it,  every  heavenly  power. 

You  e'er  should  be  a  Stot ! 

Tho'  when  some  kind,  connubial  dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  aaorns, 
The  like  has  been,  that  you  may  wear 

A  noble  head  o'  horns  ! 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowt. 
Few  men  o'  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 

To  rank  amang  the  Nowt ! 

And  when  ye're  number'd  wi'  the  dead. 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
Wi'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head — 

"  Here  lies  a  famous  Bullock  ! " 

*  New  Light  is  a  cant  phrase,  in  the  West  of  Scotland,  for  those 
religious  opinions  which  Dr.  Taylor,  of  Norwich,  has  defended  so 
strenuously. 


54  BURNS  S   POEMS. 


TO  JAMES  SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

Friendship  !  mysterious  cpment  of  the  §onI  S 

Sweet'ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  ! 

I  owe  thee  much.  BlaO. 

Dear  Smith,  the  slee'st,  pawlde  thief, 
That  e'er  attempted  stealth  oi'  rief. 
Ye  siu'ely  ha'e  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  every  star  that  blinks  aboon, 
Ye've  cost  me  twenty  pair  o'  shoon. 

Just  gaun  to  see  you  ; 
And  every  ither  pair  that's  done, 

Blair  ta'en  I'm  wi'  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carHne,  Nature, 
To  mak'  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 
She's  turn'd  you  afF,  a  human  creatur 

On  her  first  plan. 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  ev'ry  feature. 

She's  wrote — The  Man. 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhjine. 
My  barmie  noddle's  working  prime, 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon : 
Ha'e  ye  a  leisure-moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin'  ? 

Some  rhjine  a  neebor's  name  to  lash ; 

Some  rhyme  (vain  thought !)  for  needfu'  cash  : 

Some  rhyme  to  court  the  countra  clash. 

And  raise  a  din ; 
For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash — 

I  rhjme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 

And  damn'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But,  in  requit. 
Has  blest  me  wi'  a  random  shot 

0'  countra  wit. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  55 

This  while  my  notion's  ta'en  a  sklent, 
To  try  my  fate  in  gude  black  preut  ! 
But  still  the  malr  I'm  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries,  "  Hoolie  ! 
I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak'  tent ! 

Ye'll  show  your  folly. 

"  There's  ither  poets,  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Ha'e  thought  they  had  insured  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  tlirang, 
And  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  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  unlmown, 
I'll  lay  me  wi'  th'  inglox-ious  dead. 

Forgot  and  gone ' 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we're  hving,  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  hfe,  sae  far's  I  understand. 
Is  a'  enchanted  fairy-land. 
Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand. 

That,  wielded  right, 
Mak's  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand. 

Dance  by  fu'  hght. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield : 
For,  ance  that  five-and-forty's  speel'd, 
See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi'  ^v^inkled  face, 
Comes  hoastin',  hirplin'  owtc  the  field, 

Wi'  creepin'  pace. 


5C  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin", 
Then  fareweel  vacant,  careless  roamui' ; 
And  fareweel  cheerfu'  tankards  foamin', 

And  social  noise ; 
And  fareweel,  dear  deluding  woman, 

The  joy  o'  joys ! 

O  Life  !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Young  Fancy's  ravs  the  hills  adorning ! 
Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 
Like  school-boys  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 

Amang  the  leaves ; 
And  tho'  the  puny  wound  appear. 

Short  while  it  grieves 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flow'ry  spat. 

For  which  they  never  toil'd  nor  swat  j 

They  drink  the  sweet,  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain ; 
And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

Wi'  high  disdain. 

Wi'  steady  aim,  some  Fortune  chase ; 
Keen  Hope  does  every  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  ithers,  lilvc  your  humble  servan', 

Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin' ; 

To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin'. 

They  zigzag  on  ; 
Till  curst  wi'  age,  obscure  and  starvin'. 

They  aften  groan. 

Alas  !  what  bitter  toil  and  strainin' ! — 
But  truce  wi'  peevish,  poor  complainin'  ;— 
Is  Fortune's  fickle  Luna  wanin'  ? 

E'en  let  her  gang ! 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remainia' 

Let's  sing  our  sang. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  57 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door, 

And  kneel,  "  Ye  Pow'rs ! "  and  warm  implore, 

"  Though  I  should  wander  terra  o'er, 

In  all  her  climes. 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more, 

Aye  rowth  o'  rhymes. 

"  Gi'e  dreeping  roasts  to  countra  lairds. 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards ; 
Gi'e  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards. 

And  maids  o'  honour : 
And  jdll  and  whisky  gi'e  to  cairds 

Until  they  sconner. 

"  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 

A  garter  gi'e  to  Willie  Pitt ; 

Gi'e  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit. 

In  cent,  per  cent. ; 
But  gi'e  me  real,  sterling  wit. 

And  I'm  content. 

"  While  ye  are  pleased  to  keep  me  hale, 
I'll  sit  down  owre  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  rh^'Tne  away. 

0  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compared  wi'  you — 0  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. 


58  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye're  ivise^ 

Nae  ferly  tho'  ye  do  despise 

The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattUn'  squad ; 
I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes — 

Ye  ken  the  road. 

Whilst  I — but  I  shall  baud  me  there— 
Wi'  you  I'll  scarce  gang  ony  where — 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair. 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  wi'  you  to  mak'  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang. 


THE   VISION. 

DUAN  FIRST*. 


The  sun  had  closed  the  winter  day. 
The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play. 
And  hunger'd  maukin  ta'en  her  way 

To  kail-yards  green, 
While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thresher's  weary  flingin-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me  ; 
And  whan  the  day  had  closed  his  e'e. 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivehe, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely  by  the  ingle-cheek 
I  sat,  and  e'ed  the  spewin'  reek. 
That  fill'd,  wi'  hoast-provoldng  smeek,    . 

The  auld  clay  biggin' ; 
And  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 

About  the  riggin'. 

A'  in  this  motty,  misty  clime, 

I  backward  mused  on  wasted  time. 

How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu'  prime. 

An'  done  nae  thing. 
But  stringin'  blethers  up  in  rh}Tne, 
For  fools  to  sing. 
*  Duan,  a  tei-m of  Ossian'sfor  the  different  divisionsof  a  digiessins 
poem.    See  his  Cath-Loda,  vol.  ii.  of  M'Pherson's  translation. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  69 

Had  I  to  gude  advice  but  liarkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  ha'e  led  a  market, 
Or  struttit  in  a  bank,  an'  clarkit 

^ly  casli-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  ioof. 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof. 

Or  some  rash  aith, 
That  I,  henceforth,  wad  be  rhyme-proof 

Till  my  last  breath — 

When,  chck !  the  string  the  sneck  did  draw ; 
And,  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  glo^vr'd  as  eerie's  I'd  been  dusht 

In  some  wild  glen  ; 
When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  she  blusht, 

And  stepped  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  those  reckless  vows 

Wad  soon  been  broken. 

A  "  harebrain'd,  sentimental  trace" 
Was  strongly  markit  in  her  face ; 
A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her ; 
Her  eye,  e'en  turn'd  on  empty  space, 

Beam'd  keen  wi'  honoui*. 

Do\vn  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen, 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen ; 
And  sic  a  leg !  my  bonny  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it ; 
Sae  straught,  sac  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 

Nane  else  cam'  near  it. 


60  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Her  mantle  large,  o'  greenish  hue, 

ftly  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew  ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingHng,  thi-ew 

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 ; 
Hex'e,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast, 

Wi'  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  tlirough  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  mony  a  lesser  torrent  scuds, 

Wi'  seemin'  i*oar. 

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  tow'r,  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, 

Wi'  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,  f  mark  him  well ! 
Bold  Richardton's  J  heroic  swell ; 

*  The  Wallaces.  t  William  Wallace. 

t  Adam  Wallace,  of  Richardton,  cousin  to  the  immortal  preserver 
of  Scottish  independence. 


BURNS  S    P0E3IS.  61 

The  chief  on  Sark  *,  who  glorious  fell, 

In  high  command  j 
And  He,  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 

His  native  land. 

There,  where  a  sceptred  Pictish  -t"  shade 
Stalk'd  ix)und  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  portray'd 

In  colours  strong ; 
Bold,  soldier-featured,  undismay'd 

They  strode  along. 

Through  many  a  wild  romantic  grove  J, 

Near  many  a  hermit-fancied  cove, 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love,) 

In  musing  mood, 
An  aged  judge,  I  saw  him  rove. 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe  § 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw. 
To  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  law 

They  gave  their  lore : 
This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 

That,  to  adore. 

Brydone's  hrave  ward  ||  I  well  could  spy. 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  ; 
Who  call'd  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 
Where  many  a  patriot-name  on  high. 

And  hero  shone. 

*  Wallace,  Laird  of  Craigie,  who  was  second  in  command,  under 
Douglas  Earl  of  Ormond,  at  the  famous  battle  on  the  banks  of  Sark, 
fought  anno  1448.  That  glorious  victory  was  principally  owing  to 
the  judicious  conduct  and  intrepid  valour  of  the  gallant  Laird  of 
Craigie,  v/ho  died  of  his  woimds  after  the  action. 

t  Coilus,  king  of  the  Picts,  from  whom  the  district  of  Kyle  is  said 
to  take  its  name,  lies  buried,  as  tradition  says,  near  the  family-seat 
of  the  Montgomeries  of  Coil's-field,  where  his  burial-place  is  still 
shown. 

t  Barskimming,  the  seat  of    the  Lord   Justice  Clerk  (IMiller) 

§  Catrine,  the  seat  of  the  late  Doctor,  and  present  Professor 
Stewart. 

y  Colonel  Fullarton. 


62  BURNS «    POEMS. 

T)UAN   SECOND. 

With  musing  deep,  astonish VI  stare, 

I  view'd  the  heav'niy-seeming  faii^;         / 

A  whisp'ring  throb  did  witness  bear 

Of  kindred  sweet, 
When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

She  did  me  greet. 

"  All  haU  !  my  o\\Tn  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,  aerial  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. 

"  'Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  goi'e, 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour ; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar, 

Tliey,  sightless,  stand. 
To  mend  the  honest  patriot  lore. 

And  gi-ace  the  hand. 

"  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Chann  or  instruct  the  future  age. 
They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 

In  energy, 
Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 

"  Henoe  Fullai'ton,  the  brave  and  young ; 
Hence  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  tongue  ; 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 

His  *  Minstrel  lays  ;' 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

The  sceptic's  bays. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  63 

"•  To  lower  orders  are  assigu'd 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind, 
The  rustic  bard,  the  lab'ring  huad. 

The  artisan ; 
All  choose,  as  various  they're  inclined^ 

The  various  man. 

«  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain. 
The  threat'niug  storm  some  strongly  rein  ; 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain 

With  tillage-skill ; 
And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 

Blythe  o'er  the  hill. 

"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile ; 
Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile ; 
Some  soothe  the  lab'rer's  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 
And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 

His  cares  and  pains. 

"  Some,  bounded  to  a  disti'ict-space, 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race, 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  bard  ; 
And  careful  note  each  opening  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard, 

"  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  caroU'd  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes. 
Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

"  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted  with  tlie  dashing  roar  ; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  youi^g  eye. 


64  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

"  Or,  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  ev'ry  floweret'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  evening^ joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strc 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th'  adored  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  ; 

Though  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws 

His  army  shade, 
Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 

Adown  the  glade. 


^;,^'"7 


And  vreai  thou  this  -  she  sdleimi  said , 
j-Vnd  tound  the  holly  xotmd my  head; 
The  polished  leaves. aad  hej-ries  xed. 
Did  xixstling  play, 
jtod.lilTP  a  passing  xhooghl:,  she  fled . 
In  Jight  arway 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  65 

"  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine  ; 
And  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine, 

Nor  kings'  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. 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

A  DIRGE. 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  evening,  as  I  wander'd  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care  ; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  1 

Began  the  reverend  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  ! 

Tlie  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Outspreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  ; 

F 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 

I've  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

0  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  every  land 

Are  Avretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn. 

That  man  was  made  to  moura. 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  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  mhuraanity  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-woi'm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife^ 

And  helpless  offspring,  mourn. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  67 

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,  oppressed,  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  aged  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  ! 


TO  RUIN. 


All  hail,  inexorable  lord ! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word 

The  mightiest  empires  fall. 
Thy  cruel,  woe-delighted  train. 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all ! 
With  stern-resolved,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aimed  dart ; 
For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie, 
And  quivers  in  my  heart. 
Then  low'ring,  and  pouring, 

The  storm  no  more  I  di-ead  ; 
Tho'  thickening,  and  blackening. 
Round  my  devoted  head, 
p  2 


68  HURNSS    POEMS. 

And  thou,  grim  power,  by  life  abhorr'd, 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 

0  !  hear  a  wTetch's  prayer ! 
No  more  I  shrink  appall'd,  afraid ; 
I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid, 

To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 
When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace. 

Resign  life's  joyless  day ; 
My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease. 
Cold  mouldering  in  the  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face ; 
Enclasped,  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace ! 


LETTER  TO  JOHN  GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON  THE   Pl-BLICATION  OF   HIS  ESSAYS. 

0  GouDiE !  terror  o'  the  Whigs, 
Dread  o'  black  coats  and  rev'rend  wigs ; 
Sour  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin'  looks  back. 
Wishing  the  ten  Eg>'ptian  plagues 

Wad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapiir  glow'rin'  Superstition, 

Waes  me  !  she's  in  a  sad  condition  ; 

Fy,  bring  Black-Jock,  her  state  physician, 

To  see  her  water ; 
Alas !  there's  ground  o'  great  suspicion 

She'll  ne'er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple. 
But  now  she's  got  an  unco  ripple  ; 
Haste,  gi'e  her  name  up  i'  the  chapel, 

"  Nigh  unto  death  ;" 
See  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple. 

An'  gasps  for  breath. 

Enthusiasm's  past  redemption, 

Gane  in  a  galloping  consumption  ; 

Not  a'  the  quacks,  wi'  a'  their  gumption, 

Will  ever  mend  her ; 
Her  feeble  pvdse  gi'es  strong  presumption, 

Death  soon  will  end  her. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  69 

'Tis  you  and  Taylor*  are  the  chief, 
Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief ; 
But  gin  the  Lord's  ain  folks  gat  leave, 

A  toom  tar-barrel 
An'  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief, 

An'  end  the  quarrel. 


EPISTLE   TO  J,  LAPRAIK, 

AN  OLD   SCOTTISH   BARD. 

.  April  1,  1785. 

While  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green, 
And  paitricks  scraichin  loud  at  e'en, 
And  mornin'  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  muse. 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien' 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  Fasten-e'en  we  had  a  rockin, 

To  ca'  the  crack,  and  weave  our  stockin' ; 

And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin' 

Ye  need  na  doubt : 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin' 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  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  described  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't, 
Then  a'  that  ken'd  him  round  declare*t 

He  had  ingine. 
That  nane  excell'd  it,  few  cam*  near't. 

It  was  sae  fine ; 
*  Dr.  Taylor,  of  Norwich. 


70  BURNS  S  POEM?. 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  o'  ale, 

An'  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 

Or  i-h^-mes  and  sangs  he'd  made  himsel', 

Or  witty  catches, 
'T\\een  Inverness  and  Teviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 

Then  up  I  gat,  and  swore  an  aith, 

Tho'  I  should  pa^vn  my  pleugh  and  graith, 

Or  diq  a  cadger-pownie's  death. 

At  some  dyke-back, 
A  pint  and  gill  I'd  gie  them  baith 

To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  and  foremost,  I  should  tell, 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Tho'  rude  and  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. 

And  ha'e  to  learning  nae  pretence. 

Yet,  what  the  matter  I 
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  vei'se  frae  prose. 

To  mak'  a  sang  !" 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes. 

Ye 're  maybe  wrang. 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools. 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 

What'ser'es  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  ; 
And  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  71 

Gi'e  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 

That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 

Then  tho'  1  drudge,  thro'  dub  and  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire. 

May  touch  the  heart, 

0  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's  glee, 

Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  and  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  ha'e  friends  enow, 
Tho'  real  friends,  I  believe,  are  few, 
Yet  if  your  catalogue  be  fu', 

I'se  no  insist. 
But  gif  you  want  ae  friend  that's  true, 

I'm  on  your  list. 

1  winna  blaw  about  mysel' : 
As  ill  I  like  my  fau'ts  to  tell ; 

But  friends,  and  folk  that  wish  me  well. 

They  sometimes  roose  me ; 

Tho'  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 

As  sair  abuse  me. 

There's  ae  wee  fau't  they  whyles  lay  to  me, 
I  like  the  lasses — Gude  forgi'e  me  ! 
For  mony  a  plack  they  wheedle  frae  me, 

At  dance  or  fair  ; 
Maybe  some  ither  thing  they  gi'e  me 

They  weel  can  spare. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there  ; 
We'se  gi'e  ae  night's  discharge  to  care. 

If  we  forgather, 
And  ha'e  a  swap  o'  rhymin'-ware 

Wi'  ane  auither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter. 
And  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin'  water  ; 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  and  tak  our  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart  ; 
And  faith  we'se  be  acquainted  better 

Before  we  part. 


72  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Awa*,  ye  selfish  warl'y  race, 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  and  grace, 

Ev'n  love  and  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. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

April  21,  178&, 

While  new-ca'd  kye  rowte  at  the  stake, 
And  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e'ening's  edge  I  take. 

To  own  I'm  debtor 
To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 

Forjesket  sair,  wi'  weary  legs, 
Rattlin'  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs. 
Or  dealing  through  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours'  bite. 
My  awkward  Muse  sair  pleads  and  begs, 

I  wadna  write. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezl'd  hizzy, 

She's  saft  at  best,  and  sometliing  lazy  ; 

Quo'  she, "  Ye  ken,  we've  been  sae  bizzie 

This  month  and  mair, 
That,  trouth,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 

And  something  sair.'* 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  73 

Her  dowfF  excuses  pat  me  mad  : 

"  Conscience,"  says  I,  "  ye  thowless  jade  ! 

I'll  write,  and  that  a  hearty  blaud. 

This  vera  night ; 
Sae  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right . 

«  Shall  bauld  Lapi-aik,  the  king  o'  hearts, 
Tho'  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes, 
Roose  ye  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  sae  friendly. 
Yet  ye'll  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

And  thank  him  kindly  !  '* 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink. 

And  down  gaed  stumpy  i'  the  ink  : 

Quoth  I,  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

I  vow  I'll  close  it ; 
And  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  and  carp, 
Tho'  fortune  use  you  hard  and  sharp  ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  muirland  harp 

Wi'  gleesome  touch  ! 
Ne'er  mind  how  Fortune  waft  and  warp  ; 

She's  but  a  bitch. 

She's  gi'en  me  mony  a  jirt  and  fleg. 
Sin'  I  could  striddle  owi-e  a  rig  ; 
But,  by  the  L — d,  tho'  1  should  beg 

Wi'  lyart  pow, 
I'll  laugh,  and  sing,  and  shake  my  leg. 

As  lang's  I  dow  ! 

Now  comes  the  sax  and  twentieth  simmer 
I've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timraer, 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 

Frae  year  to  year  ; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimraer, 

I,  Rob,  am  hei-e. 


74  BURNS  S  POEMS. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  gent, 

Behind  a  kist  to  lie  and  sklent, 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi'  cent,  per  cent. 

And  muckle  wame, 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A  bailie's  name  ? 

Or  is't  the  paughty,  feudal  thane, 

Wi'  ruffled  sark  and  glancin'  cane, 

Wha  thinks  himsel'  nae  sheep-shank  bane 

But  lordly  stalks, 
While  caps  and  bonnets  aflF  are  ta'en, 

As  by  he  walks. 

"  0  Thou  wha  gi'es  us  each  gude  gift, 
Gi'e  me  o'  wit  and  sense  a  lift. 
Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift. 

Thro'  Scotland  wide  5 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift. 

In  a'  their  pride." 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
"  On  pain  o'  hell  be  rich  and  great,'* 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate. 

Beyond  remead ; 
But,  thanks  to  Heav'n  !  that's  no  the  gate 

We  leai'n  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran. 
When  first  the  human  I'ace  began  : 
*'  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate'er  he  be, 
'Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan. 

And  none  but  he ! " 

0  mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 
The  ragged  followers  o'  the  nine. 
Poor  thoughtless  devils  !  yet  may  shine 

Fn  glorious  light. 
While  sordid  sons  o'  Mammon's  line 

Are  dark  as  night. 

Tho'  here  they  scrape,  an'  squeeze,  an'  growl, 
Their  worthless  nievefu'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  fiiture  carcass  howl. 

The  forest's  fright ; 
Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 


BURNS  S   POEMS, 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  ai'ise, 
To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies. 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  and  joys 

In  some  mild  sphere, 
Still  closer  knit  in  friendship's  ties. 

Each  passing  year. 


TO  WILLIAM  SIMPSON, 

OCHILTRKE. 

May,  17S!>. 

I  GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie  : 

Wi'  gratef  u'  heart,  I  thank  you  brawlie  ; 

Though  I  maun  say't,  I  wad  be  silly, 

And  unco  vain, 
Should  I  believe,  my  eoaxin'  billie. 

Your  flatterin'  strain. 

But  I'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 
I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satii*e,  sidelins  sklented 

On  my  poor  musie  ; 
Though  in  sic  phraisin  terms  ye've  penn'd  it, 

I  scarce  excuse  ye. 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel, 
Should  I  but  daur  a  hope  to  speel, 
Wi'  Allan,  or  wi'  Gilbertfiel', 

The  braes  o'  fame ; 
Or  Fergusson,  the  writer  chiel, 

A  deathless  name. 

(0  Fergusson  !  thy  glorious  parts 

111  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts  ; 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts. 

Ye  Enbrugh  gentry  ! 
The  tythe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 

Wad  stow'd  his  pantry  !) 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head. 

Or  lasses  gi'e  my  heart  a  screed, 

As  whyles  they're  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(0  sad  disease  !) 
I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed, 

It  gi'es  me  ease. 


76  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu'  fain, 

She's  gotten  poets  o'  her  ain, 

CSiiels  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  measured  style  ; 
She  lay  like  some  unkenn'd-of  isle 

Beside  New  HoUan', 
Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

Besouth  Magellan. 

Ramsay  and  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  and  Tay  a  lift  aboon  ; 
Yarrow  and  Tweed,  to  mouie  a  tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rings. 
While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  and  Doon, 

Naebody  sings- 

Th'  Ilissus,  Tiber,  Thames,  and  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  mony  a  tunefu'  line  ; 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine. 

And  cock  your  crest, 
We'll  gar  our  sti*eams  and  burnies  shine 

Up  wi'  the  best. 

We'll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  and  fells. 
Her  muirs  red-bro\vn  wi'  heather-bells, 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and  dells, 

Whare  glorious  WaUac© 
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  ha'e  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side. 
Still  pretising  onward  red-wat  shod, 

Or  glorious  died. 

O  sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  and  woods. 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds, 
And  jinkin  hares  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 
While  through  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

Wi'  wailfu'  cry. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  77 

Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me, 
When  winds  rave  through  tlie  naked  tree  ; 
Or  frosts  on  hUls  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray  ; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Dark'ning  the  day  ! 

O  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  and  forms 

To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  ha'e  charms  ! 

Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms 

Wi'  hfe  and  light ! 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms. 

The  lang  dark  night  ! 

Tlie  Muse  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  liimsel'  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trottin'  bui'n's  meander, 

And  no  think  lang ; 
0  sweet,  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder 

A  heart-felt  sang  ! 

The  warl'y  race  may  drudge  and  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch,  and  strive  : 
Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive. 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure. 
Shall  let  the  bizzy,  grumbling  hive 

Bum  o'er  their  treasure. 

Fareweel,  "my  rhyme-composing  brither," 
We've  been  owtc  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  and  taxes ; 
While  muirlan'  herds  like  gude  fat  braxies  ; 
While  Terra  Firma  on  her  axis 

Diurnal  turns, 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  and  practice. 

In  RiOBERT  Burns. 


78  BURNS  S   POEMS. 


POSTSCRIPT* 

My  memory's  no  worth  a  preen  ; 

I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 

By  this  new-Ught*, 
'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  ha'e  been 

'Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 

At  grammar,  logic,  and  sic  talents. 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 

Or  rules  to  gi'e. 
But  spak'  their  thoughts  in  plain,  braid  Lallans, 

Like  you  or  me. 

In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon 
Just  like  a  sai*k,  or  pair  o'  shoon, 
Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roun' 

Gaed  past  their  viewin', 
And  shortly  after  she  was  done. 

They  gat  a  new  ane. 

This  pass'd  for  certain,  undisputed  ; 
It  ne'er  cam'  in  their  heads  to  don't  it. 
Till  chiels  gat  up  and  wad  confute  it, 

And  ca'ed  it  wrang  ; 
And  muckle  din  there  was  aboot  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  weel  learn'd  upo'  the  beuk. 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk  ; 
For  'twas  the  auld  moon  turn'd  a  neuk, 

And  out  o'  sight. 
And  backlins-comin',  to  the  leuk 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  denied — it  was  affirm 'd — 

The  herds  and  hissels  were  alarm'd  ; 

The  rev'rend  greybeards  raved  and  storm'd 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform'd 

Than  their  auld  daddies. 

*  See  Note,  page  53. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  79 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks  ; 
Fi-ae  words  and  aiths  to  clours  and  nicks, 
And  mony  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt  ; 
And  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks. 

Were  hang'd  and  brunt. 

This  game  was  play'd  in  mony  lands, 
And  auld-light  caddies  bure  sic  hands. 
That  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 

Wi'  nimble  shanks, 
Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands. 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  new-light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe, 
Folk  thought  them  rurn'd  stick  and  stowe, 
Till  now  amaist  on  every  knowe, 

Ye'll  find  ane  placed  ; 
And  some  their  new-light  fair  avow. 

Just  quite  bare-faced. 

Nae  doubt  the  auld-light  flocks  are  bleatin' : 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  and  sweatin' ; 
Mysel',  I've  even  seen  them  greetin' 

Wi'  girnin  spite. 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lied  on 

By  word  and  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  loons  ! 
Some  auld-light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind't,  in  things  they  ca'  balloons, 

To  tak'  a  flight, 
And  stay  ae  month  amang  the  moons. 

And  see  them  right. 

Gude  observation  they  will  gi'e  them  ; 

And  when  the  aul'd  moon's  gaun  to  lea'e  them. 

The  hindmost  shaird,  they'll  fetch  it  wi'  them. 

Just  i'  their  pouch. 
And  when  the  new-light  billies  see  them, 

I  think  they'll  crouch  ! 

Sae  ye  observe,  that  a'  this  clatter 

Is  naething  but  a  "m.oonshine  matter  ;  " 

But  though  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 

In  logic  tulzie, 
I  hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Thau  mind  sic  bruilzie 


ftO  BURNS  8   POEMS. 


TO  J.  LAPRAIK. 

Sept.  mh,  1785. 

GuiD  speed  an'  furder  to  you,  Johnnie, 
Guid  health,  hale  han's,  an'  weathei-  bonnie  i 
Now  when  ye're  nickan  down  fu'  cannie 

The  staff  o'  bread. 
May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  bran'y 

To  clear  your  head. 

May  Boreas  never  thresh  your  rigs. 
Nor  kick  your  rickles  afF  their  legs, 
Sendin'  the  stuff  o'er  muirs  an  haggs 

Like  drivin'  wrack  ; 
But  may  the  tapmost  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack. 

I'm  busy  too,  an'  skelpin  at  it. 

But  bitter,  daudin'  showers  ha'e  wat  it, 

Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 

Wi'  muckle  wark, 
An'  took  my  jocteleg  an'  whatt  it. 

Like  ony  clerk. 

Its  now  twa  month  that  I'm  your  debtor. 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter 
Abusin'  me  for  harsh  ill  nature 

On  holy  men  ; 
While  de'il  a  hair  yoursel'  ye're  better, 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells. 
Let's  sing  about  our  noble  sel's-; 
We'll  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help,  or  roose  us. 
But  browster  wives  and  whisky  stills. 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  Sir,  I  winna  quat  it, 

An'  if  ye  mak'  objections  at  it, 

Then  ban'  in  nieve  some  day  we'll  knot  it. 

An'  witness  take, 
An'  when  wi'  usqubae  we've  wat  it 

It  winna  break. 


BURXSS    POEMS.  81 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spared 
Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 
An'  a'  the  vittel  in  the  yard, 

An'  tlieekit  right, 
I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ae  winter  night. 

Then  muse-mspii'in'  aquavitte 

Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blithe  an'  witty. 

Till  ye  forget  ye're  auld  an'  gatty. 

An'  be  as  canty 
As  ye  were  nine  years  less  than  thretty, 

Sweet  ane  an'  twenty  ! 

But  stooks  are  cowpet  wi'  the  blast, 
And  now  the  sun  keeks  in  the  west, 
Then  I  maun  rin  amang  the  rest 

An'  quat  my  chanter  ; 
Sae  I  subscribe  mysel'  in  haste, 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter. 


TO   THE   REV.  JOHN   M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING  A  COPY  OF   *'  HOLY  WILLIE'S  PRAYEB,"   WHICH 
HE   HAD   REQUESTED. 

Sept.  17,  1783. 

While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cower 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin  shower. 
Or  in  gulravage  rinnin'  scow'r 

To  pass  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 

In  idle  rhyme. 

My  musie,  tired  wi'  mony  a  sonnet 

On  gown,  an'  ban',  and  douse  black  bonnet. 

Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she's  done  it. 

Lest  they  should  blame  her, 
An'  I'ouse  theii'  holy  thunder  on  it 

And  anathem  her. 

I  o^vn  'twas  rash,  an'  rather  hardy. 
That  I,  a  simple,  kintra  bardie. 
Should  meddie  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me, 
Can  easy,  wi'  a  single  wordie, 

Lowse  hell  upon  me. 


82  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 

Their  sighin',  cantin',  grace-proud  faces, 

Their  three-mile  prayers,  an'  hauf-mile  graces, 

Their  raxan  conscience, 
Whase  greed,  revenge,  an'  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 

There's  Gaun  *,  misca't  waur  than  a  beast. 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid's  the  priest 

Wha  sae  abus'd  him. 
An'  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  jest 

What  way  they've  used  him  I 

See  him  f  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need. 
The  gentleman  in  word  an'  deed. 
An'  shall  his  fame  an'  honour  bleed 

By  worthless  skellums, 
An'  not  a  muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums  ? 

0  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts, 
To  gi'e  the  rascals  their  deserts, 
I'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts. 

An'  tell  aloud 
Their  jugglin'  hocus-pocus  arts 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 

God  knows,  I'm  no  the  thing  I  should  be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be, 
But  twenty  times  I  rather  would  he 

An  atheist  clean. 
Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be. 

Just  for  a  screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass. 
An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass, 
But  mean  revenge,  an'  malice  fause, 

He'll  still  disdain. 
An'  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws, 

Like  some  we  ken. 

♦  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. 
t  The  poet  has  introduced  the  two  first  lines  of  this  stanza  into 
the  dedication  of  his  works  to  Mr.  Hamilton. 


BURNS  S   P0E3IS.  83 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 
They  talk  o'  mercy,  grace,  an'  truth, 
For  what  ?  to  gie  their  malice  skouth 

On  some  puir  wight, 
An'  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right  an'  ruth, 

To  ruin  straight. 

All  hail.  Religion  !  maid  divine  ! 
Pardon  a  muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 
Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee  ; 
To  stigmatize  false  friends  of  thine 

Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 

Though  blotcht  an'  foul  wi'  mony  a  stain, 

An'  far  unworthy  of  thy  train. 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

To  join  with  those 
Who  boldly  dare  thy  cause  maintain 

In  spite  of  foes : 

In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs, 
In  spite  o'  undermining  jobs. 
In  spite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  worth  an'  merit. 
By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes. 

But  helUsh  spirit. 

O  AjT  !  my  dear,  my  native  ground. 
Within  thy  presbytereal  bound 
A  candid  hb'ral  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers. 
As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renown'd. 

An'  manly  preachers. 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  named 
Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  famed  ; 
An'  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine's  blamed 

(Which  gi'es  you  honour) 
Even,  Sir,  by  them  your  heai't's  esteem'd. 

An'  winning  manner. 

Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ta'en  ; 
An'  if  impertment  I've  been. 
Impute  it  not,  good  sir,  in  ane 

Whase  heart  ne'er  wrang'd  ye, 
But  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belang'd  ye. 
G  2 


84  EVKKSS   POEMS. 


TO  A  MOUSE, 

ON  TURNING    RK.H  UP  IN  HBR   NEST  WITH    THE   PLOUGH, 

November,  1785. 

Wee,  sleeldt,  cowerin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa'  sae  hastie, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'rin'  pattie  ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  tliee  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  ! 
It's  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  ! 
An'  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane 

0'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weai'y  winter  coming  fast. 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast. 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  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. 

And  cram'euch  cauld  1 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  85 


But,  mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain, 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  tiiee  ; 
But,  och !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear 
And  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 


SCOTCH    DRINK. 

Gi'e  him  strong  drink  unti]  he  wink. 

That's  sinking  in  despair  ; 
And  liquor  gude  to  fire  his  blude, 

That's  prest  vvi'  grief  and  care . 

There  let  him  bouse,  and  deep  carouse, 

Wi'  bumpers  flowing  o'er. 
Till  lie  forgets  his  loves  or  debts. 

And  minds  his  griefs  no  more. 

Solomon's  Proverbs,  xxxi.  6,7. 

Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas, 

'Bout  vines,  and  wines,  and  drunken  Bacchus, 

And  crabbit  names  and  stories  wrack  us, 

And  grate  our  lug, 
I  sing  the  juice  Scotch  Bear  can  mak'  us. 

In  glass  or  jug. 

O  thou,  my  Muse  !  gude  auld  Scotch  drmk  ! 
Whether  through  wimpling  worms  thou  jink, 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  owre  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem. 
Inspire  me,  till  I  lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name ! 

Let  husky  wheat  the  haughs  adorn. 
And  aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 
And  pease  and  beans  at  e'en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain, 
Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain! 


86  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 
III  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,  and  keeps  us  livin'  ; 

Tho'  life's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin' 

When  heavy  dragg'd  wi'  pine  and  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  Cax*e  j 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labour  sair, 

At's  weary  toil ; 
Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

Aft,  clad  in  massive  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  inspired, 
When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents. 

Are  doubly  fired. 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 
0  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. 

And  gusty  sucker  ! 

When  Vulcan  gi'es  his  bellows  breath. 
And  ploughmen  gatlier  with  then'  graith, 
0  rare  !  to  see  thee  fizz  and  freath 

I'  the  luggit  caup ! 
Then  PurneAvin*  comes  on  like  death 

At  ev'ry  chaup. 

*  Bumewin— Bum-the-wind— the  Blacksmith. 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Nae  mercy  then  for  aim  or  steei  ; 
Tlie  brawnie,  ba'nie,  ploughniuu  chiel' 
Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  forehummei', 
Till  block  and  studdie  ring  and  reel 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 

When  skirlin'  weauies  see  the  light, 
Thou  mak's  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  neebors  anger  at  a  plea. 
And  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  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 

Wi'  liquors  nice, 
And  hardly,  in  a  winter's  season. 

E'er  spier  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash  ! 
Fell  source  o'  monie  a  pain  and  brash  ! 
Twins  monie  a  poor,  doylt  drucken  hash 

0  hauf  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  blether  wTench, 
And  gouts  toi'ment  him  inch  by  inch, 
Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch 

0'  sour  disdain, 
Out-owTe  a  glass  o'  whiskey-punch 

Wi'  honest  men. 


88  ,  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

O  whiskey  !  soul  o'  ploys  and  pranks  ! 
Accept  a  bardie's  humble  thanks  ! 
When  wantin'  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 

Are  my  poor  verses ! 
Thou  comes they  I'attle  i'  their  ranks 

At  ither's  a — s  ! 

Thee  Ferintosh  !  O  sadly  lost ! 
Scotland,  lament  frae  coast  to  coast  ! 
Now  colic  grips,  and  barking  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  whiskey  stells  their  prize  ! 
Hand  up  thy  han',  De'il  !  ance,  twice,  thrice  ! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers  ; 
An'  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies. 

For  poor  d — n'd  drinkers. 

Fortune  !  if  thou'll  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  and  whiskey  gill, 
And  rcuth  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak'  a'  the  rest, 
And  deal't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Dii'ects  thee  best. 


.  THE  AUTHOR'S  EARNEST  CRY  AND 
PRAYER  * 

TO  THE    SCOTCH   REPRESENTATIVES    IN   THE    HOUSE   OF 
COMMONS. 

Dearest  of  Distillation  !  last  and  best — 

How  art  thou  lost ! Parody  on  Muton. 

Ye  Scottish  lords,  ye  knights  and  squires, 
Wha  represent  our  brughs  and  shires. 
And  doucely  manage  our  affaire 

In  parliament. 
To  you  a  simple  poet's  prayers 

Are  humbly  sent. 

*  This  was  written  before  the  act  anent  the  Scottish  Distilleries, 
of  session  1786;  for  which  Scotland  and  the  author  return  their 
most  grateful  thanks. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  89 

Alas !  my  roupet  Muse  is  hearse  ! 

Your  honours'  hearts  \vi'  grief  'twad  pierce, 

To  see  her  sitting  on  her  a — 

Low  i'  the  dust, 
And  scriechin'  out  prosaic  verse, 

An'  like  to  brust  ! 

Tell  them  wha  ha'e  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  an'  me's  in  great  affliction, 
E'er  sin'  they  laid  that  curst  resti'iction 

On  aquavitse  ; 
An'  rouse  them  up  to  sti'oug  conviction, 

An'  move  their  pity. 

Stand  forth,  and  tell  yon  Premier  youth, 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth  ; 

Tell  him  o'  mine  and  Scotland's  drouth. 

His  servants  humble  : 
The  muckle  devil  blaw  ye  south, 

If  ye  dissemble  ! 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch  an'  gloom  ? 
Speak  out,  and  never  fash  your  thumb  : 
Let  posts  and  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi'  them  wha  grant  'em  ,- 
If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  'em. 

In  gatherin'  votes  you  were  na  slack  ; 
Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack  ; 
Ne'er  claw  your  lug,  and  fidge  your  back, 

And  hum  and  haw  ; 
But  raise  your  arm,  and  tell  your  crack 

Before  them  a'. 

Paint  Scotland  greeting  owre  her  thrissel. 
Her  mutchkin-stoup  as  toom's  a  whistle  ; 
And  damn'd  excisemen  in  a  bustle. 

Seizin'  a  stell. 
Triumphant,  crushin't  like  a  mussel, 

Or  lampit  shell. 

Then,  on  the  tither  hand  present  her, 
A  blackguard  smuggler  right  behint  her. 
And  cheek-for-chow,  a  chuffie  vintner, 

Colleaguing  join, 
Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 

Of  a'  kind  coin. 


90  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Is  there  .that  bears  the  name  o'  Scot, 
But  feels  his  heart's-blude  rising  hot, 
To  see  his  poor  auld  mither's  pot 

Thus  dang  in  staves, 
An'  plunder'd  o'  her  hindmost  groat 

By  gallows  knaves? 

Alas  !  I'm  but  a  nameless  wight, 
Trod  i'  the  mire  clean  out  o'  sight ! 
But  could  I  like  Montgom'ry  fight, 

Or  gab  like  Boswell, 
There's  some  sark-necks  I  wad  draw  tight, 

And  tie  some  hose  well. 

God  bless  your  honours  !  can  ye  see't. 
The  kind,  auld,  cantie  carline  gi'eet. 
An'  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

An'  gar  them  hear  it. 
An'  tell  them  wi'  a  patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it ! 

Some  o'  you  nicely  ken  the  laws 
To  round  the  period  an'  pause, 
An'  wi'  rhet6ric  clause  on  clause 

To  mak'  harangues  ; 
Then  echo  thro'  St.  Stephen's  wa's 

Auld  Scotland's  wrangfe. 

Dempster,  a  true-blue  Scot,  I'se  warrau' ; 
Thee,  aith-detesting  chaste  Kilkerran:* 
An'  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  baron, 

The  laird  o'  Graham  f  ; 
An'  ane,  a  chap  that's  d — n'd  auldfarran, 

Dundas  his  name. 

Erskine,  a  spunkie  Norland  billie  ; 
True  Campbells,  Frederick  an'  Hay  ; 
An'  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie  I 

An'  monie  ithers. 
Wham  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  o"v\Ti  for  brithers. 

Arouse,  my  boys  !  exert  your  mettle. 
To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle  ; 
Or  faith,  I'll  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettle, 

You'll  see't,  or  lang, 
She'll  teach  you,  wi'  a  reekin'  whittle, 

Anither  sang. 
*  Sir  Adam  Ferguson.  +  The  Duke  of  Montrose. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  91 

This  while  she's  been  in  cank'i'ous  mood, 
Her  lost  militia  filled  her  bluid  ; 
(De'il  na  they  never  mair  do  gnid, 

Play'd  her  that  pliskie  !) 
And  now  she's  like  to  rin  red-wud 

About  her  whiskey. 

An',  L — d,  if  ance  they  pit  her  till't, 
Her  tartan  petticoat  she'll  kilt. 
An'  durk  an'  pistol  at  her  belt. 

She'll  tak'  the  streets, 
An'  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt 

I'  th'  first  she  meets  ! 

For  God  sake,  sirs  !  then  speak  her  fail'. 
An'  straik  her  cannie  wi'  the  hair. 
An'  to  the  muckle  House  repair, 

Wi'  instant  speed, 
An'  strive,  wi'  a'  your  wit  and  lear, 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongued  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  and  mocks  ; 
But  gi'e  him't  het,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E'en  cowe  the  caddie, 
And  send  him  to  liis  dicing-box 

And  sportin'  lady. 

Tell  j^on  gude  bluid  o'  auld  Bocounock's, 

I'll  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bannocks, 

An'  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tinnock's  ♦ 

Nine  times  a  week. 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocks, 

Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 
I'll  pledge  my  aith  in  gude  braid  Scotch, 
He  neechia  fear  their  foul  reproach. 

Nor  erudition. 
Yon  mixtie-maxtie,  queer  hotch-potch. 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  tongue  ; 
She's  just  a  deevil  wi'  a  rung  ; 
An'  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak'  their  part, 
Though  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung. 
She'll  no  desert. 
*  A  worthy  old  hostess  of  the  author's  in  Mauchline,  where  he 
sometimes  studies  politics  over  a  glass  of  gude  auld  Scotch  drink. 


92  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

An'  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 
May  still  youi*  Mither's  heart  support  ye  ; 
Then,  though  a  minister  grow  dorty, 

An'  kick  your  place, 
Ye '11  snap  your  fingers,  poor  and  hearty. 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  Honours  a'  your  days,- 
Wi'  sowps  o'  kail  and  brats  o'  claes, 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie's 
Your  humble  poet  sings  an'  prays 

While  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  hauf-starved  slaves  in  warmer  skies, 
See  future  wines  rich  clust'ring  rise  ; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies, 

But  bl;y1;he  and  frisky, 
She  eyes  her  free-born  martial  boys 

Tak'  aff  their  whiskey. 

What  though  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 
While  fragrance  blooms  and  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  hankering  swither 

To  Stan'  or  rin, 
Till  skelp— a  shot — they're  aflF,  a'  throu'ther. 

To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill. 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill. 
Say,  sic  is  royal  George's  will, 

And  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  e'e  he  sees  him  ; 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gie's  him  ; 

An'  when  he  fa's, 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin'  lea'es  him 

In  faint  huzzas. 


BURNS  S    POEMS  93 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek^ 
And  raise  a  philosophic  reek, 
And  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  and  season  ; 
But  tell  me  Whiskey's  name  in  Greek, 

I'll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  Mither  ! 
Though  whyles  ye  moistify  your  leather. 
Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o'  heather. 

Ye  tyne  your  dam  : 
Freedom  and  Whiskey  gang  tliegither, 

Tak'  aff  your  dram. 


HALLOWEEN  *. 


[The  follomng  Poem  will,  by  many  readers,  be  well  enough 
miderstood  ;  but  for  the  sake  of  tliose  who  are  unacquainted  with 
the  manners  and  traditions  of  the  country  where  the  scene  is  cast, 
notes  are  added,  to  give  some  account  of  the  principal  charms  and 
spells  of  that  night,  so  big  with  prophecy  to  the  peasantry  in  the 
west  of  Scotland.  The  passion  of  prying  into  futurity  makes  a 
striking  part  of  the  history  of  human  nature  in  its  rude  state,  in 
all  ages  and  nations  :  and  it  may  be  some  entertainment  to  a  philo- 
sophic mind,  if  any  such  should  honour  the  author  with  a  perusal, 
to  see  the  remains  of  it  among  the  more  unenlightened  in  our  own.] 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

GOLDSMITH. 

Upon  that  nigh't,  when  fairies  light, 

On  Cassihs  Downans  f  dance. 
Or  owTe  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze. 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance  : 
Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en, 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams  ; 
There  up  the  Cove  J  to  stray  and  rove, 
Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 

To  sport  that  night. 
*  Is  thought  to  be  a  night  when  witches,  devils,  and  other  mischief- 
making  beings,  are  all  abroad  on  their  baneful  midnight  errands  ; 
particularly  those  aerial  people,  the  fairies,  are  said  on  that  night 
to  hold  a  grand  anniversary. 

t  Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky,  green  hills,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Cassilis. 

±  A  noted  cavern  near  Colzeun,  or  Colean-house,  called  The  Cove 
of  Coican  ;  which,  as  well  as  Cassilis  Downans,  is  famed  in  country 
story  for  being  a  favourite  haunt  of  fairies. 


94  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Amang  the  bonny  winding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins  wimplin  clear. 
Where  Bruce  *  ance  ruled  the  martial  ranks,  - 

And  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 
Some  merry,  friendly  countra  folks 

Together  did  convene. 
To  burn  their  nits,  and  pu'  their  stocks, 

And  baud  their  Halloween, 

Fu'  blithe  that  night. 

The  lasses  feat,  and  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they're  fine  ; 
Their  faces  blithe,  fu'  sweetly  kythe. 

Hearts  leal  and  warm,  and  kin' : 
The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 
Some  unco  blate,  and  some  wi'  gabs 

Gar  lasses'  hearts  gang  startin', 

Whyles  fast  at  night. 

Then  first  and  foremost,  thro'  the  kail, 

Their  stocks  +  maun  a'  be  sought  ance  ; 
They  steek  their  een,  and  graip  and  wail 

For  muckle  anes,  and  straught  anes.  " 

Poor  haverel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

And  wander'd  thro'  the  bow-kail, 
And  pu'd,  for  ,want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 

They  roar  and  cry  a'  throu'ther ; 
The  vera  wee  things,  todlin',  rin 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther ; 

*  The  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ancestors  of  Robert  the  great 
deliverer  of  his  country,  were  Eai'ls  of  Carrick. 

t  The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween,  is,  pulling  each  a  stock,  or  plant 
of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand  in  nand,  Avith  eyes  shut,  and  pull 
the  first  they  meet  with:  its  being  big  or  little,  straight  or  crooked,  is 
prophetic  of  the  size  and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their  speUs 
— tlie husband  or  wife.  If  any  yii-d,  or  earth,  stick  to  the  root,  that 
is  tocher  or  fortune  :  and  the  taste  of  the  custoc,  that  is,  the  heart 
of  the  stem,  is  indicative  of  the  natural  temper  and  disposition. 
Lastly,  the  stems,  or,  to  give  them  their  ordinary  appellation,  the 
runts,  are  placed  somewhere  above  the  head  of  the  door ;  and  the 
christian  names  of  the  people  whom  chance  brings  into  the  house 
are,  according  to  the  priority  of  placing  the  runts,  the  names  in 
question. 


BURNS  S  POEMS.  95 

And  gif  the  custoc's  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi'  joetelegs  they  taste  them  ; 
Syne  cozily,  aboon  the  door, 
"  Wi'  canuie  care  they've  placed  them 
To  he  that  night. 

The  lasses  staw  frae  'mang  them  a'. 

To  pu'  their  stalks  o'  corn  ;  *" 
But  Rab  slips  out,  and  jinks  about 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn : 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  and  fast ; 

Loud  skirled  a'  the  lasses ; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kiutlin  i'  the  fause-house  + 
Wi'  him  that  night. 

The  auld  gudewife's  weel-hoardit  nits,  J 

Are  round  and  round  divided, 
And  monie  lads'  and  lasses'  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided : 
Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side. 

And  burn  thegither  trimly ; 
Some  stai't  awa'  wi'  saucy  pride, 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

Fu'  high  that  night. 

Jean  slips  in  twa,  wi'  tentie  e'e ; 

Wha  'twas,  she  wadna  tell ; 
But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  hersel' : 
He  bleezed  owre  her,  and  she  owre  him, 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 
Till  fuff  !  he  stai-ted  up  the  lum, 

And  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heai't. 
To  see't  that  night. 

*  They  go  to  the  barn-yard,  and  pull  each,  at  three  several  timefc, 
a  stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk  wants  the  top-pickle,  that  is, 
the  gi-ain  at  the  top  of  the  stalk,  the  party  in  question  will  come 
to  the  marriage-bed  anything  but  a  maid. 

t  "VVlien  the  corn  is  in  a  doubtful  state,  by  being  too  green  or  wet, 
the  stack-builder,  by  means  of  old  timber,  &c.  makes  a  large  apart- 
ment in  his  stack  with  an  opening  in  the  side  which  is  most  exposed 
to  the  wind ;  this  he  calls  a  fause-house. 

X  Burning  tbo  nuts  is  a  favourite  charm.  They  name  the  lad  and 
lass  to  each  ps^jticular  nut,  as  they  lay  them  in  the  fire ;  and  accord 
ingly  as  they  bum  quietly  together,  or  start  from  beside  one  anothei , 
the  course  and  issue  of  the  courtship  will  be. 


96  BURNS  S  POEMS, 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt, 

Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallie  ; 
And  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt. 

To  be  compared  to  Willie ; 
MaU's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling, 

And  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it ; 
While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  by  jing, 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min', 

She  pits  hersel'  and  Rab  in  ; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  white  in  ase  they're  sabbin : 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin'  at  the  view  j 

She  whisper'd  Rab  to  leuk  for'f: 
Rab,  stowlins,  prie'd  her  bonny  mou', 

Fu'  cozie  in  the  neuk  for't, 

Unseen  that  night. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 
She  lea'es  them  gashin'  at  theii'  cracks, 

And  slips  out  by  hersel' : 
She  thro'  the  yard  the  nearest  tak's, 

And  to  the  Idln  she  goes  then. 
And  darklins  graipit  for  the  bauks, 

And  in  the  blue-clew  *  throws  then, 
Right  fear't  that  night. 

And  ay  she  win't,  and  ay  she  swat ; 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin' ; 
Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d  !  but  she  was  qu-akin' ! 
But  whether  'twas  the  de'il  himsel' 

Or  whether  'twas  a  bauk-en', 
Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  didna  wait  on  talkin' 

To  spier  that  night. 

*  AMioever  would,  with  success,  try  this  spell,  must  strictly 
obsei-ve  these  directions  :  Steal  out,  all  alone,  tf>  the  kiln,  and,  dark- 
ling, throw  into  the  pot  a  clew  of  blue  yarn  ;  wind  it  in  a  new  clew 
off  the  old  one ;  and,  towards  the  latter  end  something  will  hold 
the  thread  ;  demand,  IVha  hands  f  i.  e.  who  holds  ?  an  answer  will 
be  returned  from  the  kiln-pot,  by  naming  the  christian  and  sur-name 
of  your  futm-e  spouse. 


BURNS'S    POEMS.  97 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  Grannie  says, 

"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  grannie  ? 
I'll  eat  the  apple  *  at  the  glass 

I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnnie  :" 
She  fuff't  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin', 
She  noticed  na,  an  aizle  brunt 

Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

Out  thro'  that  night. 

"  Ye  little  skelpie-limmer's  face  ! 

How  daur  you  try  sic  sportin'. 
As  seek  the  foul  Thief  ony  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  1 
Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight! 

Great  cause  ye  ha'e  to  fear  it  ; 
For  monie  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright, 

An'  lived  and  died  deleeret, 
On  sic  a  night. 

"  Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-Muir, 

I  mind't  as  weel's  yestreen, 
I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I'm  sure 

I  was  ua  past  fyfteen  : 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  and  wat, 

And  stuff  Avas  unco  green  ; 
And  ay  a  rautin'  kirn  we  gat, 

And  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graen, 

A  clever  sturdy  fallow  ; 
He's  sin'  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean. 

That  lived  in  Achmaealla  ; 
He  gat  hemp-seed  f,  I  mind  it  weel. 

And  he  made  unco  light  o't ; 
But  monie  a  day  was  by  himsel', 

He  was  sae  saii'ly  frighted 

That  vera  night." 

*  Take  a  candle,  and  go  alone  to  a  looking-glasg ;  eat  an  apple 
before  it;  and  some  traditions  say,  you  should  comb  your  hair  all 
the  time;  the  face  of  your  conjugal  companion,  to  be,  will  he  seen  in 
the  glass,  as  if  peeping  over  your  shoulder. 

t  Steal  oiit,  unperceived,  and  sow  a  handful  of  hempseed,  harrow- 
ing it  with  any  thing  you  can  conveniently  draw  after  you.  Repeat, 
now  and  then,  '•  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee,  hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee  ; 


98  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Then  up  gat  fechtin'  Jamie  Fleck, 

And  he  swoox'  by  his  conscience, 
That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck. 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense : 
The  auld  gudeman  raught  dowTi  the  pock, 

And  out  a  handfu'  gied  him ; 
S}aie  bade  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk, 

Some  time  when  nae  ane  see'd  him. 
And  try't  that  night. 

He  marches  thro'  amang  the  staclcs, 

Tho'  he  was  something  sturtin  ; 
The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  tak's. 

And  haurls  at  his  curpin : 
And  ev'ry  now  and  then,  he  says, 

*'  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee. 
And  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass. 

Come  after  me  and  draw  thee, 

As  fast  this  night." 

He  whistled  up  Lord  Lennox'  March, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery  ; 
Altho'  his  hail'  began  to  arch. 

He  was  sae  fley'd  and  eerie : 
Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak, 

And  then  a  grane  an'  gruntle : 
He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek. 

And  tumbled  wi'  a  wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 

He  roar'd  a  horrid  murder-shout. 

In  dreadfu'  desperation ! 
And  young  and  auld  cam'  rinnin  out. 

To  hear  the  sad  narration : 
He  swoor  'twas  hilchin'  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 
Till  stap  !  she  trotted  thro'  them  a' ; 

And  wha  was  it  but  grumphie 

Asteer  that  night ! 

and  him  (or  her)  that  ia  to  be  my  true-love,  come  after  me  and  pu 
thee."  Look  over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will  see  the  appear- 
ance  of  the  person  invoked,  in  the  attitude  of  pulling  hemp.  Some 
traditions  say,  "  Come  after  me  and  shaw  thee,"  that  is,  show  thy- 
self ;  in  which  case  it  simply  appears.  Others  omit  the  harrowing, 
and  say,  "  Come  after  me,  and  harrow  thee." 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  9P 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  ha'e  gane, 

To  win'  three  wechts  o'  naething  j* 
But  for  to  meet  the  de'il  her  lane. 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in : 
She  gi'es  the  herd  a  pickle  nits. 

And  twa  red-cheekit  apples, 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tarn  Kipples 

That  vera  night. 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw. 

An'  o%vre  the  threshold  ventures  ; 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  ca', 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters  : 
A  ratton  rattled  up  the  wa'. 

And  she  cried,  L — d  preserve  her  ! 
And  ran  thro'  midden-hole  and  a', 

An'  pray'd  wi'  zeal  and  fervour, 

Fu'  fast  that  night. 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice  ; 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane  ! 
It  chanced  the  stack  he  faddom'd  thrice  f 

Was  timmer  propt  for  thrawin  : 
He  tak's  a  swerlie  auld  moss-oak 

For  some  black  grewsome  carlin  ; 
And  loot  a  winze,  and  drew  a  stroke. 

Till  skin  in  blypes  cam'  haurlin 

Aff's  nieves  that  night. 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kitlen  ; 
But,  och  !  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 

She  gat  a  fearfu'  settlin' ! 

*  This  charm  must  likewise  he  perfonned,  imperceived,  and  alone. 
You  go  to  the  ham,  and  open  hoth  doors,  taking  them  off  the  hinges 
if  possible  ;  for  there  is  danger  that  the  being  about  to  appear  may 
shut  the  doors,  and  do  you  some  mischief.  Then  take  that  instru- 
ment, used  in  winnowing  the  corn,  which  in  our  coimtry  dialect 
we  call  a  wecht,  and  go  through  all  the  attitudes  of  letting  down  com 
against  the  wind.  Repeat  it'  three  times ;  and  the  third  time  an 
apparition  will  pass  through  the  barn,  in  at  the  vindy  door  and 
out  at  the  other,  having  both  the  figure  in  question,  and  the  appear- 
ance or  retinue,  marking  the  employment  or  station  in  life 

t  Take  an  opportunity  of  going,  imnoticed,  to  a  beanstack,  and 
fathom  it  three  times  round.  The  last  fathom  of  the  last  time  you 
will  catch  in  your  arms  the  appearance  of  your  future  conjugal 
yoke-fellow. 

H    2 


100  BURNS  S    POEMS, 

She  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 

And  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 
Whare  three  lairds'  lands  met  at  a  burn*, 

To  dip  her  left  sark  sleeve  in. 

Was  bent  that  night. 

Wliyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays. 

As  thro'  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  stays, 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't  ; 
Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  joukit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night. 

Amang  the  brechens,  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  and  the  moon. 
The  de'il,  or  else  an  outler  quey, 

Gat  up  and  gae  a  croon  : 
Poor  Leezie's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool  ; 

Near  lav'rock-height  she  jumpit  ; 
But  missed  a  fit,  and  in  the  pool 

Out-owTe  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 

In  Older,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  iuggies  three  f  are  ranged, 
And  every  time  great  care  is  ta'en 

To  see  them  duly  changed : 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin'  Mar's  year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom  dish  thrice, 

He  heaved  them  on  the  fire. 

In  wi'ath  that  night. 

»  You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a  social  spell,  to  a  south- 
running  spring,  or  rivulet,  where  "  three  lairds'  lands  meet,"  and 
dip  your  left  shu-t  sleeve.  Go  to  bed  in  sight  of  a  fire,  and  hang 
your  wet  sleeve  before  it  to  dry.  Lie  a^vake ;  and  sometime  near 
nudniglit,  an  apparition,  having  the  exact  figure  of  the  grand  object 
in  question,  will  come  and  turn  the  sleeve,  as  if  to  diy  the  other 
side  of  it 

t  Take  three  dishes ;  put  clean  water  in  one,  foul  water  in  another 
and  leave  the  third  empty.  Blindfold  a  person  and  lead  him  to  tlie 
hearth  where  the  dishes  are  ranged  :  he  (or  she)  dips  the  left  hand: 
if  bj'  chance  in  the  clean  water,  the  future  husband  or  wife  will 
come  to  the  bar  of  matrimony  a  maid ;  if  in  the  foul,  a  widow ; 


BURNS'S    POEMS.  101 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  tliey  didiui  weary  ; 
And  unco  tales,  and  funny  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  and  cheery  : 
Till  butter'd  so'ns  *,  wi'  fragrant  lunt, 

Sets  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin'  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  afP  careerin' 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


ADDRESS 

TO  THE   UNCO  GUDE,  Oil  THE   RIGIDLY   HIGHTEOUS. 


My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule. 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither; 
The  Rigid  Riehteous  is  a  fool. 

The  Rif3;id  Wise  anither  ; 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  ha'e  some  pyles  o'  caff  in  i 
Sae  ne'er  a  fellovp-creature  slight 

For  random  fits  o*  dalfin Solomon.     Eccles.  vij.  16. 

O  YE  wha  are  sae  gude  yoursel' 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebors'  fau'ts  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heapit  happer's  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  corps. 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals  ; 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Wad  here  propone  defences. 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

If  in  the  empty  dish,  it  foretels,  with  equal  certainty,  no  marriage 
at  all.  It  is  repeated  three  times ;  and  eyery  time  the  arranae- 
ment  of  the  dishes  is  altered. 

t-Sowens,  with  hutter  instead  of  milk  to  them,  it  always  the 
Halloween  supper. 


102  BURNS  S   POEMS, 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theii"s  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  iiifter, 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  mak's  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'  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  cast'gatt  d  pulse 

Gi'es  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Rigiit  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail. 

It  mak's  an  unco  lee-way. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking. 
Till,  quite  transmogrify'd,  they're  grown 

Debauchery  and  drinking  : 
O  wad  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  you  gi'e  poor  Frailty  names. 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear-loved  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  mnrlc 

How  far,  perhaps,  tiiey  rue  it. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  103 

Wha  made  tlie  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. 


TAM   SAMSON'S*   ELEGY. 
An  honest  man's  the  noblest  vvork  of  God — Pope. 

Has  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  de'il  ? 
Or  great  M'Kinlay  f  thrawn  his  heel  ? 
Or  Robinson  J  again  grown  weel. 

To  preach  and  read  ? 
"  Na,  waur  than  a' !  "  cries  ilka  chiel, 

"  Tarn  Samson's  dead." 

Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  and  grane, 
And  sigh,  and  sab,  and  greet  her  lane. 
And  deed  her  bairns,  mtoi,  wife,  and  wean, 

In  raourning  weed  ; 
To  death  she's  dearly  paid  the  kane, 

Tarn  Samson's  dead. 

The  brethren  o'  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  theh'  head  in  wofu'  bevel. 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel 

Like  ony  bead  ; 
Death's  gi'en  the  lodge  an  unco  devel — 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  ! 

AMien  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  last  muir-fowl  season , 
he  supposed  it  was  to  be,  in  Ossian's  phrase,  "  the  last  of  his  fields," 
and  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  die  and  be  buried  in  the  muirs. 
On  tliis  hint  the  author  composed  his  elegy  and  epitaph. 

t  A  certain  preacher,  a  great  favourite  with  the  million.  Vide  the 
"  Ordination,"  stanza  2. 

t  Another  preacher,  an  equal  favourite  with  the  few,  who  was  at 
thPt  time  ailing.    For  him  see  also  the  '•  Ordmation,"  stanza  9. 


104  BURNS  S   P0E3IS. 

When  Winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 
And  binds  the  mire  Hke  a  rock  ; 
When  to  the  lochs  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi'  gleesome  speed, 
Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ? 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  ! 

He  was  the  king  o'  a'  the  corps, 
To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore. 
Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  o'  need  ; 
But  now  he  lags  on  death's  hog-score, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  saumont  sail. 
And  trouts  bedi'opp'd  wi'  crimson  hail. 
And  eels,  weel  kenn'd  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  for  greed, 
Since  dark  in  Death's  fish-creel  we  waii 

Tam  Samson  dead  I 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a' ; 

Ye  cootie  muircocks,  crousely  craw  ; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fuds  fu'  braw, 

Withouten  dread  ; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa', 

Tam  Samson's  dead. 

That  wofu'  moi'n  be  ever  mourn'd 
Saw  him  in  shooting-graith  adorn'd. 
While  pointers  round  impatient  burn'u, 

Frae  couples  freed  ; 
But,  och  !  he  gaed  and  ne'er  return'd  ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters  ; 
In  vain  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters  ; 
In  vain  the  burns  came  down  like  waters^ 

An  acre  braid  ! 
Now  every  auld  wife,  greeting,  clatters, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

Owre  monie  a  wearie  hagg  he  limpit, 
And  aye  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit, 
Till  coward  Death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi'  deadly  feide  ; 
Now  he  proclaims,  wi'  tout  o'  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  105 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  reel'd  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi'  weel-aim'd  heed  ; 
"Lord,  five !"  he  ci'ied,  and  owre  did  stagger; 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  ! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn'd  a  brither  ; 
Ilk  sportsman-youth  bemoan'd  a  father  ; 
Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head, 
Whare  Bums  has  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether. 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  ! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest : 
Perhaps  upon  his  mouldering  breast 
Some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  and  breed  ; 
Alas  !  nae  mair  he'll  them  molest  ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave. 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave, 
Three  volleys  let  his  mem'ry  crave 

/    0'  powther  and  lead  ; 
Till  Echo  answers  frae  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

Heav'n  rest  his  sau-1,  whare'er  he  be  ! 
Is  th'  wish  o'  mony  mae  than  me  ; 
He  had  twa  fauts,  or  maybe  three. 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
Ae  social  honest  man  want  we — 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 


THE   EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  here  lies, 
Ye  canting  zealots  spare  him  ! 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 
Ye'll  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 


PER   CONTRA. 
Go,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a  filly 
Through  a'  the  streets  and  neuks  o'  Killie  : 
Tell  every  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  ginevin'  ? 
For  yet,  imskaith'd  by  death's  gleg  gullic, 
Tam  Samson's  livin'  ! 


106  BURNS  S   POEKS. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE. 

A   BROTHER   POET  *. 
AULD  NEEBOUR, 

I'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor, 
For  your  auld-farrant,  frien'ly  letter  ; 
Tho'  I  maun  say't,  I  doubt  you  flatter, 

Ye  speak  sae  fair  ; 
For  my  puir,  silly  rhymin'  clatter 

Some  less  maun  sair. 

Hale  ^e  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle  ; 
Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  and  diddle, 
To  cheer  you  thro'  the  weary  widdle 

O'  warl'y  cares. 
Till  bairns'  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld  grey  hairs. 

But,  Davie,  lad,  I'm  red  ye're  glaikit ; 
I'm  tauld  the  Muse  ye  ha'e  negleckit  ; 
And  gif  it's  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket 

Until  ye  fyke  ; 
Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faikit. 

Be  hain't  wha  lilie. 

For  me,  I'm  on  Parnassus'  brink, 

Rivin'  the  words  to  gar  them  clink  ; 

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

Wi'  jads  or  masons  ; 
And  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  gi'e  us  joy  or  grievin'  ; 
But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in, 

And  while  ought's  there, 
Then,  hiltie-skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin'. 

And  fash  nae  mair. 
*  This  is  prefixed  to  the  poems  of  David  Sillar,  publisl  td  ut 
Kamaraock,  1789. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  107 

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  and  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She's  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie  ! 
The  warl'  may  play  you  monie  a  shavie  ; 
But  for  the  Muse,  she'll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho'  e'er  sae  puir, 
Na,  even  tho'  limpin'  wi'  the  spavie 

Frae  door  to  door. 


LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED    BY    THE    UNFORTUNATE     ISSUE    OK      A     KRIKN'D'S 
AMOUR. 

Alas  !  how  oft  does  Goodness  wound  itself! 
And  sweet  Affection  prove  the  spring  of  woe. 

HuuB. 

0  THOU  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines. 
While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep ! 

Thou  see'st  a  wretch  who  inly  pines. 
And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep  ! 

With  woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep. 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam : 

And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 
How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 

1  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

The  faintly-marked  distant  hill : 
I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn 

Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill ; 
My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  power,  Remembrance,  cease ! 
Ah  !  must  the  agonizing  thrill 

For  ever  bar  returning  peace ! 

No  idly-feign'd  poetic  pains 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim ; 
No  shepherd's  pipe — Arcadian  strains : 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame  : 
The  plighted  faith  ;  the  mutual  flame ; 

The  oft-attested  Powers  above  ; 
The  promised  father's  tender  name : 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love ! 


08  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Eucii'cled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptured  moments  flo\vn ! 
How  have  I  wish'd  for  fortune's  charms, 

For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone  ! 
And  must  I  think  it !  is  she  gone  ? 

My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast ! 
And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  1 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 

0 !  can  she  hear  so  base  a  heart. 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth. 
As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ! 
Alas  !  life's  path  may  be  unsmooth  ! 

Her  way  may  lie  through  I'ough  distress  I 
Then  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 

Her  sorrows  shai'e,  and  make  them  less  ? 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o'er  us  pass'd, 

Enraptured  more,  the  more  enjoyed. 
Your  dear  remembi'ance  in  my  bi-east. 

My  fondly-treasured  thoughts  employ'd. 
That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void. 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room ! 
Ev'n  every  ray  of  hope  destroy'd. 

And  not  a  wish  to  gUd  the  gloom ! 

The  morn  that  warns  th'  approaciiing  day, 

Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe  : 
I  see  the  hours  in  long  ari*ay, 

That  I  must  suifer,  lingering,  slow. 
Full  many  a  pang  and  many  a  throe. 

Keen  Recollection's  direful  train. 
Must  \vring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low. 

Shall  kiss  the  distant  western  main. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try. 

Sore  harass'd  out  with  care  and  grief, 
My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye, 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief: 
Or,  if  I  slumber.  Fancy,  chief 

Reigns  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright : 
Even  day,  all  bitter,  brings  relief 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 

0  thou  bright  queen,  who  o'er  the  expanse. 
Now  highest  reign'st,  with  boundless  sway : 

Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 

Observed  us,  fondly  wand'ring,  stray ; 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  109 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away, 

While  Love's  hixurious  pulse  beat  high, 

Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray. 
To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 

0  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set ! 

Scenes,  never,  never  to  return ; 
Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget. 

Again  1  feel,  again  I  burn  ! 
From  every  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life's  weary  vale  I'll  wander  through  ; 
And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I'll  mourn 

A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow. 


DESPONDENCY 

AN   ODE. 


Oppress'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  caro, 
A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

I  set  me  down  and  sigh : 
0  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load. 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road. 

To  ^\Tetclles  such  as  I ! 
Dim  backwai'd  as  I  cast  my  view, 
What  sick'niug  scenes  appear  ! 
What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  through- 
Too  justly  I  may  fear ! 
Still  caring,  despairing. 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom  ; 

My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er. 

But  with  the  closing  tomb  ! 

Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life. 
Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife. 

No  other  view  regard  ; 
Even  when  the  wished  end's  denied. 
Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  plied, 

They  bring  their  own  reward : 
Whilst  I,  a  hopc-abandon'd  wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim. 
Meet  every  sad  returning  night, 
And  joyless  morn  the  same. 
You,  bustling,  and  justling. 

Forget  each  grief  and  paia ; 
I  listless,  yet  restless. 
Find  every  prospect  vain. 


110  BURNS'S    POEMS 

How  blest  the  Solitary's  lot, 
Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 
The  cavern  wild,  with  tangling  routs. 
Sits  o'er  his  newly-gather'd  ii-uits. 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 
Or,  haply,  to  his  evening  thought. 

By  unfrequented  stream, 
The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought ^ 
A  faint  collected  dream : 
While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  heaven  on  high, 
As  wand'ring,  meand'ring, 
He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  placed, 
Where  never  human  footstep  traced, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part  ; 
The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 
And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  ai-t ; 
But,  ah  !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  jo\-\ 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste. 
The  Solitary  can  despise. 
Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate  ; 
Whilst  I  here,  must  cry  here. 
At  perfidy  ingrate ! 

Oh  !  en-\-iable,  early  days. 

When  dancing,  thoughtless,  Pleasure's  maze, 

To  care,  to  guilt,  unknown  ! 
How  ill  exchanged  for  riper  times. 
To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes. 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport. 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush. 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 
When  manhood  is  your  wish ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses. 

That  active  man  engage  i 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  ail, 
Of  dim-declining  age ! 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  1 1 1 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED  TO   K.   AITKEN,    ESQ. 


Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 

The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor. — Gkav. 

Mt  loved,  my  honour'd,  much-respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise  ; 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene : 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways, 

What  Aitken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah  !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween  ! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  plough  ; 

The  blackening  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  muir,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee-tliings,  toddlJh',  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  and  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  carkin'  cares  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his  toil. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin'  in. 
At  service  out  amang  the  fanners  ix)un' ; 

Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 


]12  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-f,'rown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparklin'  in  her  e'e, 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new  gown, 
Oi-  deposite  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

And  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  hopefu'  years : 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view  : 
The  Mothei",  wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  Father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  masters'  and  their  mistresses'  command 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 

And  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  ; 
"  And  0  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

And  mind  your  duty  duly  morn  and  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  neebor  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  ; 
With  heart-struck  an:^ous  care  inquires  his  name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak : 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild  worthless  rakt 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  : 

A  strappin'  youth  !  he  tak's  the  mother's  eye  ; 
Blj-the  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill-ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  o'  horses,  ploughs,  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  mak's  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae  grave  : 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respectit  like  the  lave. 


BURNS  S    POEiMS.  113 

0  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"  If  Heav'n  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,  wuth  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !  dissembling  smooth  1 

Are  honoui",  vii'tue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondhng  o'er  their  child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  'i 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food  ; 
The  sowp  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  gude  ; 

The  fi'ugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 
How  'twas  a  towmoud  auld,  sin'  lint  wasi'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha'  bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare  ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicioue  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  aun  : 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warblhig  measures  rise. 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name  j 


114  BURNS  S    P0E3IS. 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heav'nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  wi'  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  I'aptures  raise  j 
Nae  unison  ha'e  they  wi'  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  Isaia^i's  wild,  sei"ap.hic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  slied  ; 
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,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand  ; 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven' 

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  hjanning  their  Creator's  praise. 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  mth  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. 
*  Pope's  Windsor  Forest. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  115 

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 — 
Tliat  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  deelvs  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride. 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But  chiefiy  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  lordliug's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 

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  bless'd  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  Oh,  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  tlie  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  Isle. 

0  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  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  ;) 
0  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ! 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard. 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 


z2 


116  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


THE  FIRST  SIX  VERSES  OF  THE  NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

0  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 

Of  all  the  human  race  ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling-place  ! 

Before  the  mountains  heaved  their  heads 

Beneath  thy  forming  hand, 
Before  this  pond'rous  globe  itself 

Arose  at  thy  command  ; 

That  pow'r  which  raised  and  still  upholds 

This  universal  frame, 
From  countless,  unbeginning  time 

Was  ever  stiU  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 

Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 
Appear  no  more  before  thy  sight 

Than  yesterday  that's  past. 

Thou  giv'st  the  word  :  Thy  creature,  man. 

Is  to  existence  brought : 
Again  thou  say'st,  "  Ye  sons  of  men. 

Return  ye  into  nought !" 

Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep  ; 
As  with  a  flood  thou  tak'st  them  off 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  hke  the  morning  flower, 

In  beauty's  pride  array'd  ; 
But  long  ere  night  cut  down  it  lies, 

All  wither' d  and  decay 'd. 


BL'RNS'S    POEMs.  H' 


VERSES 

LErr    AT   A    REVEREND   FRIEND'S   HOUSE,    IN   THE    ROOM 
WHERE   THE    AUTHOR    SLEPT. 

0  Thou  dread  Pow'r,  who  reign'st  above, 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear ; 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love, 

I  make  my  pray'r  sincere. 

The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke 

Long,  long  be  pleased  to  spare  ! 
To  bless  his  filial  little  flock, 

And  show  what  good  men  are. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 

With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 
O  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys. 

But  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth. 

In  manhood's  dawning  blush  ; 
Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a  parent's  ^vish  ! 

The  beauteous  seraph  sister-band. 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray. 
Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  every  hand. 

Guide  thou  their  steps  alway  ! 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast. 

O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driven. 
May  they  rejoice,  no  wand'rer  lost, 

A  family  in  heaven  ! 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  TURNING  ONE    DOWN  WITH  THE    PLOUGH, 
IN  APRIL,  17B6. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem  ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem ! 


118  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bounie  Lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckled  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  storai. 
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  i 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

0'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alane, 

Tliere,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  hfts  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  ! 

Stich  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven. 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Till  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruin'd,  suik ! 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  119 

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  ! 


EPISTLE   TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 
]VlAY,  1786. 

I  LANG  ha'e  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you. 
Though  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento  : 
But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang 

Let  time  and  chance  determine  ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Pei'haps  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. 

Even  when  your  end's  attained  ; 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought^ 

Where  every  nerve  is  strained. 

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

The  real,  harden'd  wicked, 
Wha  ha'e  nae  check  but  hu'man  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricked  : 
But  och  !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

An'  little  to  be  trusted  ; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake. 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  na  censure^ 
For  still  th'  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer  : 
A  man  may  ha'e  an  honest  heart, 

Though  poortith  hourly  stare  him  ; 
A  man  may  tak'  a  neebor's  part. 

Yet  ha'e  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 


J20  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

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  through  every  other  man 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  slee  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love, 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it. 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing  ; 
But  och  !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her  ; 
And  gather  gear  by  every  Avile 

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  baud  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's  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended  ! 

When  ranting  round  in  Pleasure's  ring. 
Religion  may  be  blinded  ; 

Or  if  she  gi'e  a  random  sting. 
It  may  be  little  mmded  ; 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  121 

But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driv'n, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heaven 

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  you  better  reck  the  rede. 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser. 


TO  A   LOUSE, 

ON   SEEING  ONE   ON  A   LADV'S  BONNET  AT  CHURCH. 

Ha  !  wh'are  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin'  ferlie  I 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace  ; 
Tho'  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin',  blastit  wonner, 
Detested,  shunn'd  by  saunt  and  sinner, 
How  dare  you  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  leddy  ! 
Gae  somewhere  else  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  haffet  squattle  ! 
There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle, 
Wi'  ither  kindred  jumpin'  cattle. 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 
Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  dare  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  hand  you  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight. 
Below  the  fatt'rils,  snug  and  tight ; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye'Il  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'ring  height 

0'  Miss's  bonnet ! 


122  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

My  sooth  !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out, 
As  plump  and  gray  as  ony  grozet ; 

0  for  some  rank  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 
I'd  gi'e  you  sic  a  hearty  dose  o't, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum  ! 

1  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flannen  toy  ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat ; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi !  fie. 

How  dare  ye  do't ! 

O,  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abroad  ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makin' ! 
Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread. 

Are  notice  takin' ! 

O  wad  some  Pow'r  the  giftie  gi'e  us 
To  see  oursel's  as  others  see  us  ! 
It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us 

And  foolish  notion  : 
What  airs  in  di'ess  and  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 

And  ev'n  Devotion  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN   RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING  SOME   POEMS. 

O  ROUGH,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 
The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  and  drinkin' ! 
There's  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin' 

Your  dreams*  and  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a  sinkin' 

Straught  to  Auld  Nick's. 

Ye  ha'e  sae  mony  cracks  an'  cants, 
And  in  your  wicked,  drucken  rants, 
Ye  make  a  deevU  o'  the  saunts. 

And  fill  them  fou  ; 
And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  and  wants. 

Are  a'  seen  through. 

*  A  certain  humorous  "  Dream  "  of  his  was  then  making  a  noise 
in  tlie  country-side. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  123 

Hv^ocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

That  holy  robe,  0  dinim  tear  it ! 

Spare't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it. 

The  lads  in  black  ! 
But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 

Rives't  aff  theii'  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye're  skaithin'. 
It's  just  the  blue-gown  badge  and  claithin' 
0'  saunts ;  tak'  that,  ye  iea'e  them  naething 

To  ken  them  by, 
Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen, 

Like  you  or  I. 

I've  sent  you  here  some  rhjTning  ware, 
A'  that  I  bargain'd  for  and  mair  ; 
Sae,  when  ye  ha'e  an  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect 
Von  sang*  :  ye'll  sen't,  wi'  cannie  care, 

An4  no  neglect. 

Though  faith,  sma'  heart  ha'e  I  to  sing ! 
My  Muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing ! 
I've  play'd  mysel'  a  bonnie  spring  ! 

And  danced  my  fill ; 
I'd  better  gane  and  sair't  the  king. 

At  Bunker's  Hill. 

'Twas  ae  night  lately,  in  my  fun, 

I  gaed  a  ro\'ing  wi'  the  gun, 

And  brought  a  paitrick  to  the  grun', 

A  bonnie  hen. 
And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun. 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt ; 

I  strailcit  it  a  wee  for  sport, 

Ne'er  thinkin'  they  would  fash  me  for't ; 

But  de'il-ma'-care ! 
Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

The  hale  affair. 

Some  auld-used  hands  had  ta'en  a  note 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot ; 
1  was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I  scorn'd  to  lee  ; 
So  gat  the  whistle  o'  my  groat, 

And  pay't  the  fee. 

•  A  song  he  had  promised  the  author*' 


124  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

But,  by  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale, 
And  by  my  powther  and  my  hail, 
And  by  my  hen,  and  by  her  tail, 

I  vow  and  swear. 
The  game  shall  pay,  o'er  muir  and  dale, 

For  this,  niest  year. 

As  scon's  the  clockin'-time  is  by. 
And  the  wee  pouts  begin  to  cry, 
L — d,  I'se  ha'e  sportin'  by  and  by. 

For  my  gowd  guinea. 
Though  I  should  herd  the  buckskin  kye 

For't,  in  Virginia. 

Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame  I 
'Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb, 
But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame, 

Scarce  through  the  feathers ; 
And  baith  a  yellow  george  to  claim, 

And  thole  their  blethers ! 

It  pits  me  aye  as  mad's  a  hare  ; 

So  I  can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair  ! 

But  pennyworths  again  is  fair. 

When  time's  expedient : 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  sir. 

Your  most  obedient. 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD, 

GONE     TO     THE     WEST    INDIES. 

A'  YE  wha  live  by  sowps  o'  drink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  and  never  think, 

Come,  mourn  wi'  me ! 
Our  billie's  gi'en  us  a'  a  jink, 

An's  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin'  corps 
Wha  dearly  like  a  random  splore  ; 
Nae  mair  he'll  join  the  merry  roar. 

In  social  key ; 
For  now  he's  ta'en  anither  shore, 

An's  owre  the  sea. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  J25 

The  bonnie  lasses  weel  may  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him  ; 
The  widows,  wives,  and  a'  may  bless  him, 

Wi'  tearfu'  e'e  ; 
For  weel  I  wat  they'll  sairly  miss  him 

That's  owre  the  sea  ! 

0  Fortune,  they  ha'e  room  to  grummie 
Hadst  thou  ta'en  afF  some  drowsy  bummle, 
Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  and  fummle, 

'Twad  been  nae  plea  ; 
But  he  was  gleg  as  ony  wummle. 

That's  owre  the  sea  ! 

Auld,.  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear. 
And  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
'Twill  make  her  poor  auld  heart,  I  fear. 

In  flinders  flee  ; 
He  was  her  laureate  mony  a  year, 

That's  owre  the  sea  ! 

He  saw  Misfortune's  cauld  nor'-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast  ; 
A  jillet  brak'  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be  ! 
So,  took  a  berth  afore  the  mast. 

An'  owre  the  sea ! 

To  tremble  under  Fortune's  cummock. 
On  scarce  a  bellj-fu'  o'  drummock, 
Wi'  his  proud  independent  stomach 

Could  ill  agree. 
So  row't  his  hurdles  in  a  hammock. 

And  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne'er  was  gi'en  to  great  misguiding, 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na  bide  in  ; 
Wi'  him  it  ne'er  was  under  hiding. 

He  dealt  it  free : 
The  Muse  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in. 

That's  owre  the  sea- 
Jamaica  bodies  !  use  him  weel, 
And  hap  him  in  a  cozie  biel  ; 
Ye'll  find  him  aye  a  dainty  chiel. 

And  fu'  o'  glee  ! 
He  wad  na  wrang'd  the  vera  de'il 

That's  owre  the  sea. 


126  BURNS  S    rOEMS. 

Fareweel,  my  rhjTae-composing  billie  ! 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie  ; 
But  may  ye  floiu'ish  like  a  lily, 

Now  bonnilie  ! 
I'll  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie, 

The'  owi'e  the  sea. 


A  DEDICATION 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,   ESQ. 

Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 

A  fleechin,  fleth'rin  dedication, 

To  roose  you  up,  and  ca'  you  guid. 

And  sprung  o'  great  and  noble  bluid. 

Because  ye're  surnamed  like  his  Grace, 

Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 

Then  when  I'm  tired,  and  sae  are  ye. 

Wi'  mony  a  fulsome  sinfu'  lie, 

Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short. 

For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  sir,  wi'  thaim  wlia. 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefu' ; 
For  me  !  sae  laigh  I  needna  bow. 
For,  Lord  be  thankit !  I  can  plough  ! 
And  when  I  do^\^la  yoke  a  naig. 
Then,  Lord  be  thankit !  I  can  beg ; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  and  that's  nae  flatterin', 
It's  just  sic  poet,  an'  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  hira ! 
Or  else,  I  fear,  some  ill  ane  skelp  him ; 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he's  done  yet. 
But  only  he's  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron  (sir,  ye  maun  forgi'e  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me). 
On  ev'ry  hand  it  will  allow'd  be 
He's  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant. 
He  downa  see  a  poor  man  want ; 
What's  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak'  it, 
What  ance  he  says  he  winna  break  it ; 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  127 

Ought  he  can  lend  lie'U  no  refuse't, 
Till  aft  his  guidness  is  abused  ; 
And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 
Ev'n  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  king : 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 
He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then,  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that ; 
Nae  godly  sjTnptom  ye  can  ca'  that ; 
It's  naething  but  a  milder  feature 
Of  our  poor  sinfu'  cx)rrupt  nature : 
Ye'll  get  the  best  of  moral  works 
'iVIang  black  Gentoos  and  Pagan  Turks, 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need. 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 
It's  no  thro'  terror  of  damnation ; 
It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane, 
Tliy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain ! 
Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice! 

No — stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack ; 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back ; 
Steal  thro'  a  winnock  frae  a  whore. 
But  point  the  rake  that  tak's  the  door  ; 
Be  to  the  poor  like  ony  whunstane, 
And  hand  their  noses  to  the  grunstane ; 
Ply  ev'ry  art  o'  legal  thieving ; 
No  matter !  stick  to  sound  believing. 

Learn  three-mile  pray'rs  and  half-mile  graces, 
Wi'  weel-spread  looves,  and  lang  wry  faces  ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn  lengthen'd  gi'oan. 
And  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own  ; 
I'll  Nvarrant  then,  ye're  nae  deceiver, 
A  steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

O  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  o'  Calvin, 
For  gumlie  dubs  o'  your  ain  delvin' ! 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 
Ye'll  some  day  squecl  in  quaking  terror ! 
When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  tire  throws  the  sheath  : 


J  28  BURNS  S  POEMS. 

"When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 
Just  frets  till  Heav'n  commission  gi'es  hira, 
While  o'er  the  harp  pale  Mis'ry  moans, 
And  strikes  the  ever-deep'ning  tones, 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  I 

Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  digression, 
I  'maist  forgat  my  declaration ; 
But  when  divinity  comes  cross  me. 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  sir,  ye  see,  'twas  nae  daft  vapour  ; 
But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper. 
When  a'  my  works  I  did  review, 
To  dedicate  them,  sir,  to  You : 
Because  (ye  need  na  tak'  it  ill) 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel'. 

Then  patronize  them  wi'  your  favour. 
And  your  petitioner  shall  ever 
I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray. 
But  that's  a  word  I  need  na  say : 
For  praying  I  ha'e  little  skill  o't ; 
I'm  baith  dead-sweer,  and  wretched  ill  o't ; 
But  I'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  pray'r. 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  sir 

"  May  ne'er  Misfortune's  gowling  bark 
Howl  thro'  the  dwelling  o'  the  Clerk ! 
May  ne'er  his  gen'rous  honest  heart. 
For  that  same  gen'rous  spirit  smart ! 
May  Kennedy's  far-honour'd  name 
Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame. 
Till  Hamiltons,  at  least  a  dizen. 
Are  frae  their  nuptial  labours  risen  : 
Five  bonny  lasses  round  their  table, 
And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  and  able 
To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel. 
By  Avord,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 
May  health  and  peace,  wi'  mutuiil  rays. 
Shine  on  the  ev'ning  o'  his  days ; 
Till  his  Avee  curly  John's  ier-oe. 
When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow. 
The  last  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow  !" 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion, 
Wi'  complimentary  efiusion  ; 


BURNS  S    POEJfS.  129 

But  wuiist  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  wi'  Fortune's  smiles  and  favoui's, 
I  am,  dear  sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 
Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  Pow'rs  above  prevent !) 
That  iron-hearted  carle,  Want, 
Attended  in  his  grim  advances. 
By  sad  mistakes,  and  black  mischances, 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  tiy  him, 
ISlake  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am, 
Your  humble  servant  then  no  more ; 
For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor  ! 
But,  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  heaven  ! 
AVhile  recollection's  power  is  given. 
If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 
The  victim  sad  of  Fortune's  strife, 
I,  through  the  tender  gushing  tear, 
Should  recognize  my  master  dear. 
If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together. 
Then,  sii',  your  hand — my  friend  and  brother. 


ELEGY 

ox  THE  DKATH   OF   ROBERT  RUISSEAUX*. 

Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair. 

He'll  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

Cauld  poverty,  wi'  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him  ; 
Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care 

E'er  mair  come  near  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fasht  him  ; 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crusht  him  ; 
For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  husht  'em, 

Though  e'er  sae  short, 
Then  wi'  a  rhjTne  or  sang  he  lasht  'em. 

And  thought  it  sport. 

Though  he  was  bred  to  kintra  wark. 
And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark. 
Yet  that  was  never  Robins  mark 

To  mak'  a  man  ; 
But  tell  him,  he  was  learn'd  and  dark, 

Ye  roosed  him  then ' 
*  Ruisseaux—a  play  on  his  own  name. 


130  burnjss  pofms. 


LETTER 

TO  JAMES  TAIT,    OF  GLENCONNER. 

AuLD  comrade  dear  and  britlier  sinnerc 
How's  a'  the  folk  about  Glenconner  ? 
How  Stan'  you  this  blae  eastlm'  wind, 
That's  like  to  blaw  a  body  blind  ? 
For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen, 
My  dearest  member  nearly  dozen'd  : 
I've  sent  you  here,  by  Johnnie  Simson, 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on  ; 
Smith,  wi'  his  sjTaipathetic  feeling, 
An'  Reid,  to  common  sense  appealing. 
Philosophers  have  fought  an'  wrangled, 
An'  meikle  Greek  and  Latin  mangled. 
Till  wi'  their  logic-jargon  tired. 
An'  in  the  depth  of  science  mired. 
To  common  sense  they  now  appeal. 
What  wives  an'  wabsters  see  an'  feel ; 
But  hark  ye,  friend,  I  charge  you  strictly, 
Peruse  them  and  return  them  quickly ; 
For  now  I'm  grown  so  cursed  douce, 
I  pray  and  ponder  butt  the  house, 
My  shins,  my  lane,  I  there  sit  roastin', 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  and  Boston; 
Till  by  and  by,  if  I  hand  on, 
I'll  gi'unt  a  real  Gospel  groan : 
Ah^eady  I  begin  to  try  it, 
To  cast  my  een  up  like  a  pyet. 
When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o'er, 
Flutt'ring  an'  gasping  in  her  gore  : 
Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 
A  burning  and  a  shmmg  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  an'  wale  of  honest  men : 
When  bending  down  with  auld  grey  hairs. 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 
jyiay  He  who  made  him  still  support  him, 
\-n'  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him  ; 
His  worthy  fam'ly  far  and  near, 
God  bless  them  a'  wi'  grace  and  gear. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  13] 

My  auld  school-fellow,  Preacher  Willie, 
The  manly  tar,  my  mason  billie. 
An'  Auchenbay,  I  wish  him  joy  ; 
If  he's  a  parent,  lass  or  boy, 
May  he  be  dad,  an'  Meg  the  mither, 
Just  five-an'-forty  years  thegither  1 
An'  no  forgetting  wabster  Charlie, 
I'm  tauld  he  offei-s  very  fairly. 
An'  L — d !  remember  singing  Sannock, 
Wi'  hale  breeks,  saxpence,  an'  a  bannock. 
An'  next,  my  auld  acquaintance,  Nancy, 
Since  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy ; 
An'  her  kind  stars  ha'e  airted  till  her 
A  guid  chiel  wi'  a  pickle  siller. 
My  kindest,  best  respects  I  sen'  it, 
To  cousin  Kate  an'  sister  Janet ; 
Tell  them  frae  me,  wi'  chiels  be  cautious. 
For  faith,  they'll  aiblins  fin'  them  fashious : 
To  grant  a  heart  is  fairly  ci\dl, 
But  to  grant  a  maidenhead's  the  devil ! 
An'  lastly,  Jamie,  for  yourseP, 
May  guardian  angels  tak'  a  spell. 
An'  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o'  hell : 
But  first,  before  you  see  heav'n's  glory. 
May  ye  get  raonie  a  merry  story, 
Monie  a  laugh,  and  monie  a  drink, 
An'  ay  enough  o'  needfu'  clink. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  an'  joy  be  wi'  you. — 
For  my  sake  this  I  beg  it  o'  you, 
Assist  poor  Simson  a'  ye  can, 
Ye'll  fin'  him  just  an  honest  man  ; 
Sae  I  conclude  an'  quat  my  chanter, 
Yours,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rob  the  Ranteh. 


ON   THE  BIRTH   OF   A    POSTHUMOUS  CHILD. 
Born  in  peculiar  circumstances  of  family  distras 

Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love 

And  ward  o'  monie  a  pray'r, 
What  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair ! 


132  BURNS  S    P0E3IS. 

November  hii-ples  o'er  the  lea, 
Chill,  on  thy  lovely  form  ; 

And  gane,  alas !  the  shelt'ring  tree, 
Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour, 
And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show'r, 
The  bitter  frost  and  snaw  ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  woe  and  want, 
Who  heals  life's  various  stounds. 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother  plant,  * 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds ! 

But  late  she  flourish'd,  rooted  fast, 
Fair  on  the  summer  morn : 

Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 
Unshelter'd  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 
Unscathed  by  ruffian  hand ! 

And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem, 
Arise  to  deck  our  land ! 


TO  MISS  CRUIKSHANK, 

A   VERY  YOUNG  LADY, 

Wriikn  on  the  Blank  Leaf  of  a  Book,  presented  to  her  by 
the  Author. 

Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay. 
Blooming  in  thy  early  ]\Iay, 
Never  may'st  thou,  lovely  fiow'r. 
Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  show'r  ! 
Never  Boreas'  hoary  path. 
Never  Eurus'  pois'nous  breath, 
Never  baleful  stellar  lights. 
Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights ! 
Never,  never  reptile  thief 
Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf ! 
Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 
Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew  I 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  133 

May'st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 
Richly  deck  thy  native  stem, 
Till  some  evening,  sober,  calm, 
Dropping  dews,  and  breathing  balm. 
While  all  around  the  woodland  rings. 
And  every  bird  thy  requiem  sings ; 
Thou,  amid  the  du-geful  sound. 
Shed  thy  dying  honours  round. 
And  resign  to  parent  earth 
The  loveliest  form  she  e'er  gave  birth. 


THE   FIRST   PSALM. 


The  man,  in  life  wherever  placed. 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way, 

Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flom-ish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  gi-ow  ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high. 
And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossoms  bud  in  guilt 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast. 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  toss'd 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

i'or  why  1  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  given  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


134  BTRNSS   POEMS. 


TO  GAVIN   HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

(RECOMMENDING  A   BOY.) 


Mosgaville,  3Iay  3,  17^6- 

I  HOLD  it,  Sir,  my  bounden  duty 

To  warn  you  now  that  Master  Tootie, 

Alias,  Laird  M'Gaun,* 
Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak'  the  tither  day, 

And  wad  ha'e  done't  aff-han' ; 
But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks, 

As  faith  I  muekle  doubt  him, 
Like  scrapin'  out  auld  crummie's  nicks, 
An'  telling  lies  about  them  ; 

As  lieve  then  I'd  have  then 

Your  Clerkship  he  should  ser'e, 
If  sae  be,  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  otherwhere. 

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

An'  bout  a  house  that's  rude  an'  rough. 

The  boy  might  learn  to  swear  ; 
But  then  wi'  you,  he'll  be  sae  taught. 
An'  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I  ha'e  na  ony  fear. 
Ye'll  catechise  him  every  quirk. 
An'  shore  him  weel  wi'  hell ; 
An'  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk 
— Ay  when  ye  gang  yoursel'. 
If  ye  then,  maun  be  then 

Frae  hame  this  comin'  Friday, 
Then  please,  Sir,  to  lea'e.  Sir, 
The  orders  wi'  your  lady. 

«  "  Master  Tootie  then  lived  in  Mauchline— a  dealer  in  cows.  It 
was  his  common  practice  to  cut  the  nicks  or  markings  from  the 
horns  of  cattle  to  disguise  their  ago— He  was  an  artful,  trick-con- 
triving character  ;  hence,  he  is  called  a  snick-d7-au'cr.  In  the  Poet's 
'  Address  to  the  De'il,'  he  styles  that  august  personage  an  auld, 
snick-drawinq  dog  .'"—IlEhiq,VES,  p.  397- 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  135 

My  word  of  honour  I  ha'e  gie'n, 

Ixj  Paisley  John's,  that  night  at  e'en, 

To  meet  the  Warld's  worm  ; 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 
An'  name  the  airles  an'  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  an'  form  : 
I  ken  he  weel  a  snick  can  draw. 
When  simple  bodies  let  him ; 
An'  if  a  devil  be  at  a'. 

In  faith  he's  sure  to  get  him. 

To  phraise  you  an'  praise  you, 

Ye  ken  your  Laureat  scorns  : 
The  pi-ayer  still  you  share  still 
Of  ^jrateful  Minstrel  Burns. 


TO    IVIR.   M'ADAM 

OF  CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In  Answer  to  an  oblifiiiig  Letter  he  sent  in  the  commencement 
of  my  Poetic  Career. 

Sir,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 

I  trow  it  made  me  proud  ; 
'*  See  wha  tak's  notice  o'  the  bard  1 " 

I  lap  and  cried  fu'  loud. 

Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw. 

The  senseless,  gawky  million  ; 
I'll  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a', 

I'm  roosed  by  Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas  noble,  Sir — 'twas  like  yoursel ', 
To  grant  your  high  protection  ; 

A  great  man's  smile,  ye  ken  fu'  weel, 
Is  aye  a  blest  infection : 

Tho',  by  his  banes  wha  in  a  tub 

Match'd  Macedonian  Sandy  ! 
On  my  ain  legs  thro'  dirt  and  dub, 

I  independent  stand  aye. — 

And  when  those  legs  to  guid  warm  kail, 

Wi'  welcome  canna  bear  me  ; 
A  lee  dyke-side,  a  sybow-tail 

And  barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 


136  BURNS  S  POEMS. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  breath 

0'  mony  flow'ry  simmers  ! 
And  bless  your  bonuie  lasses  baith, 

I'm  tauld  they're  loosome  kimmers ! 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskiu's  laird. 
The  blossom  of  our  gentry  ; 

And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard, 
A  credit  to  his  country. 


TO  A  TAILOR, 

IN    ANSWER    TO  A   POETICAL    EPISTLE    WTIICH   HE    HAD    SKNT 
THE    AUTHOR. 

What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousy  b — h, 
To  thresh  my  back  at  sic  a  pitch  I 
Losh,  man !  ha'e  mercy  wi'  your  natch, 

Your  bodkin's  bauld, 
I  did  na  suffer  half  sae  much 

Frae  Daddie  Auld. 

What  tho'  at  times,  when  I  grow  crouse, 
I  gi'e  their  wames  a  random  pouse, 
Is  that  enough  for  you  to  souse 

Your  servant  sae  ? 
Gae  mind  your  seam,  ye  prick-the-louse, 

An'  jag-the-flae  ! 

King  David,  o'  poetic  brief. 
Wrought  'maug  the  lasses  sic  mischief 
As  fill'd  his  after  life  wi'  grief 

An'  bloody  rants. 
An'  yet  he's  rank'd  amang  the  chief 

0'  lang-s^Tae  saunts. 

And  maybe,  Tam,  for  a'  my  cants, 
My  wicked  rhymes,  an'  drucken  ranta 
I'll  gi'e  auld  cloven  Clooty's  haunts 

An  unco  slip  yet, 
An'  snugly  sit  amang  the  saunts, 

At  Davie's  hip  yet. 


BURNS  S   POEMS^  137 

But  fegs  !  the  Session  says  I  maun 

Gae  fa'  upon  anither  plan 

Thau  garrin'  lasses  cowp  the  cran 

Clean  heels  owi'e  body, 
And  sairly  thole  their  mithers'  bau 

Afore  the  howdy. 

This  leads  me  on  to  tell  for  sport, 
How  I  did  with  the  Session  sort — 
Auld  Ciinkum  at  the  inner  port 

Cried  three  times,  "Robin  ! 
Come  hither,  lad,  an'  answer  for't, 

Ye're  blamed  for  jobbin'." 

Wi'  pinch  I  pat  a  Sunday's  face  on, 
An'  snooved  awa'  before  the  Session — 
I  made  an  open,  fair  confession, 

I  scorn'd  to  lie  ; 
An'  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expression. 

Fell  foul  o'  me. 


A   DREAM. 


Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute  blames  with  reeson, 
But  surely  dreams  were  ne'er  indicted  treason  ? 

[On  reading  in  the  public  papers,  the  Laureat's  Ode,  with  the  other 
parado  of  June  4,  1786,  the  author  was  no  sooner  dropt  asleep, 
than  he  imagined  himself  transported  to  the  Birth-day  Levee  • 
and,  in  his  dreaming  fancy,  made  the  following  address.] 

GuDE-MORNiNG  to  your  Majesty! 

May  Heav'n  augment  your  blisses. 
On  ev'ry  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes  ! 
My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is, 
Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see 

Amang  the  birth-day  dresses 

Sae  fine  this  day. 

I  see  ye'i'e  complimented  thi'ang. 

By  mony  a  lord  and  lady  ! 
"  God  save  the  king  ! "  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That's  unco  easy  said  aye  ; 


138  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

The  poets  too,  a  venal  gang, 

Wi'  rhymes  weel  turn'd  and  ready, 

Wad  gar  ye  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrang, 
But  aye  unerrmg  steady, 

On  sic  a  day. 

For  me  !  before  a  monarch's  face, 

Ev'n  there  I  winna  flatter  ; 
For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor  ; 
Sae  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter  ; 
There's  mony  waur  been  o'  the  race, 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 

Than  you  this  day, 

'Tis  very  true,  my  sov'reign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted  ; 
But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  dmg, 

And  downa  be  disputed  : 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing. 

Is  e'en  right  reft  and  clouted. 
And  now  the  third  part  o'  the  string, 

And  less,  will  gang  about  it 

Than  did  ae  day. 

Far  be't  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

To  blame  your  legislation. 
Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire. 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation  ! 
But  faith  !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire, 

Ye've  trusted  'ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a  barn  or  bjTe, 

Wad  better  fill  their  station 

Than  courts  yon  day. 

And  now  ye've  gi'en  auld  Britain  peace. 

Her  broken  shins  to  plaster  ; 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester  ; 
For  me,  thank  God !  my  life's  a  lease, 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster. 
Or,  faith  !  I  fear  that,  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I'  the  craft  some  day. 


RURKS  S    P0E3IS.  13^ 

I'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges 
(And  Will's  a  true  gude  fallow's  get, 

A  name  not  envy  spairges), 
That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

And  lessen  a'  your  charges  ; 
But,  God-sake  !  let  nae  saving  fit 

Abridge  your  bonnie  barges 

And  boats  this  day. 

Adieu,  my  liege  !  may  freedom  geek 

Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 
And  may  ye  rax  Corruption's  neck, 

And  gi'e  her  for  dissection. 
But  since  I'm  here,  I'll  no  neglect. 

In  loyal,  true  affection, 
To  pay  your  queen,  with  due  respect, 

My  fealty  and  subjection 

This  great  birth-day. 

Hail,  Majesty  Most  Excellent  ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 
Will  ye  accept  a  comphment 

A  simple  poet  gi'es  ye  ? 
Thae  bonnie  baii'ntime,  Heav'n  has  lent. 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  Fate  some  day  is  sent, 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

For  you,  young  potentate  o'  Wales, 

I  tell  your  Highness  fairly, 
Down  Pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling  sails, 

I'm  tauld  ye're  driving  rarely  ; 
But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 

And  curse  your  folly  sairly. 
That  e'er  ye  brak'  Diana's  pales, 

Or  rattled  dice  wi'  Charlie, 

By  night  or  day. 


Yet 

To  mak'  a  noble  aiver  , 
Sae  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  throne. 

For  a'  their  clislunaclaver  ; 


14U  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

There,  him*  at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 
And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John  f. 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  mony  a  day. 

For  you,  right  rev'rend  Osnaburg, 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
Although  a  riband  at  your  lug 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer ; 
As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 

That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 
Then  swith  !  and  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

Or,  ti'oth  !  ye'll  stain  the  mitre 

Some  luckless  day. 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks,  I  learn, 

Ye've  lately  come  athwart  her, 
A  glorious  galley  :J:  stem  and  stern, 

Weel  I'igged  for  Venus'  barter. 
But  first  hang  out,  that  she'll  discern 

Your  hjTneneal  charter. 
Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple-airn, 

And,  large  upo'  her  quarter. 

Come  full  that  day. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a', 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty, 
Heav'n  mak'  you  gude  as  weel  as  braw, 

And  gi'e  you  lads  a-plenty  ! 
But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa'. 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  aye  ; 
And  German  gentles  are  but  sma'. 

They're  better  just  than  want  aye, 
On  ony  day. 

God  bless  you  a' !  consider  now 

Ye're  unco  muckle  dautet ; 
But  ere  the  course  of  life  be  through, 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet ; 
And  I  ha'e  seen  their  coggie  fou. 

That  yet  ha'e  tarrow't  at  it ; 

But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  ha'e  clautet 

Fu'  clean  that  day. 
*  King  Henry  V. 

t  Sir  John  Falstaff.    See  Shakspeare's  Henry  TV. 
i  Alluding  to  the  newspaper-account  of  a  certain  royal  sailor's 
amour. 


BT7RVSS    POiJMS.  141 


THE  TWA  DOGS. 

A  TALE. 


'TwAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle 
That  bears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a  bonnie  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs,  that  were  na  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, 
Shaw'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs. 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 
Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar, 
Shaw'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 
But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree, 
The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he  ; 
But  wad  ha'e  spent  an  hour  caressin' 
Ev'n  wi'  a  tinkler  gipsy's  messin  : 
At  kii'k  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  e'er  sae  duddie, 
B  ut  he  v/ad  stand  as  glad  to  see  him. 
And  stroan't  on  stanes  an'  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhjTning,  ranting,  roving  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 — Gude  kens  how  lang, 

He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke, 
A  s  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke  ; 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face. 
Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  towzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black  ; 
His  gawcie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl. 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdles  wi'  a  swirl. 

*  Cuohullin's  dog  in  Ossiaii's  Ftngji. 


1 42  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  lain  o' hher, 
And  unco  pack  and  thick  thegither' : 
Wi'  social  nose  whyles  snuff' d  and  snowkit ; 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  howkit  j 
Whyles  scour'd  awa'  in  lang  excursion, 
And  worried  ither  in  diversion  ; 
Until  wi'  daffin  weary  grov.n, 
Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  do^\Ti, 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  of  the  creation. 

CJESAR. 

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  lived  ava. 

Our  laii'd  gets  in  his  racked  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  bonnie  silken  purse 
As  lang's  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  steeks, 
The  yellow-letter'd  geordie  keeks. 

Frae  mom  to  e'en  its  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  trash  trie, 
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  on  a'  the  Ian' : 
And  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  it's  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Ciesar,  whiles  they're  fash't  eneugh  ; 

A  cotter  howkin  in  a  sheugh, 

Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin'  a  dyke, 

Barin'  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* 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  143 

And  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  of  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger ; 
But  how  it  comes  I  never  kend  yet. 
They're  maistly  wondei^fu'  contented  ; 
And  buirdly  chiels,  and  clever  hizzies, 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 


But  then,  to  see  how  ye'i'e  negleckit, 
How  huff'd,  and  cuff' d,  and  disrespeckit ; 
Lord,  man  !  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  and  sic  cattle, 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk 
As  I  wad  by  a  stiuJiing  brock. 

I've  noticed,  on  our  Laird's  coui*t-day, 
And  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, 
And  hear  it  a',  and  fear  and  tremble ! 
I  see  how  folk  live  that  ha'e  riches  ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 


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  Uttle  fright. 

Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided. 
They're  aye  in  less  or  raair  provided  : 
And  though  fatigued  wi'  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives. 
Their  grushie  weans  and  faithfu'  wives  ; 
The  prattling  things  are  j  ust  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fire-side. 

And,  whyles,  twalpenny  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak'  the  bodies  unco  happy  ; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares. 
To  mind  the  Kii'k  and  State  affairs : 


144  BURiNS  S    POEMS. 

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  ; 
Tlie  luntin'  pipe,  and  sneeshin'-mill, 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  gude  will  ; 
The  canty  auld  folks  crackin'  crouse, 
The  young  anes  rantin'  through  the  house 
]\Iy  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  ha'e  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it's  o^vre  true  that  ye  ha'e  said. 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  often  play'd. 
There's  mony  a  creditable  stock 
0'  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  Britan's  gude  his  saul  indentin' — 


Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ; 

For  Britain's  gude  !  gude  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  fi-olic  daft, 

To  Hague  or  Calais  tak's  a  waft. 

To  mak'  a  tour  and  tak'  a  whirl. 

To  l£arn  bon  ton,  and  see  the  warl'. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails  : 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  145 

Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  route, 
To  thrum  guitars  and  fecht  wi'  nowt  ; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 
Whore-hunting  amang  groves  o'  myrtles  ; 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water. 
To  mak'  hirasel'  look  fair  and  fatter, 
And  clear  the  consequential  sori'ows. 
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  monie  a  braw  estate  ? 
Are  we  sae  foughten  and  harass'd 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last  ? 

0  wad  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 
And  please  themsel's  wi'  country  sports, 
It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better, 
The  lah'd,  the  tenant,  and  the  cotter  ! 
For  tliae  frank,  rantin'  ramblin'  billies, 
Fient  haet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows, 
Except  for  breaking  o'  their  timmer, 
Or  speaking  lightly  o'  their  linimer. 
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  of  pleasure  ! 
Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them. 
The  very  thought  o't  needna  fear  them. 


L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am, 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 

It's  true  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat. 
Through  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  ha'e  to  sturt  them, 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 


146  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 
His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  eneugh  ; 
A  country  girl  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,  an'  lazy  ; 
Though  de'il  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy  : 
Their  days,  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless  ; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an'  restless  ; 
An'  e'en  their  sports,  their  balls  an'  races. 
Their  galloping  through  public  places  ; 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art. 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 
The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches, 
Then  sowi;her  a'  in  deep  debauches  ; 
Ae  night  they're  mad  wi'  drink  an'  whoring, 
Niest  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  deils  and  jads  thegither. 
Whyles  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  and  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty ; 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  ci'abbit  leuks 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictured  beuks  ; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard. 
An'  cheat  like  ony  unhang'd  blackguard. 
There's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman  ; 
But  this  is  gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight. 
An'  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night : 
The  bum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone  ; 
The  kye  stood  roA\i;in'  i'  the  loan  ; 
When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  were  na  men  but  dogsi 
An'  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  147 


LINES  ON  AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  LORD  BAEH. 


This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day, 
Sae  far  I  sprachled  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner'd  wi'  a  Lord. 

I've  been  at  drucken  writers'  feasts, 
Nay,  been  bitch-fou  'mang  godly  priests, 

(Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken  ;) 
I've  even  join'd  the  honour'd  jorum. 
When  mighty  squireships  of  the  quorum 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi'  a  Lord — stand  out  my  shin, 
A  Lord — a  Peer — an  Earl's  son. 

Up  higher  yet,  my  bonnet  ; 
And  sic  a  Lord — lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  Peerage,  he  o'erlooks  them  a' 

As  I  look  o'er  my  sonnet ! 

But  oh  for  Hogarth's  magic  pow'r  ! 
To  show  Sir  Bardie's  willyart  glow'r. 

And  how  he  stared  and  stammer'd, 
When  goavan  as  if  led  wi'  b  ranks. 
An'  stumpin'  on  his  ploughman  shanks. 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd. 

To  meet  good  Stuart  little  pain  is, 
Or  Scotia's  sacred  Demosthenes, 

Thinks  I,  they  are  but  men  ! 
But  Burns,  my  Lord — Guid  God  !  I  doited. 
My  knees  on  ane  anither  knoited, 

As  faultering  I  gaed  ben  ! 

I  sidelins  shelter'd  in  a  nook. 
An'  at  his  Lordship  steal't  a  look 

Like  some  portentous  omen ; 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee. 
An'  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 
L  2 


148  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

I  watch'd  the  symptoms  of  the  great, 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming  ; 
The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he. 
Nor  sauce,  nor  state  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  Lordship  I  shall  learn. 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 

One  rank  as  weel's  another  ; 
Nae  honest,  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble,  youthful  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


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, 

Seelcs  science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Thy  sons,  Edina,  social,  kind. 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail  , 
Their  views  enlarged,  their  lib'ral  mind 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale  ; 
Attentive  still  to  sorrow's  wail. 

Or  modest  merit's  sUent  claim  ; 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail  I 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name. 


BURNS  S    POE-MS.  140 

Tliy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn  ! 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 
Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptured  thrill  of  joy  ! 
Fair  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 

Heav'n'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  vet'ran,  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  the  invader's  shock. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitjdng  tears, 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 
Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years. 

Famed  heroes  !  had  their  royal  home  : 
Alas  !  how  changed  the  times  to  come  ! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 
Their  hapless  race  wide-wand'ring  roam  ! 

Though  rigid  law  cries  out,  'twas  just ! 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 

Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore. 
Through  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, 

1  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 


150  BURNS  S  POEMS. 


A  BARD'S   EPITAPH. 


Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  neai*, 
And  owre  tliis  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, 

0,  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  foUies  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. 


1  $ 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  151 


THE   BRIGS   OF   AYR: 

A   POEM. 

Inscribed  to  J.  Ballantyne,  Esq.  Ayr. 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 

Leai'uing  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bough  ; 

The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 

HaiUng  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thoru-bush  ; 

The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast  shrill. 

Or  deep-toned  plovers,  grey,  wild  whistling  o'er  the  hill ; 

Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly  shed. 

To  hardy  Independence  bravely  bred. 

By  early  Poverty  to  hardship  steel'd. 

And  train'd  to  arms  in  stern  Misfortune's  field, 

Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes. 

The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 

Or  labour  hard  the  paneg}'ric  close. 

With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 

No  !  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 

And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o'er  the  strings. 

He  glows  with  all  the  sph'it  of  the  Bard, 

Fame,  honest  Fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward. 

Still,  if  some  patron's  gen'rous  care  he  trace, 

Skill'd  in  the  secret,  to  bestow  with  grace  ; 

When  Ballantyne  befriends  his  humble  name. 

And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame. 

With  heart-felt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells. 

The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 


'Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter  hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap  ; 
Potato-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter's  biting  frosty  breath  ; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  theii'  summer  toils, 
Unnuraber'd  buds  and  flow'rs,  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  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev'ry  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide  ; 
The  feather'd  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature's  tie, 


1&2  BURNS'S    POEMS. 

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  tliick  the  gossamer  waves  wanton  in  the  rays. 

'Twas  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  Bard, 

UnknoAVTi  and  poor,  simplicity's  reward, 

Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  o'  Ayr, 

By  whim  inspired,  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  laiew  not  where  nor  why :) 

The  ch'owsy  Dungeon-clock  f  had  number'd  two, 

And  Wallace  Tower  f  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true: 

The  tide-swoln  frith,  with  sullen  sounding  roar. 

Through  the  still  night  dash'd  hoarse  along  the  shore ; 

All  else  was  hush'd  as  Nature's  closed  e'e  ; 

The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tow'r  and  tree  : 

The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam. 

Crept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream — 

When,  lo  !  on  either  hand  the  list'ning  Bard, 
The  clanging  sough  of  whistling  winds  he  heard  ; 
Twa  dusky  forms  dart  thro'  the  midnight  air. 
Swift  as  the  gos  J  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare  ; 
Ane  on  the  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  A}t  preside. 
(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke. 
And  ken  the  lingo  o'  the  sp 'ritual  folk  : 
Fays,  Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain  them, 
And  ev'n  the  very  de'ils  they  brawly  ken  them.) 
Auld  Brig  appear'd  o'  ancient  Pictish  race. 
The  very  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face  ; 

♦  A  noted  tavern  at  the  Auld  Brig  end. 

t  The  two  6teeples. 

i  The  gos-hawk,  or  falcon. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  163 

He  seem'd  as  he  wi'  Time  had  wai'sled  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  wi'  anxious  search, 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  every  arch  ; 
It  chanced  his  new-come  neighbour  took  his  e'e, 
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  gude-e'en: — 

AULD   BRfG. 

I  doubt  na,frien',  ye'll  think  ye're  nae  sheep-shank, 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o'er  frae  bank  to  bank. 
But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me, 
Tho'  faith,  that  day,  I  doubt,  ye'll  never  see  ! 
There'll  be,  if  that  day  come,  I'll  wad  a  boddle. 
Some  fewer  whigmeleeries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW   BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  show  your  little  mense. 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense  ; 
Will  your  poor  narrow  foot-path  o'  a  street, 
Where  twa  wheelbarrows  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  wad  tak'  the  Ducat-stream  *, 
Tho'  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  and  swim. 
Ere  they  wad  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  and  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, 

*  A  noted  ford,  just  above  the  Auld  Brig. 


154  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Or  whare  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 
Or  haunted  Garpai  *  draws  his  feeble  source. 
Aroused  by  blust'ring  winds  and  spotting  thowes. 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  snaw-broo  rowes  ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  spate, 
Sweeps  dams,  and  mills,  and  brigs,  a'  to  the  gate ; 
And  from  Glenbuck  f  dow}i  to  the  Ratton-key  J, 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd,  tumbling  sea  ; 
Then  down  ye'll  hurl — de'il  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  jumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies. 
A  lesson,  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 
That  Architecture's  noble  art  is  lost. 


Fine  Architecture,  trowth,  I  needs  must  say't  o't; 

The  L — d  bethankit  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  sculpture  drest, 

With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 

Forms,  like  some  bedlam-statuary's  dream. 

The  crazed  creations  of  misguided  whim  ; 

Forms  might  be  worshipp'd  on  the  bended  knee, 

And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  fi-ee, 

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  latter  times,  wha  held  the  notion 

That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion  : 

Fancies  that  our  gude  Brugh  denies  protection, 

And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  resurrection ! 

AULD  BRIG. 

0  ye,  my  dear-remember 'd  ancient  yealings, 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feelings ' 
Ye  worthy  Proveses,  and  mony  a  Bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did  toil  aye : 

*  The  banks  of  Garpai  Water  is  one  of  the  few  places  in  the  West 

of  Scotland,  where  those  fancy-scaring  beings,  kno^^'n  by  the  name 

of  Ghaists,  still  continue  pertinaciously  to  inhabit. 

t  The  source  of  the  river  Ayr. 

i  A  small  landing-place  above  the  large  quay. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  155 

Ye  dainty  Deacons,  and  ye  douce  Conveners, 

To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-cleaners  ; 

Ye  godly  Councils  wha  ha'e  blest  this  town ; 

Ye  godly  Brethren  o'  the  sacred  gown, 

Wha  meekly  ga'e  your  hurdles  to  the  smiters  ; 

(And  what  wad  now  be  strange)  ye  godly  Writers  :  ^ 

A'  ye  douce  folk  I  've  borne  aboon  the  broo. 

Were  ye  but  here,  what  wad  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  degenerate  race  ! 

Nae  langer  Rev'rend  Men,  their  country's  glory, 

In  plain  bi-aid  Scots  haud  forth  a  plain  braid  story  ! 

Nae  langer  thrifty  Citizens,  and  douce. 

Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  Comicil-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  d d  new  Briga 

and  Harbours  ! 

NEW  BRICJ. 

Now  haud  you  there  !  for  faith  ye've  said  enow, 

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  spared  ; 

To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warl'  squad, 

I  must  needs  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 

In  Ayi',  Wag- wits  nae  mair  can  ha'e  a  handle 

To  mouth  "  a  Citizen,"  a  term  o'  scandal : 

Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the  street, 

In  a'  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 

Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin'  owre  hops  an'  raisins. 

Or  gather'd  liberal  views  in  bonds  and  seisins. 

If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp, 

Had  shored  them  wi'  a  glimmer  o'  his  lamp, 

And  would  to  Common-sense  for  ance  betray'd  them. 

Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them.   • 


What  farther  cHshmaclaver  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  : 


156  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danced  ; 

Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanced : 

They  footed  o'er  the  wat'ry  glass  so  neat, 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  then*  feet  ; 

While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 

And  soul-ennobUng  Bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 

O  had  M'Lauchlan  *,  thairm-inspiring  Sage, 

Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage, 

When  through  his  dear  Strathspeys  they  bore  with  High- 

Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  melting  airs,  [laud  rage, 

The  lover's  raptured  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 

How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler  fired. 

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  rang  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,  WTeath'd  with  nodding  corn; 
Then  Winter's  time-bleach 'd  locks  did  hoary  show. 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 
Next  follow'd  Courage  with  his  martial  stride, 
From  where  tlie  Feal  wild-woody  coverts  hide  ; 
Benevolence,  with  mild  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  tow'rs  of  Stair  +  ; 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine  J,  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. 

*  A  well-known  performer  of  Scottish  music  on  the  violin. 

t  The  poet  alludes  here  to  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair.— Stair  was  then 
in  her  possession.  She  afterwards  removed  to  Afton-Lodge,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Afton,  a  stream  which  he  afterwards  celebrated  in 
a  song,  entitled  "  Af ton-Water." 

J  The  seat  of  Professor  Dugald  Stewart. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  157 


THE  DEAN  OF  FACULTY 

A  NEW  BALLAD. 


Tune—"  The  Dragon  of  Wantley  " 
Dire  was  the  hate  at  old  Hai'law, 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry  ; 
And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw 

For  beauteous,  hapless  Mary : 
But  Scot  with  Scot  ne'er  met  so  hot. 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  Sir, 
Than  'twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famous  job 

Who  should  be  Faculty's  Dean,  Sir. 

This  Hal  for  genius,  wit  and  lore, 

Among  the  first  was  number'd ; 
But  pious  Bob,  'mid  learning's  store, 

Commandment  tenth  remember'd. 
Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got, 

And  wan  his  heart's  desire. 
Which  shows  that  heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 

Though  the  devil  p —  in  the  fire. 

Squire  Hal,  besides,  had  in  this  case, 

Pretensions  rather  brassy. 
For  talents  to  deserve  a  place 

Are  qualifications  saucy ; 
So  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of  merit's  rudeness. 
Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d'ye  see, 

To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 

As  once  on  Pisgah  purged  was  the  sight 

Of  a  son  of  Circumcision, 
So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Bob's  purblind,  mental  vision  : 
Nay,  Bobby's  mouth  may  be  open'd  yet, 

Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him, 
And  swear  he  has  the  Angel  met 

That  met  the  ass  of  Balaam. — 


158  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

TO  AN  OLD   SWEETHEART, 

AFTER  HER  MARRIAGE,   WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  A  COPY   OF   HIS   POEMS. 

Once  fondly  loved,  and  still  remember'd  dear, 
Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows, 

Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  wai'm,  sincere. 
Friendship  ! — 'tis  all  cold  duty  now  allows  : — 

And  when  you  read  the  simple,  artless  I'hymes, 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him  (he  asks  no  more). 

Who  distant  bums  in  flaming,  torrid  climes. 
Or  haply  lies  beneath  th'  Atlantic  roar. 


ON  READING,   IN  A  NEWSPAPER, 

THE  DEATH  OF   JOHN    M'LEOD,  ESQ. 

BROTHER  TO   A  YOUNG  LADY,  A  PARTICULAR  FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 

And  rueful  thy  alarms : 
Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 

From  Isabella's  arms. 

Sweetly  deckt  with  pearly  dew 

The  morning  rose  may  blow  ; 
But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 

May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella's  morn 

The  sun  propitious  smiled  ; 
But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 

Succeeding  hopes  beguiled. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 

That  nature  finest  strung  ; 
So  Isabella's  heart  was  form'd. 

And  so  tliat  heart  was  wTung. 

Dread  Omnipotence,  alone. 

Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave  ; 
Can  point  the  brimful  grief-worn  eyes 

To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue's  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 

And  fear  no  withering  blast  ; 
There  Isabella's  spotless  worth 

Shall  happy  be  at  last. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  169 


CLARINDA. 


Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 
The  measured  time  is  run  ! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole, 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 

Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie, 
Deprived  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy? 

We  part — but  by  these  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  ! 
No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 

Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex. 
Has  blest  my  glorious  day  : 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray  I 


TO  MISS  LOGAN, 

WITH  bbattie's  poems,  as  a  new  year's  sift. 

Jan.  1,1787. 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driv'n, 

And  you,  tho'  scarce  in  maiden  prime. 
Are  so  much  nearer  heav'n. 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

The  infant  year  to  hail  ; 
I  send  you  more  than  India  boasts, 

In  Edwin's  simple  talc. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charged,  perhaps  too  true  ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  you ! 


160  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Tune — "  Killicrankie." 

When  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood 

And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 
Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a  plea, 

Within  America,  man ; 
Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man ; 
An'  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 

Then  thro'  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 

I  wat  he  was  nae  slaw,  man  ; 
Down  Lowrie's  Burn  he  took  a  turn. 

And  Carleton  did  ca',  man : 
But  yet,  what  reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 

Montgomery-like  did  fa',  man  ; 
Wi'  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 

Amang  his  enemies  a',  man. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a  cage. 

Was  kept  in  Boston  ha',  man  ; 
Till  Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knowe 

For  Philadelphia,  man : 
Wi'  sword  and  gun  he  thought  a  sin 

Guid  Christian  blood  to  draw,  man ! 
But  at  New  York,  wi'  knife  an'  fork. 

Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma',  man. 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  an'  whip. 

Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa',  man  ; 
Then  lost  his  Avay,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 
Cornwallis  fought  as  lang's  he  dought. 

An'  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man  ; 
But  Clinton's  glaive,  frae  rust  to  save, 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man. 

Then  Montague,  and  Guildford  too. 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man  ; 
And  Sackrille  doore,  wha  stood  the  stoure, 

The  German  chief  to  thraw,  man ; 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  i61 

For  Paddy  Burke,  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a',  man  ; 
An'  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box, 

An'  lowsed  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game  ; 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca',  man  ; 
When  Shelburne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 

Conform  to  gospel  law,  man.  , 

Saint  Stephen's  boys,  wi'  jarring  noise. 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 
For  North  and  Fox  united  stocks. 

An'  bore  him  to  the  wa',  man. 

Then  clubs  an'  hearts  were  Charlie's  cartes, 

He  swept  the  stakes  awa',  man. 
Till  the  diamond's  ace  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a  sair  faux  pas,  man  : 
The  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  placads. 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca',  man  : 
An'  Scotland  drew  her  pipe  and  blew, 

"  Up  Willie,  waur  them  a',  man ! " 

Behind  the  throne,  then  Grenville's  gone, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man  : 
While  slee  Dundas  aroused  the  class 

Be-north  the  Roman  wa',  man  : 
An'  Chatham's  wraith,  in  heavenly  graith, 

(Inspired  bardies  saw,  man,) 
Wi'  kindling  eyes,  cried  "Willie,  rise  ! 

Would  I  ha'e  fear'd  them  a',  man  ?" 

But  word  and  blow.  North,  Fox,  and  Co. 

GowfF'd  Willie  like  a  ba',  man. 
Till  Suthrou  rase,  and  coost  their  claise 

Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man. 
An'  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone. 

And  did  her  whittle  draw,  man  ; 
An'  swoor  fu'  rude,  thro'  dirt  an'  blood. 

To  make  it  gude  in  law,  man. 


162  BURNS  S   POEMS. 


TO  THE  GUIDWIFE  OF  WAUCHOPE-HOUSE, 
{Mrs.  Scott,  of  Wauchope,) 

IN   ANSWER  TO  AN  EPISTLE   WHICH  SHE   HAD   SENT  THE   AUTHOR. 
GUIDWIFE, 

I  MIND  it  weel  in  early  date, 

When  I  was  beai'dless,  young,  and  blate. 

And  first  could  thresh  the  barn  ; 
Or  baud  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  meri'y  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 
Still  shearmg  and  clearing 
The  tither  stooked  raw, 
Wi'  claivers,  an'  haivers. 
Wearing  the  day  awa'. 

E'en  then,  a  wish,  I  mind  its  pow'r, 
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  burr-thistle,  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bea,rded  bear, 
I  turn'd  the  weeder-clips  aside. 
An'  spared  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  corps. 

She  roused  the  forming  strain  : 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  163 

I  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean, 

That  lighted  up  her  jiugle, 
Her  witching  smile,  her  pawky  een 
That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle  ; 
I  fired,  inspired. 

At  every  kindling  keek, 
But  bashing,  and  dashing, 
I  feared  ay  to  speak. 

Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi'  merry  dance  in  winter-days. 

An'  we  to  share  in  common  : 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  saul  o'  life,  the  heav'n  below. 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 
Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu'  o'  your  mither  : 
She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye're  connected  with  her. 
Ye 're  wae  men,  ye're  nae  men. 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears  ; 
To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye. 
Ilk  honest  bu'kie  swears. 

For  you,  no  bred  to  barn  or  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre. 

Thanks  to  you  for  your  line  : 
The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare. 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  wear  ; 

'Twad  please  me  to  the  nine. 
I'd  be  mair  vauntie  o'  my  hap. 

Douce  hinging  o'er  my  curpie, 
Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap. 
Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Fareweel  then,  lang  heal  then. 

An'  plenty  be  your  fa  : 
May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne'er  at  your  hallan  ca',. 
March,  17&'7.  R.  Burns. 


M  2 


164  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


THE  HUMBT.E  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER  *, 

TO  THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE. 

My  LoRn,  I  know  youi'  noble  ear 

Woe  ne'er  assails  in  vain  ! 
Embolden'd  thus,  I  beg  you'll  hear 

Your  humble  slave  complain, 
How  saucy  Phoebus'  scorching  beams. 

In  flaming  summer  pride. 
Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly -jumping  gloAv'rin'  trouts, 

That  thro'  my  waters  play. 
If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray  ; 
[f,  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  gi^at  wi'  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  Burns  came  by, 
That  to  a  bard  I  should  be  seen 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry  : 
A  paneg}Tic  ]-hyme,  I  ween, 

Ev'n  as  I  was  he  shored  me  ; 
But  had  I  in  my  glory  been. 

He,  kneelmg,  wad  adored  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  natur-e  gave  them  me, 
I  am,  altho'  I  say't  mysel', 

Worth  gaun  a  mile  to  see. 

Wad  then  my  noble  master  please 

To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 
He'll  shade  my  banks  wi'  tow'ring  trees, 

And  bonnie  spreading  bushes  ; 

*  Brup.r  Falls,  in  Athole,  are  exceedingly  picturesque  and  beauti- 
ful ;  but  their  effect  is  much  impaired  by  the  want  of  trees  and 
shrubs. 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  165 

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  Untwhite  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  o'  flowers  ; 
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  flowers  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 

The  hour  of  heaven  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  grey  ; 
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  fir3,  and  ashes  cool. 

My  lowly  banks  o'erspread. 
And  view,  deep-bending  in  the  pool. 

Their  shadows'  wat'ry  bed  ! 
Let  fragrant  bii'ks,  in  woodbines  drest. 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn  ; 
And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest. 

The  close  embow'ring  thorn. 


166  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

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  !*' 


ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL 

IN   lOCH-TUBIT,  A  WILD     SCENE    AMONG    THE     HIIXS    CP 
OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake. 
For  me  your  wat'ry  haunt  forsake  i 
Tell  me,  fellow- creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 
Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ? — 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 
Natui'e's  gifts  to  all  are  free  : 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave. 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave  ; 
Or,  beneath  the  sheltering  rock. 
Bide  the  surging  billow's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 
Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe. 
Would  be  lord  of  -ill  below  : 
Plumes  himself  in  Freedom's  pride, 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow. 
Marking  you  his  prey  below. 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells. 
Strong  necessity  compels  ; 
But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv'n 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heav'n, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 
And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  siain ! 

In  these  savage  liquid  plains, 
Only  known  to  wand'ring  swains. 


BURSAS  6    POEMS.  167 

Where  the  mossy  riv'let  strays. 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways  ; 
All  on  Nature  you  depend, 
And  life's  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 

Or,  if  man's  superior  might, 
Dare  invade  your  native  right. 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  pow'rs  you  scorn ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings. 
Other  lakes  and  other  spx'ings  ; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


VERSES, 

MTllTTBN  TTNDER  THE   PORTRAIT  OF   FERGUSSON,   THE   POET,    IN 
COPY    OF    THAT    AUTHOR'S    WORKS,    PRESENTED    TO    A 
YOUNG  LADY  IN  EDINBURGH,  MARCH  19,  17B7. 


Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleased, 
And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the  pleasure  ! 
O  thou  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune. 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses. 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 
Why  is  the  bard  unpitied  by  the  world, 
Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasui'es  ? 


TO   A  LADY, 

WITH  A    PRESENT  OF  A   PAIR  OF   DRINKING-GLASSES. 


Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul, 

And  Queen  of  Poetesses  ; 
Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon. 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 
As  generous  as  your  mind  ; 

And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast — 
"  The  whole  of  human  kind  !" 

"  To  those  who  love  us  ! " — second  fill ; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love  ; 
Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us ! 

A  third — "  To  thee  and  me  love  !" 


168  BLKNSS    POEaiS. 


\^TIITTEN  ^^^TH  A  PENCIL, 

OVER  THK  CHIMNEY-PIECB   IN  THE  PARLOUR  OF  THE  INX  AT  KENMURE, 
TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 
These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I  trace  ; 
O'er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
Th'  abodes  of  covey'd  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue, 
Till  famed  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. — 
The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides. 
The  woods,  wild-scatter'd,  clothe  their  ample  sides ; 
Th'  outstretching  lake,  embosom'd  'mong  the  hills. 
The  eye  mth  wonder  and  amazement  fills  ; 
The  Tay,  meandering  sweet  in  mfant  pride, 
The  palace  rising  on  its  verdant  side  ; 
The  lawns  wood-fringed  in  Nature's  native  taste  ; 
The  hillocks  dropt  in  Nature's  careless  haste  ; 
The  arches  striding  o'er  the  new-born  stream ; 
The  village  glittering  in  the  noontide  beam — 


Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone  wandering  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell : 

The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 

Th'  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling  floods — 


Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heaven-taught  l>Te, 

And  look  through  Nature  with  creative  fire  ; 

Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  fate  half-reconciled. 

Misfortune's  lighten'd  steps  might  wander  wild  ; 

And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 

Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter  rankling  wounds  : 

Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heav'nward  stretch  her 

scan, 
And  injured  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 


burn's  poems.  169 


WRITTEN   WITH  A  PENCIL, 

STANDING  BY  THE   FALL  OF   KYERS,    NEAR  LOCH-NESS. 

Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods, 

The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods  ; 

Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 

Where  thro'  a  shapeless  breach  his  stream  resounds. 

As  high  in  air  his  bursting  torrents  flow. 

As  deep-recoiling  surges  foam  below. 

Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  descends, 

And  viewless  Echo's  ear  astonish'd  rends. 

Dim  seen  thro'  rising  mists  and  ceaseless  show'rs. 

The  hoary  cavern,  wide  surrounding,  low'rs. 

Still  thro'  the  gap  the  struggling  river  toils, 

And  stiU  below  the  horrid  cauldron  boils — 


POETICAL  ADDRESS 

TO   MR.  WILLIAM   TYTLER,    OF    WOODHOUSELEE, 

WITH   THE   PRESENT  OF  THE  BARD'S  PICTURE. 


Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respected, 
A  name,  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a  true  heart, 

But  now  'tis  despised  and  neglected. 

Tho'  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my  eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 
A  poor  friendless  wand'rer  may  well  claim  a  sigh, 

Still  more,  if  that  wand'rer  were  royal. 

My  fathers  that  name  have  revered  on  a  throne  ; 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 
Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate  son, 

That  name  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 

Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I  most  heartily  join. 
The  Queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry ; 

Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of  mine  j 
Their  title's  avow'd  by  my  country. 


170 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 

But  why  of  this  epocha  make  such  a  fuss, 

^         *         *         *         *         * 
*****         * 

But  loyalty,  truce  !  we're  on  dangerous  ground, 
Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 

The  doctrine,  to-day,  that  is  loyalty  sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  halter. 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  a  head  of  a  bard, 

A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 
But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard. 

Sincere  as  a  saint's  dying  prayer. 

Now  life's  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your  eye, 

And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; 
But  you,  Uke  the  star  that  athwart  gUds  the  sky. 

Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 


WRITTEN  IN  FRIARS-CARSE  HERMITAGE, 

ON   NITH-SIDE. 


Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, — 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 
Be  thou  deck'd  in  silken  stole, 
Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most. 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ; 
Hope  not  sunshine  ev'ry  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lour. 

As  youth  and  love,  with  sprightly  dance. 
Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance. 
Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair  ; 
Let  prudence  bless  enjoyment's  cup, 
Then  raptured  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high. 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh, 
Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  summits  wouldst  thou  scale  i 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  171 

Check  thy  climbing  step  elate, 

Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait : 

Dangers,  eagle-pinion'd,  bold, 

Soar  around  each  chffy  hold. 

While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 

Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  ev'ning  close, 
Beck'ning  thee  to  long  repose  ; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease. 
Seek  the  chimney-nook  of  ease. 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought. 
On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wi'ougbt  j 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round. 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 
Say,  man's  true  genuine  estimate. 
The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate, 
Is  not,  art  thou  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  1 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind. 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heaven, 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv'n. 
Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise. 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways. 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep  ; 
Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake. 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break. 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 
To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore. 
To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

Stranger,  go  !  Heav'n  be  thy  guide  .' 
Quod  the  beadsman  of  Nith-side. 


172  BURNS  S   POEMS. 


EPISTLE  TO  R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ. 

OF   FINTRAY. 


When  Nature  her  great  masterpiece  desigu'd, 
And  framed  her  last,  best  work,  the  human  mind. 
Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan. 
She  form'd  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 

Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth ; 
Plain  plodding  industry,  and  sober  worth  : 
Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of  earth. 
And  merchandise'  whole  genus  take  their  birth  : 
Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  existence  finds. 
And  all  mechanics'  many-apron'd  kinds- 
Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet. 
The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net: 
The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 
Makes  a  material  for  mere  knights  and  squLres : 
The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow, 
She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough. 
Then  marks  th'  unyielding  mass  with  grave  designs. 
Law,  physic,  politics,  and  deep  divines : 
Last,  she  sublimes  the  Aurora  of  the  poles, 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  order'd  system  fair  before  her  stood. 
Nature,  well-pleased,  pronounced  it  very  good ; 
But  ere  she  gave  creating  labour  o'er, 
Half-jest,  she  tried  one  curious  labour  more. 
Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatuus  matter ; 
Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  au*  might  scatter  ; 
With  arch  alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we, 
Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  show  it ;) 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it — a  poet. 

Creature,  tho'  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day  unmindful  of  to-morrow. 
A  being  form'd  t'amuse  his  graver  friends. 
Admired  and  praised — and  there  the  homage  ends : 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  Fortune's  strife. 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live : 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  173 

Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  ia  not  quite  a  Tui-k, 
She  laugh'd  at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor  work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind, 
She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find ; 
And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
Attach'd  him  to  the  generous  truly  great, 
A  title,  and  the  only  one  I  claim. 
To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  bounteous  Graham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  Muses'  hapless  train, 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  Life's  stormy  main ! 
Their  hearts  no  selfish  stern  absorbent  stuff, 
That  never  gives — tho'  humbly  takes  enough  ; 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon. 
Unlike  sage,  provei'b'd  Wisdom's  hard-wi'ung  boon. 
The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  them  depend, 
Ah,  that  "  the  friendly  e'er  should  want  a  friend !" 
Let  prudence  number  o'er  each  sturdy  son. 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 
Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule, 
(Instinct's  a  brute,  and  sentiment  a  fool  !) 
Who  make  poor  "  \vill  do  "  wait  upon  "  I  should '" — 
We  own  they're  prudent,  but  who  feels  they're  good? 
Ye  wise  ones,  hence  !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye  ! 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  base  alloy ! 
But  come  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know. 
Heaven's  attribute  distinguish'd — to  bestow ! 
VN'hose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the  human  race  ; 
Come  thou,  who  giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's  grace  ; 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rh;ymes ! 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  half  blushing,  half  afraid. 
Backward,  abash'd  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid  "i 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 
I  crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command : 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  nine — 
Heavens !  should  the  branded  character  be  mine  ! 
Whose  verse  in  manhood's  pride  sublimely  flows. 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injured  merit! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  fife  to  find ; 
Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind ! 
So,  to  heaven's  gates  the  lark's  shrill  song  ascends. 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 


174  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

]  n  all  the  clam'rous  cry  of  starving  want, 

They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front  J 

Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays, 

They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days  ! 

Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain, 

My  horny  fist !  assume  the  plough  again : 

The  pie-bald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more ; 

On  eighteen-pence  a  week  I've  lived  before. 

Though,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  dare  even  that  last  shift, 

I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  m  thy  gift ; 

That  placed  by  thee  upon  the  wished-for  height, 

Where,  Man  and  Nature  fairer  in  her  sight. 

My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  subluner  flight. 


TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL,  GLENRIDDEL. 
(Extempore  Lines  on  returning  a  Newspaper.) 

Ellisland,  Monday  Evening. 
Your  news  and  review,  Sir,  I've  read  through  and  through, 
With  little  admiring  or  blaming;  [Sir, 

The  papers  are  barren  of  home-news  or  foreign. 
No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Our  friends  the  reviewers,  those  chippers  and  hewers, 

Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  Sir  ; 
But  of  meet,  or  unmeet,  in  a  fabric  coiiplete, 

I'll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  Sir. 

My  goose-quill  too  rude  is,  to  tell  all  your  goodness 

Bestow'd  on  your  servant,  the  Poet ; 
Would  to  God  I  had  one  like  a  beam  of  the  sun. 

And  then  all  the  world.  Sir,  should  know  it ! 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON. 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped. 

And  pierced  my  darling's  heart : 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 

Life  can  to  me  impart. 
By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops. 

In  dust  dishonour'd  laid  : 
So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes. 

My  age's  future  shade. 


BURNS  S    POKMS.  175 

The  mother-linnet  in  the  brake 

Bewails  her  ravish'd  young  ; 
So  I,  for  my  lost  darling's  sake, 

Lament  the  live-day  long. 
Death,  oft  I've  fear'd  thy  fatal  blow, — 

Now,  fond  I  bare  my  breast, 
0,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 

With  him  I  love,  at  rest ! 


VERSES 

ON   THE   DKATH  OF   SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR. 

The  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare. 
Dim,  cloudy,  sunk  beneath  the  western  wave ; 

Th'  inconstant  blast  howl'd  thro'  the  darkening  air, 
And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 

Lone  as  I  wander'd  by  each  clijBF  and  dell. 

Once  the  loved  haunts  of  Scotia's  royal  train* ; 

Or  mused  where  limpid  streams  once  hallo w'd  wellf. 
Or  mould'ring  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane  J. 

Th'  increasing  blast  roar'd  round  the  beetUng  rocks, 
The  clouds,  swift-wing'd,  flew  o'er  the  starry  sky ; 

The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks. 
And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startled  eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east. 

And  'mong  the  cliffs  disclosed  a  stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  woe,  that  frantic  beat  her  breast, 
And  mix'd  her  wailings  with  the  raving  storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

'Twas  Caledonia's  trophied  shield  I  view  d : 

Her  form  majestic  di^oop'd  in  pensive  woe. 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 

Reversed  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war ; 

Reclined  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurl'd, 
That  like  a  deathful  meteor  gleam'd  afar, 

And  braved  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the  world. — 

•  The  filing's  Park,  at  Holyrood  House, 
t  St.  Anthony's  Well.  t-  St.  Anthony's  Chapci. 


176  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

"  My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave !" 
With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried ; 

"  Low  hes  the  hand  that  oft  was  -stretch'd  to  save, 
Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell'd  with  honest  pride ! 

"A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's  tear, 
The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan's  cry ; 

The  drooping  Arts  surround  their  patron's  bier, 
And  gi-ateful  Science  heaves  the  heartfelt  sigh. — 

"  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire  ; 

I  saw  fair  Freedom's  blossoms  richly  blow  ; 
But  ah  !  how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 

Relentless  fate  has  laid  their  guardian  low 

"  My  patriot  falls — but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 

While  empty  greatness  saves  a  worthless  name  ? 

No,  every  muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue. 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

«  And  ^  will  join  a  mother's  tender  cares. 

Through  future  times  to  make  his  virtues  last, 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs  " — ■ 
She  said,  and  vanish'd  with  the  sweeping  blast. 


ELEGY   ON  THE  YEAR  Vj 

January  1,  1789. 


For  lords  or  kings  I  dinna  mourn, 
E'en  let  them  die — for  that  they're  born ! 
But,  oh  !  prodigious  to  reflect, 
A  towmont,  sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck ! 
O  Eighty-eight,  in  tliy  sma'  space 
What  dire  events  ha'e  taken  place  ! 
Of  what  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us ! 
In  what  a  pickle  thou  hast  left  us ! 

The  Spanish  empire's  tint  a  head, 
And  my  auid  teethless  Bawtie's  dead ;, 
The  toolzie's  teugh  'tween  Pitt  and  Fox, 
An'  our  gudewife's  wee  birdie  cocks  ; 
The  tane  is  game,  a  bluidy  devil. 
But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil ; 
The  tither's  something  dour  o'  treadiii'. 
But  better  stuff  ne'er  claw'd  a  midden. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  l77 

Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  pu'pit, 
An'  cry  till  ye  he  hearse  an'  roupit ; 
For  Eighty-eight  he  wish'd  you  wee). 
And  gied  you  a'  buith  gear  an'  meal ; 
E'en  mony  a  plack,  an'  mony  a  peck, 
Ye  ken  yoursel's,  for  little  feck ! 

Ye  bonnie  lasses,  dight  your  een, 
For  some  o'  you  ha'e  tint  a  frien' : 
In  Eighty-eight,  ye  ken,  was  ta'en 
What  ye'll  ne'er  ha'e  to  gi'e  again. 

Observe  the  very  nowt  an'  sheep, 
How  dowff  an'  dowie  now  they  creep ; 
Nay,  ev'n  the  yirth  itself  does  cry, 
For  E'nbrugh  wells  are  grutten  dry. 

0  Eighty-nine,  thou's  but  a  bairn. 
An'  no  owre  auld,  I  hope,  to  learn  ! 
Thou  beardless  boy,  I  pray  tak'  care ! 
Thou  now  hast  got  thy  daddie's  chair ; 

s^ae  handcuff'd,  muzzled,  half-shackl'd  Ilegeni, 

3ut,  like  himsel',  a  full,  free  agent. 
Be  sui*e  to  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man  ! 
As  muckle  better  as  you  can. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   TOOTH-ACHE. 


My  curse  upon  thy  venora'd  stang, 
That  shoots  my  tortured  gums  alang ; 
And  through  my  lugs  gi'es  mony  a  twanp. 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance ; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang. 

Like  racking  engines ! 

When  ffevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes, 
Our  neighbours'  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan ; 
But  thee—  thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases. 

Aye  mocks  our  groan ! 

N 


178  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Adown  ray  beard  the  slavers  trickle ! 
I  kick  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mickle. 
As  round  the  five  the  giglets  keckle. 

To  see  me  loup  ; 
While  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup. 

Of  a'  the  num'rous  human  dools, 

111  hairsts,  daft  bargains,  cutty  stools, 

Or  worthy  friends  raked  i'  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  ! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves,  or  fash  o'  fools, 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree. 

Where'er  that  place  be  priests  ca'  hell, 
Whence  a'  the  tones  o'  misery  yell. 
And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu'  raw. 
Thou,  Tooth- Ache,  surely  bear'st  the  bell 

Amang  them  a' ! 

0  thou  grim  mischief-nmking  chiel. 
That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 
Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a  reel. 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick  ; — 
Gie  a'  the  faes  o'  Scotland's  weal 

A  towraond's  Tooth-ache. 


ODE, 

SACREC  TO  THE   MEMORY   OF    MHS.   OSWALD 

Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  creation  !  mark 
Who  m  widow-weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unhonour'd  years. 
Noosing  with  care  a  liui'sting  purse. 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ! 

STROPHE. 

View  the  wither'd  beldam's  face — 
Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 
Aught  of  humanity's  sweet  melting  grace  * 
Note  that  eye,  'tis  rheum  o'erflows, 
Pity's  flood  thei'e  never  rose. 


BURNS  S    P0E3fS.  }7d 

See  those  hands,  ne'er  stretch'd  to  save. 

Hands  that  took — but  never  gave. 

Keeper  of  Mammon's  ii-on  chest, 

Lo  !  there  she  goes — unpitied  and  unblest  ! 

She  goes — but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting  rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer  of  armies  !  lift  thine  eyes 
(Awhile  forbear,  ye  tort'ring  fiends), 
Seest  thou  whose  step  unwilling  hither  bends  ? 

No  fallen  angel,  hurl'd  from  upper  skies  ; 
'Tis  thy  trusty  quondam  mate, 
Doom'd  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

She,  tardy,  hell- ward  plies. 


And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 
Ten  thousand  glitt'rmg  pounds  a  year  ? 

In  other  worlds  can  Mammon  fail, 
Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  ? 

0,  bitter  mock'ry  of  the  pompous  bier, 
While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is  driv'n  ! 

The  cave-lodged  beggar,  with  a  conscience  clear, 
Expires  in  rags,  imkuowu,  and  goes  to  heav'n. 


SCOTS  PROLOGUE, 

FOR   MR.   SUTHERLAND'S  BENEFIT   NIGHT,    DUMFRIES. 


What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o'  Lon'on, 

How  this  new  play  and  that  new  sang  is  eomin'  ? 

Why  is  outlandish  stuff  sae  meikle  courted  ? 

Does  nonsense  mend,  like  whiskey,  when  imported  ? 

Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame, 

Will  try  to  gi'e  us  sangs  and  plays  at  hame  ? 

For  comedy  abroad  he  need  na  toil, 

A  fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every  soil  ; 

Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  Rome  and  Greece 

To  gather  matter  for  a  serious  piece  ; 

There's  themes  enough  in  Caledonian  story, 

Would  show  the  tragic  muse  in  a'  her  glory. — 

Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise,  and  tell 
How  glorious  Wallace  stood,  how,  hapless,  fell  ? 
V  2 


130  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Where  are  the  muses  fled  that  could  produce 

A  drama  worthy  o'  the  name  o'  Bruce  ; 

How  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheath'd  tlie  sword 

'Gainst  mighty  England  and  her  guilty  lord  ; 

And  after  raony  a  bloody,  deathless  doing, 

Wrench'd  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws  of  ruin? 

0  for  a  Shakspeare  or  an  Otway  scene, 

To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish  Queen  ! 

Vain  all  the  omnipotence  of  female  charms 

'Gainst  headlong,  ruthless,  mad  Rebellion's  arms. 

She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 

To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a  rival  woman  : 

A  woman,  though  the  phrase  may  seem  uncivil. 

As  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  devil ! 

One  Douglas  lives  in  Home's  immortal  page, 

But  Douglases  were  heroes  every  age  ; 

And  though  yoiu"  fathers,  prodigal  of  life, 

A  Douglas  followed  to  the  martial  strife, 

Perhaps  if  bowls  rowe  right,  and  Right  succeeds, 

Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a  Douglas  leads  ! 

As  ye  ha'e  generous  done,  if  a'  the  land 
Would  take  the  muses'  servants  by  the  hand  ; 
Not  only  hear,  but  patronise,  befriend  them, 
And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  commend  them  ; 
And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the  test. 
Wink  hard  and  say,  the  folks  ha'e  done  their  best ! 
Would  a'  the  land  do'^his,  then  I'll  be  caution 
Ye'll  soon  ha'e  poets  o'  the  Scottish  nation. 
Will  gar  Fame  blow  until  her  trumpet  crack. 
And  warsle  Time  an'  lay  him  on  his  back  ! 

For  us  and  for  our  stage  should  ony  spier, 
"  Whase  aught  thae  chiels  mak'  a'  this  bustle  here  ? " 
My  best  leg  foremost,  I'll  set  up  my  brow, 
We  ha'e  the  honour  to  belong  to  you  ! 
We're  your  ain  bairns,  e'en  guide  us  as  ye  like, 
But  like  good  mithers,  shore  before  you  strike, — 
An'  gratefu'  still  I  hope  ye'll  ever  find  us. 
For  a'  the  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We've  got  frae  a'  professions,  sets  and  ranks  ; 
God  help  us  !  we're  but  poor — ye'se  get  but  thanks 


BURNS  vS   POEMS.  181 


ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HARE  LIMP  BY  ME, 

WHICH  A   FELLOW  HAD  JUST  SHOT  AT. 


Inhuman  man  !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art. 

And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  : 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 
Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart  ! 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field. 

The  bitter  little  of  that  life  remains  : 

No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant  plains. 
To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest. 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed  ! 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  tliy  head, 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  rufiiau's  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hapless  fate. 


PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN   AT  THE   THEATRE,  DUMFRIES,  ON   NEW-YSAR*S-DAY   EVBNINO 

No  song  nor  dance  I  brmg  from  yon  great  city 

That  queens  it  o'er  our  taste — the  more's  the  pity 

Tho',  by  the  by,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 

Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home  ; 

But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear, 

I  come  to  wish  you  all  a  good  new  year  ! 

Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye. 

Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story  : 

The  sage  grave  ancient  cough 'd,  and  bade  me  say, 

"  You're  one  year  older  this  important  day  ;" 

If  wiser  too — he  hinted  some  suggestion, 

But  'twould  be  rude,  you  know,  to  a^k  the  question  ; 

And  with  a  would-be-roguish  leer  and  wink, 

He  bade  me  on  you  press  tliis  one  wox'd — "  Think ' " 


1B2  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush'd  with  hope  and  spirit, 
Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit. 
To  you  the  dotard  has  a  deal  to  say, 
In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way  : 
He  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless  rattle, 
That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle  ; 
That  tho'  some  by  the  skirt  may  try  to  snatch  him  ; 
Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him  ; 
That  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing, 
You  may  do  miracles  by  persevei'ing. 

Last,  tho'  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven's  peculiar  care  ! 
To  you  old  Bald-pate  smooths  his  wrinkled  brow. 
And  humbly  begs  you'll  mind  the  important — now  ! 
To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leave. 
And  offers,  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

For  our  sincere,  tho'  haply  weak  endeavours, 
With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many  favours  ; 
And  howsoe'er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  ti'uly  feel  it. 


DELIA.— AN    ODE. 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  iay, 
Fair  the  tints  of  op'fiing  rose  ; 

But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns. 
More  lovely  far  her  beauty  blows. 

Sweet  the  lark's  wild  warbled  lay. 
Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear  ; 

But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still, 
Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 

The  flower-enamour'd  busy  bee 
The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip ; 

Sweet  the  sti'eamlet's  Umpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-brown'd  Arab's  lip  ; 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 
Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove  ! 

0  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss. 

For  Oh  !  my  soul  is  parch'd  with  love  1 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  183 


FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED   TO   THE    RIGHT    HON.    C.    J.    FOX. 

How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite  ; 
How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and  their  white  ; 
How  genius,  th'  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 
Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contradiction — 
I  sing  :  if  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should  bustle, 
I  care  not,  not  I,  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 

But  now  for  a  Patron,  whose  name  and  whose  glory. 
At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits  ; 
Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere  lucky  hits  ; 
With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so  strong, 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went  far  wrong  ; 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright. 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'era  e'er  went  quite  right  ; 
A  sorr}',  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  Muses, 
For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  L — d,  what  is  man,  for  as  simple  he  looks. 
Do  but  try  to  develop  his  hooks  and  his  crooks  : 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and  his  evil, 
All  in  all  he's  a  problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 

On  his  one-ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely  labours,  [hours: 
That,  like  th'  old  Hebrew  walking-switch,  eats  up  its  neigh- 
Mankind  are  his  show-box — a  friend,  would  you  know  him  ? 
Pull  the  string,  ruling  passion  the  picture  will  show  him. 
What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a  system. 
One  trifling  particular,  truth,  should  have  miss'd  him  ! 
For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions. 
Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 

Some  sort  all  our  qualities  each  to  its  tribe. 
And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe  ; 
Have  you  found  this,  or  t'other  ?  there's  more  in  the  wind, 
As  by  one  drunken  fellow  his  comrades  you'll  find ; 
But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan. 
In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature  cali'd  Man, 
No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim. 
Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same. 
Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to  brother. 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you've  the  other. 


184  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


TO  DR.  BLACKXOCK. 


Ellisland,  Oct.  21,  1789. 
Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie, 
And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  t 
I  kenn'd  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie 

Wad  bring  ye  to  : 
Lord  send  you  ay  as  weel's  I  want  ye, 

And  then  ye'll  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron*  south  ! 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  ! 
He  tald  mysel',  by  word  o'  mouth. 

He'd  tak'  my  letter  I 
I  lippen'd  to  the  chiel  in  trouth 

And  bade  nae  better. 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 
To  ware  his  theologic  care  on. 

And  holy  study  ; 
An'  tired  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on. 

E'en  tried  the  body. 

But  what  d'ye  think,  my  trusty  fier  ? 
I'm  turn'd  a  gaugex' — peace  be  here  ! 
Parnassian  queens,  I  fear,  I  fear, 

ie'll  now  disdain  me, 
And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a  year 

Will  Uttle  gain  me. 

Ye  glaiket,  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 
Wha  by  Castalia's  wimplin'  streamies, 
Loup,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbics, 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
That  Strang  necessity  supreme  is 

'Mang  sons  o'  men, 

I  ha'e  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 

They  maun  ha'e  brose  an'  brats  o'  duddies  ; 

Ye  ken  yoursel's  my  heart  right  proud  is, 

I  needna  vaunt, 
But  I'll  sued  besoms — thraw  saugh  woodies. 

Before  they  want. 

*  Tlie  Rev.  Robert  Heron,  author  of  a  History  of  Scotland, 
various  other  works  of  merit. 


BURNS'S    POEMS.  IE 5 

Lord  help  me  thro'  this  warld  o'  care  ! 
I'm  weary  sick  o't  late  and  ear'  ! 
Not  but  I  ha'e  a  richer  share 

Than  mony  ithers  ; 
But  wliy  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 

Come,  Finn  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 
Thou  stalk  o'  cilrl-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  mak'  a  happy  fire-side  clime 

To  weans  and  wife. 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  Sister  Beckie  ; 
And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Luckie, 
I  wat  she  is  a  daintie  chuckie 

As  e'er  trade  clay  ! 
And  gi'atefully,  my  guid  auld  cockie, 

I'm  yours  for  aye. 

Robert  Buens. 


SKETCH.— NEW  YEAR'S   DAY. 

TO    RIRS.    DUNLOP. 


This  day,  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain. 

To  run  the  twelvemonth's  length  again  : 

I  see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow. 

With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 

Adjust  the  unimpair'd  machine. 

To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir. 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer  ; 

Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press. 

Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 


186  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Will  you  (the  Major's  with  the  hounds, 

The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds  ; 

Coila's  fair  Rachael's  care  to-day, 

And  blooming  Keith's  engaged  with  Gray) 

From  housewife  cares  a  minute  borrow — 

That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-morrow — 

And  join  with  me  in  moralizing, 

This  day's  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 

"  Another  year  is  gone  for  ever." 

And  what  is  this  day's  strong  suggestion  1 

"  The  passing  moment's  all  we  rest  on  ! " 

Rest  on  ! — for  what  ?  what  do  we  here  ? 

Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 

Will  Time,  amused  with  proverb'd  lore, 

Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 

A  few  days  may — a  few  years  must — 

Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust. 

Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss  1 

Yes — all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 

The  voice  of  Nature  loudly  cries, 

And  many  a  message  from  the  skies, 

That  something  in  us  never  dies  : 

That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state, 

Hang  mattei's  of  eternal  weight ; 

That  future  life,  in  worlds  unknown, 

Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone  ; 

Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright. 

Or  dark  as  misery's  woful  night. — 

Since  then,  my  honour'd,  first  of  friends, 

On  this  poor  being  all  depends, 

Let  us  th'  important  now  employ. 

And  live  as  those  that  never  die. 

Tho'  you,  with  days  and  honours  crown'd, 

Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 

(A  sight  life's  sorrows  to  repulse, 

A  sight  pale  envy  to  convulse,) 

Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard  ; 

Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  187 


TO  A  GENTLEMAN 


WHO     HAD    SKNT     BVRNS    A     NEWSPAPER,     AND   OFFERED    TO 
CONTINUB    IT    FREE   OF    EXPENSE. 

. ElUsland,  179(). 

Kind  Sir,  I've  read  your  paper  through, 

And  faith,  to  me,  'twas  really  new  ! 

How  guess'd  ye.  Sir,  what  maist  I  wanted  ? 

This  monie  a  day  I've  grain 'd  and  gaunted. 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin' ; 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doing  ; 

That  vile  doup-skelper,  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off ; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 

Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks  ; 

Or,  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt ; 

If  Denmark,  any  body  spak'  o't ! 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o't ; 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin'. 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singin'  ; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

Were  sayin'  or  takin'  aught  amiss  : 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame, 

In  Britain's  court,  keep  up  the  game  ; 

How  Royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o'er  him  I 

Was  managing  St.  Stephen's  quorum  ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin'. 

Or  glaiket  Charlie  gat  hi%  nieve  in  : 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin', 

If  Warren  Hastings'  neck  was  yeukin' ; 

How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  I'ax'd, 

Or  if  bare  a — s  yet  were  tax'd  ; 

The  news  o'  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera-girls  ; 

If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 

Was  threshin'  still  at  hizzies'  tails, 

Or  if  he  \vas  gi-owTi  oughtlins  doucer. 

And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser  : 

A'  this  and  mail'  I  never  lieard  of  ; 

And  but  for  you  I  might  despair' d  of. 

So,  gratefu',  back  your  news  I  send  you, 

And  pray,  a'  guid  things  may  attend  you  ! 


,88  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


ON   CAPTAIN  MATTHEW   HENDERSON, 

GENTLEMAN   WHO   HELD    THE     PATENT    FOR    HIS    HONOUBS 
IMMEDIATELY    FROM   ALMIGHTV   GOD. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run. 

For  Matthew's  course  was  bright 
His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A  matchless,  heav'nly  light. 

0  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody  ! 
The  meikle  deevil  wi'  a  woodie 
Harl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 

O'er  hurcheon  hides, 
And  like  stoek-fish  come  o'er  hi.s  studdie 

Wi'  thy  auld  sides  ! 

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  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  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'ly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wiraplin'  down  your  glens, 

Wi'ttoddlin'  din. 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 

Frae  linn  to  linn. 

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  of  flow'rs. 

At  dawn,  when  ev'ry  grassy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head. 

At  e'en,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

1'  the  rustling  gale, 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail. 


BURN^SS   POEMS.  189 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood ; 
Ye  grouse,  that  crap  the  heather  bud  ; 
Ye  curlews,  callijig  through  a  clud  ; 

Ye  whisthng  plover  ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood  ; 

He's  gane  for  ever  1 

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,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flow'ring  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  howlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow'r. 
In  some  auld  tree  or  eldritch  tow'r, 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r, 

Sets  up  her  horn, 
Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  wauki'ife  morn  ! 

O  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  i)lains  ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains  : 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 

But  tales  of  woe  1 
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  I 


190  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light  I 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 
And  you,  ye  twinkUng  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  sculptured  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 

E'er  lay  in  earth. 


THE    EPITAPH. 


Stop,  passenger  !  my  story's  brief. 
And  truth  I  shall  relate,  man ; 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o'  gi'ief. 
For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

If  thou  uncomiDon  merit  hast. 

Yet  spurn'd  at  Fortune's  door,  man, 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast, 

For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 

If  thou  a  noble  sodger  art, 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man. 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart. 
For  Matthew  was  a  brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways. 
Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man, 

Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise^ 
For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 

If  thou  at  friendship's  sacred  ca' 
Wad  life  itself  resign,  man  ! 

Thy  s}Tupathetic  tear  maun  fa', 
Per  Matthew  was  a  kin'  man  ! 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  \VA 

If  thou  art  staunch  without  a  stain, 

Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man  ; 
This  was  a  kinsman  o'  thy  ain, 

For  Matthew  was  a  true  man. 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire. 
And  ne'er  gude  wine  did  fear,  man  ; 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam  and  sire. 
For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 

If  ony  whiggish  whinging  sot. 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man. 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot. 
For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 


THE    FIVE    CARLINES; 

AN   ELECTION   BAiLAD. 


Tune—"  Chevy  Chase." 
There  were  Five  Carlines  in  the  Bouth, 

They  fell  upon  a  scheme. 
To  send  a  lad  to  Lunnun  town 

To  bring  them  tidings  hame ; 

Nor  only  bring  them  tidings  hame, 

But  do  their  errands  there. 
And  aiblins  gowd  and  honour  baith 

Might  be  that  laddie's  share. 

There  was  Maggy  by  the  banks  o'  Niti;  ', 

A  dame  wi'  pride  enough  ; 
And  Marjory  o'  the  Monylocha  +, 

A  carline  auld  and  teugh  ; 

And  blinkin'  Bess  o'Annandale  J, 
That  dwells  near  Solway  side  ; 

And  whiskey  Jean,  that  took  her  gill 
In  Galloway  sae  wide  §  ; 

And  black  Jo,4n  frae  Crichton  Peel  |I, 

0'  gipsy  kitli  and  kin. 
Five  wightier  carlines  were  na  foun' 

The  south  countrie  within. 

Dumfries.  t  Lochmaben.  t 

§  Kirkcudbright.  ii  .'iraiquh 


1^*2  BURNs's    POEMS. 

f  o  send  a  lad  to  Lunnun  town. 

They  met  upon  a  day, 
And  mony  a  knight  and  mony  a  laird. 

This  errand  fain  wad  gae. 

Oh  !  mony  a  knight  and  mony  a  laird 

This  errand  fain  wad  gae  ; 
But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please  : 

Oh  !  ne'er  a  ane  but  tway. 

The  first  ane  was  a  belted  knight  *, 

Bred  o'  a  Border  band, 
And  he  wad  gae  to  Lunnun  town, 

Might  nae  man  him  withstand  ; 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel, 

And  meikle  he  wad  say. 
And  ilka  ane  at  Lunnun  court 

Would  bid  to  him  gude  day. 

The  niest  came  in  a  sodger  youth  f, 

And  spak'  wi'  modest  grace, 
And  he  wad  gae  to  Lunnun  toun 

If  sae  their  pleasure  was  : 

He  wadna  hecht  them  courtly  gifts, 

Nor  meikle  speech  pretend, 
But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart. 

Wad  ne'er  desert  his  friend. 

Now,  wham  to  choose  and  wham  refuse, 

At  strife  thir  carlines  fell. 
For  some  had  gentlefolks  to  please. 

And  some  wad  please  themsel'. 

Then  out  spak'  mim-mou'd  Meg  of  Nith, 

And  she  spak'  up  wi'  pride. 
And  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth, 

Whatever  might  betide  ; 

For  the  auld  guidman  o'  Lunnun  J  court 

She  didna  care  a  pin  ; 
But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 

To  greet  his  eldest  son  §. 

*  Sir  J.  Johnstone.  +  Mr.  Miller. 

t  George  HI.  §  The  Priiice  of  Wules. 


BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Then  up  sprang  Bess  o'  Annandale, 

And  a  deadly  aith  she's  ta'en, 
That  she  wad  vote  the  Border  knighr, 

Though  she  should  vote  her  lane  ; 

For  far-aff  fowls  ha'e  feathers  fair, 

And  fools  o'  change  are  fain  ; 
But  I  ha'e  tried  the  Border  knight, 

And  I'll  try  him  yet  again. 

Says  black  Joiin  frae  Crichton  Peel, 

A  carline  sour  and  grim, 
The  auld  guidman  or  the  young  guidman 

For  me  may  smk  or  swim ; 

For  fools  may  prate  o'  right  and  wrang. 
While  knaves  laugh  them  to  scorn  ; 

But  the  sodgei''s  friends  ha'e  blawn  the  best, 
So  he  shall  bear  the  horn. 

Then  whiskey  Jean  spak'  ower  her  drink  : 

Ye  weel  ken,  kimmers  a', 
The  auld  guidman  o'  Lunnun  court, 

His  back's  been  at  the  wa' ; 

And  mony  a  friend  that  kiss't  his  caup, 

Is  now  a  freniit  wight, 
But  it's  ne'er  be  said  o'  whiskey  Jean — 

We'll  send  the  Border  knight. 

Then  slow  rase  Marjory  o'  the  Lochs, 

And  wrinkled  was  her  brow. 
Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray. 

Her  auld  Scots  heart  was  true ; 

There's  some  gi'eat  folks  set  light  by  me, 

I  set  as  light  by  them  ; 
But  I  will  sen'  to  Lunnun  tonn 

Wham  I  like  best  at  hame. 

Sae  how  this  weighty  plea  will  end, 

Nae  mortal  wight  can  tell, 
God  grant  the  King  and  ilka  man 

May  look  weel  to  himsel' ! 


!94  BURNS  S    POEMS, 


ANSWER  TO  A  MANDATE 

SENT  BY  THE  SURVEYOR  OF  TAXE3. 

Mossfjicl,  Feb.  22nd,  17R<?<. 
Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 
I  send  you  hei*e  a  faithfu'  list, 
O'  gudes  an'  gear,  an'  a'  my  graith, 
To  which  I'm  free  to  tak'  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle, — 
I  ha'e  four  brutes  o'  gallant  mettle. 
As  ever  drew  afore  a  pettle  ; 
My  land-afore,  a  guid  auld  has-be-en, 
And  wight  and  wilfu'  a'  his  days  been  ; 
My  land-ahin's  a  weel-gaun  filly, 
Wha  aft  has  borne  me  safe  frae  Killie, 
And  your  auld  borough  mony  a  time, 
In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime  : 
But  ance  when  in  my  wooing  pride 
I  like  a  blockhead  boost  to  ride. 
The  wilfu'  creature  sae  I  pat  to, 
(Lord,  pardon  a'  my  sins  an'  that  too  !) 
I  play'd  my  filly  sic  a  shavie, 
She's  a'  bedevil'd  wi'  the  spavie. 
My  fur-ahin',  a  wordy  beast. 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  traced  : 
The  fourth,  a  Highland  Donald  hasty, 
A  d-mn'd  red-wud  Kilburnie  blastie, 
Forby  a  cowte,  of  cowtes  the  wale. 
As  ever  ran  afore  a  tail ; 
An'  he  be  spared  to  be  a  beast. 
He'll  draw  me  fifteen  pund  at  least. 

Wheel  carriages  I  ha'e  but  few  : 
Three  carts,  and  twa  are  feckly  new  ; 
An  auld  wheelbarrow,  mair  for  token, 
Ae  leg  and  baith  the  trams  are  broken  ; 
I  made  a  poker  o'  the  spindle. 
And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trundie. 

For  men,  I've  three  mischievous  boys, 
Run-deils  for  rantin'  and  for  noise  ; 
A  gaudsman  ane,  a  thresher  t'other. 
Wee  Davoo  bauds  the  nowte  in  f other. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  }9^ 

I  rule  them,  as  I  ought,  discreetly, 
And  afteu  labour  them  completely  ; 
And  aye  on  Sundays  duly  nightly, 
I  on  the  Questions  tairge  them  tightly, 
Till,  faith  !  wee  Davoc's  grown  sae  gleg, 
(Tho'  scarcely  langer  than  my  leg,) 
He'll  screed  you  atf  Effectual  Calling 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 

I've  nana  in  female  servan'  station, 
Lord  keep  me  aye  frae  a'  temptation  ! 
I  ha'e  nae  wife,  and  that  my  bliss  is. 
And  ye  ha'e  laid  nae  tax  on  misses ; 
Wi'  weans  I'm  mair  than  weel  contented, 
Heaven  sent  me  ane  mair  than  I  wanted ; 
My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 
She  stares  the  daddie  in  her  face. 
Enough  of  aught  ye  like  but  grace. 
But  her,  my  bonn}-,  sweet,  wee  lady, 
I've  paid  enough  for  her  ah'eady. 
And  if  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 
B'  the  Lord,  ye'se  get  them  a'  thegither  ! 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 
Nae  kind  of  license  out  I'm  takin'  ; 
Frae  this  time  forth,  I  do  declare, 
I'se  ne'er  ride  horse  nor  hizzie  mair ; 
Thro'  dirt  and  dub  for  life  I'll  paidle, 
Ere  I  sae  dear  pay  for  a  saddle  ; 
I've  sturdy  stumps,  the  liord  be  thankit  I 
And  a'  my  gates  on  foot  I'll  shank  it. 
The  Kirk  an'  you  may  tak'  you  that, 
It  puts  but  little  in  your  pat ; 
Sae  dinna  scrieve  me  in  your  buke. 
Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list  wi'  my  ain  hand  I've  wrote  it. 
The  day  and  date  as  under  noted  ; 
Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subscripsi  huic 

Robert  Burns. 


.->  z 


196  BURNS  G    POEMS. 


TAM   O*  SHANTER. 

A   TALE. 
Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke Gawin  Duuola* 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  clrouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearin'  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak'  the  gate  ; 
While  we  sit  bousin'  at  the  nappy, 
And  getting  fou  and  uneo  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gatherin'  her  brows  like  gatherin'  storm, 
Nursin'  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  A}t  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Aul4  Asi*,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses.) 

0  Tam  !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  wast  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ; 
That  fi-ae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  ticwu  was  na  sober  ; 
That  ilka  me.lder  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  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon. 
Thou  wad  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon  ; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 
By  AUoway'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  marlcet-night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 


On.  tfi^  JSoil^s  or  Do  on,.  JytvAiryy. 


BURNS'S    POEMS.  197 

Fast  by  an  ingle  Lleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats  that  drank  divinely, 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  ; 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brrther ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 

The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter, 
And  aye  the  ale  was  growin'  better  ; 
The  landlady  and  Tarn  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. 
Tarn  didna  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  flower,  its  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  or  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  ; 
An'  sic  a  night  he  tak's  the  road  in. 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last  ; 
The  ratt'ling  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  understandj 
Thf  de'il  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire ; 


198  BUBNS'S    POEMS. 

Whiles  hauding  last  his  gude  bkie  bonnet ; 
Wliiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet ; 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  ; 
Kirk-AUoway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  howlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  'cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smooi''d  ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak  's  neck -bane  ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  tlie  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn  ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel'. — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  through  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'  usquebaugh  we'll  face  the  devil  ! — 
The  swats  sae  ream'cl  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  de'ils  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd. 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light  ; 
And,  wow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 
Nae  cotillion  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  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gi'e  them  music  was  his  charge  : 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gar't  them  skii'l. 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl  ! — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses  : 


BUKNS'S   POEMS.  199 

Aud  by  some  devilish  cantinp  sleight, 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light ; 
By  which  heroic  Tain  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet-airns  ; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  uuchristen'd  bairus  ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted  ; 
Five  scimitars,  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  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amazed  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  carline  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  0  Tarn  !  had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strappin'  in  their  teens ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen. 
Been  snaw-white  se'enteen-h  under  linen  ! 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  ha'e  gi'en  them  aft'  my  hurdles. 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies  ! 
But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Iligwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Louping  and  tiingmg  on  a  cummock, 
I  wonder  didua  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie, 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie. 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  corps, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore  ! 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  muckle  com  and  bear. 
And  kept  the  country  side  in  fear  ;) 


200  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

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  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie. 
That  sai'k  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches,) 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  of  witches  I 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cower, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power  ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tarn  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  searcel}'  had  lie  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  theii"  byke  ; 
As  open  pussie's  moi'tal  foes. 
When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  "  Catch  the  th;ef !"  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou'lt  get  thy  fairin'  t 
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*  of  the  brig  ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  darena  cross. 

*  It  is  a  well-kno^vn  fact,  that  witches,  or  any  evil  spirits, 
have  no  power  to  follow  a  poor  wight  any  further  than  the  rt'iddle 
of  the  next  running  stream.  It  may  be  proper  likewise  to  mention 
to  the  benighted  traveller,  that  when  he  falls  in  with  bogles,  what- 
ever danger  may  be  in  his  going  forward,  there  is  much  more  hazanl 
•a  turning  back. 


BURNS  S    POTSMS.  201 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 
For  Naunie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle  ; 
But  Httle  ^\•ist  she  ]Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale. 
But  left  hehind  her  ain  grey  tail  : 
The  earline  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  ]\Iaggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed : 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  cutty  sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  owre  dear, 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


ON  THE  LATE  CAPTAIN  GROSE'S  PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH  SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTIXG  THE    ANTIQUITIES   OF   THAT  KINGDOM. 


Hear,  Land  o'  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnny  Groats  ; 
If  there's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 

I  rede  you  tent  it : 
A  chield's  amang  you,  taking  notes. 

And  faith,  he'll  prent  it ! 

If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light 

Upon  a  fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 

O'  stature  short,  but  genius  bright. 

That's  he,  mai'k  weel — 
And  wow  !  he  has  an  unco  sleight 

0'  cauk  and  keel. 

By  some  auld,  howlet-haunted  biggin'  *, 

Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin', 

It's  ten  to  ane  ye'll  find  him  snug  in 

Some  eldritch  part, 
Wi'  deils,  they  say,  L — d  save's  !  colleaguiu' 

At  some  black  art. 

*  Vide  his  Antiquities  of  Scotland. 


202  BURNS  S    POEMS. 

Ilk  gliaist  that  haunts  auld  ha'  or  cham'er, 

Ye  gipsy-gang  that  deal  in  glamour, 

And  you  deep-read  in  hell's  black  grammar, 

Warlocks  and  witches ; 
Ye'll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer, 

Ye  midnight  b es. 

It's  tauld  he  was  a  sodger  bred, 
And  ane  wad  rather  fa'n  than  fled  ; 
But  now  he's  quat  the  spurtle-blade. 

And  dog-skin  wallet, 
And  ta'en  the — Antiquarian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a  fouth  o'  auld  nick-nackets  : 
Rusty  airn  caps  and  jinglin'  jackets*. 
Wad  hand  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets 

A  towmont  gude  ; 
And  parritch-pats,  and  auld  saut-backets, 

Before  the  Flood. 

Of  Eve's  first  fire  he  has  a  cinder  ; 
Auld  Tubal-Cain's  fire-shool  and  fender  ; 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 

0'  Balaam's  ass ; 
A  broom-stick  o'  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi'  brass. 

Forbye,  he'll  shape  you  aff,  fu'  gleg, 
The  cut  of  Adam's  philibeg  ; 
The  knife  that  nicket  Abel's  craig 

Hell  prove  you  fully, 
It  was  a  faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  laug-kail  gullie. 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee. 
For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he. 
Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Guid  fellows  wi'  him  ; 
And  port,  0  port !  shine  thou  a  wee, 

And  then  ye'll  see  him ! 

Now,  by  the  pow'rs  o'  verse  and  prose ! 
Thou  art  a  dainty  chield,  0  Grose  ! 
Whae'er  o'  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They  sair  misca'  thee  ; 
I'd  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose 

Wad  say.  Shame  fa'  thee. 

•  Vide  his  Treatise  on  Ancient  Armour  and  Weaponi*. 


BURNS  S    POE»IS.  203 


WRITTEN  IN  A  WRAPPER  ENCLOSING  A  LETTER 
TO  CAPT.  GROSE ; 

TO   BE   LEFT  WITH    MR.  CARDONNEL,   ANTIQUARIAN. 


Tune—"  Sir  John  Malcolm." 

Ken  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  &  ago, 
If  he's  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 
Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  South,  or  is  he  North  ? 

Igo  &  ago, 
Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highland  bodies  1 

Igo  &  ago, 
And  eaten  like  a  wether-haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abram's  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo  &  ago. 
Or  haudin'  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Whare'er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him ! 

Igo  &  ago. 
As  for  the  deil,  he  daur  nae  steer  him. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  th'  enclosed  letter, 

Igo  &  ago, 
Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor. 

Iram,  coi'am,  dago. 

So  may  ye  ha'e  auld  stanes  in  store, 

Igo  &  ago, 
The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

Igo  &  ago, 
The  coins  o'  Satan's  coronation ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


204  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


VERSES   TO   CHLORIS, 

WRITTEN   BY  THE   AUTHOR   ON  A   BLANK  LEAF    OF  A  COPY 
OF    HIS   POEMS. 

'Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fail'  friend, 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 
Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 

The  moralizing  muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms. 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu, 
(A  woi'ld  'gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast, 

Chill  came  the  tempest's  lower  ; 
(And  ne'er  misfortune's  eastern  blast 

Did  nip  a  fairer  flower  ;) 

Since  life's  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more. 

Still  much  is  left  behind  ; 
Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store — 

The  comforts  of  the  mind. 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow. 

On  conscious  honour's  part ; 
And,  dearest  gift  of  heaven  below. 

Thine  friendship's  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refined  of  sense  and  taste. 

With  every  muse  to  rove  ; 
And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest, 

These  joys  could  lie  improve. 


BURNS  S    POKMR.  205 


THE    WniSTLE. 

A  BALLAD. 


[As  the  authentic  prose  history  of  the  Mliistlo  is  curious,  I  shall 
here  give  it. — In  the  train  of  Anne  of  Denmark,  when  she  came 
to  Scotland,  with  our  James  the  Sixth,  there  came  over  also  a 
Danish  gentleman  of  gigantic  stature  and  great  prowess,  and  a 
matchless  champion  of  Bacchus.  He  had  a  little  ebonj'  AMiistle, 
which  at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies  he  laid  on  the  table, 
and  whoever  was  the  last  able  to  blow  it,  everybody  else  being  dis- 
abled by  the  potency  of  the  bottle,  was  to  carry  off  the  Whistle  as 
a  trophy  of  victory.  The  Dane  produced  credentials  of  his  victories, 
without  a  single  defeat,  at  the  courts  of  Copenhagen,  Stockholm, 
liloscow,  Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in  Germany  ;  and 
challenged  the  Scots  Bacchanalians  to  the  alternative  of  trying  his 
prowess,  or  else  of  acknowledging  their  inferiority. — After  many 
overthrows  on  the  part  of  the  Scots,  the  Dane  was  encountered  by 
Sir  Robert  Lawrie  of  Slaxwelton,  ancestor  of  the  present  worthy 
baronet  of  that  name;  who,  after  three  days'  and  three  nights'  hard 
contest,  left  the  Scandinavian  mider  the  table, 

And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before  mentioned,  afterwards  lost 
the  Whistle  to  Walter  Riddel  of  Glenriddel,  who  had  married  a 
sister  of  Sir  Walter's.  —  On  Friday,  the  16th  of  October,  1790,  at 
Friar's-Carse,  the  WTiistle  was  once  more  contended  for,  as  related 
in  the  ballad,  by  the  present  Sir  Robert  Lam-ie  of  Maxwelton; 
Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Glenriddel,  lineal  descendant  and  repre- 
sentative of  Walter  Riddel,  who  won  the  AMiistle,  and  in  whose 
family  it  had  continued  ;  and  Alexander  Fergusson,  Esq.,  of  Craig- 
darrocb,  likewise  descended  of  the  great  Sir  Robert:  which  ^st 
gentleman  carried  oflf  the  hard-won  honours  of  the  field.] 

I  SING  of  a  Whistle,  a  Whistle  of  -worth, 

I  sing  of  a  Whistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 

Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good  Scottish  king. 

And  long  with  this  Whistle  all  Scotland  shall  ring. 

Old  Loda  *,  still  rueing  the  arm  cf  Fingal, 
The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his  hall — 
"This  Whistle's  your  challenge,  to  Scotland  get  o'er, 
And  drink  Ihem  to  hell,  Sir!  or  ne'er  see  me  more  !" 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell, 
What  champions  ventured,  what  champions  fell  ; 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still. 
And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 
*  See  Ossian's  Caric-thura. 


206  BURNS  S  POEMS. 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the  Scaur, 
Unmateh'd  at  the  bottle,  unconquer'd  in  war, 
He  drank  his  poor  god-ship  as  deep  as  the  sea. 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e'er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy  has  gain'd  ; 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  remain 'd  ; 
Till  three  noble  chieftains  and  all  of  his  blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew'd. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear  of  flaw : 
Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth,  and  law; 
And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill'd  in  old  coins  ; 
And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep  read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a  tongue  smooth  as  oil. 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 
Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan. 
And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the  man. 

"  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients ! "  Glenriddel  replies, 
"  Before  I  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 
I'll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie  More  *, 
And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty  times  o'er." 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would  pretend, 
But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  foe — or  his  friend, 
Said,  toss  down  the  Whistle,  the  prize  of  the  field. 
And  knee-deep  in  claret,  he'd  die  ere  he'd  jield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair. 
So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care  ; 
But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known  to  fame, 
Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a  SAveet,  lovely  dame. 

A  bard  was  selected  to  Avitness  the  fray, 
And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day  ; 
A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen. 
And  wish'd  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard  had  been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply, 
And  ev'i'y  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of  joy  ; 
In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred  so  set, 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they  were  wet. 

«  See  Dr.  Johnson's  Tour  to  the  Hebrides. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  207 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o'er  ; 
Blight  Phcebus  ne'ei'  witness'd  so  joyous  a  corps. 
And  vow'd  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite  forlorn, 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he'd  see  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  a-piecc  had  well  worn  out  the'night, 
When  gallant  Sir  Roltert,  to  finish  the  fight, 
Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of  red, 
And  swore  'twas  the  way  that  their  ancestors  did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and  sage. 
No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage  ; 
A  high  ruling  elder  to  wallow  in  wine  ! 
He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end ; 
But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart  bumpers  contend  ? 
Though  fate  said — a  hero  should  perish  in  light ; 
So  uprose  bright  Phcebus— and  down  fell  the  knight. 

Next  uprose  our  bard,  like  a  prophet  in  drink  : — 
"  Craigdarroch,  thou'lt  soar  when  creation  shall  sink  ! 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme. 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  sublime  ! 

«  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom  with  Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  : 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay  ; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bi'ight  god  of  day ! " 


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  ta'en. 

He  lean'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik. 

Whose  trunk  was  mould'ring  down  wi'  years 
His  locks  were  bleached  white  wi'  time, 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi'  tears  ; 


208  BURNS'S    POEMS. 

And  as  he  touch'd  his  trembling  harp. 
And  as  lie  tuned  his  doleful  sang. 

The  winds,  lamenting  thro'  their  caves. 
To  echo  bore  the  notes  alang. 

*'  Ye  scat*er'd  birds  that  faintly  sing, 

The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quh*e  ! 
Ye  woods,  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

The  honours  of  the  aged  year  ! 
A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay. 

Again  ye'll  charm  the  ear  and  e'e  ; 
But  nought  in  all  revolving  time 

Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 

"  I  am  a  bending,  aged  ti'ee, 

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  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room, 

*'  I've  seen  sae  mony  changefu'  years. 

On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  groAvn  ; 
I  wander  in  the  ways  of  men. 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown  ; 
Unheard,  unpitied,  unrelieved, 

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  flower  amang  our  barons  bold. 

His  country's  pride,  his  country's  stay  ; 
In  weary  being  now  I  pine, 

JFor  a'  the  life  of  life  is  dead. 
And  hope  has  left  my  aged  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  gloo; 


BURNS  S    POEMS,  209 

**  111  poverty's  low  barren  vale, 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involved  me  round  ; 
Though  oft  I  turn'd  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  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. 

"  0  !  why  has  worth  so  short  a  date. 

While  villains  ripen  grey  with  time  1 
Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen'rous,  great. 

Fall  m  bold  manhood's  hardy  prime  ! 
Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day  ? 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  woe  ! 
0  nad  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  ! " 


LINES 

SENT  TO   SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD  OF   WKITEFOORD,  BART. 
WITH   THE   FOREGOING   POEM. 


Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st. 

Who,  save  thy  mind's  reproach,  nought  earthly  fear'st ; 

To  thee  this  votive  offering  I  impart. 

The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  friend  thou  valued'st,  I  the  patron  loved  ; 

His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world  approved. 

We'll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone, 

And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark  world  unknown. 


210  BURNS  S  POEMS. 


POEM, 

ADDRESSED  TO  MB.   MITCHELL,   COLLECTOR    OF   EXCISE. 
DUMFRIES,    1796. 

Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 
Wha,  wantin'  thee,  might  beg  or  steal ; 
Alake,  alake !  the  meikle  deil, 

Wi'  a'  his  witches, 
Are  at  it,  skelpin,  jig  and  reel. 

In  my  poor  pouches. 

1  modestly  fu'  fain  wad  hint  it. 

That  one-pound-one,  I  sairly  want  it : 

If  wi'  the  hizzie  down  ye  sent  it. 

It  would  be  kind  ; 
And,  while  my  heart  wi'  life-blood  dunted, 

I'd  bear  't  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning 
To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 
Wi'  double  plenty  o'er  the  loanin' 

To  thee  and  thine — 
Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning     . 

The  hale  design. 


POSTSCRIPT. 


Ye've  heard  this  while  how  I've  been  licket, 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket : 
Grim  loun !  he  gat  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk ; 
But  by  gude  luck  I  lap  a  wicket. 

And  turned  a  neuk. 

But  by  that  health,  I've  got  a  share  o't. 
And  by  that  life,  I'm  promised  mair  o't. 
My  hale  and  weel  I'll  take  a  care  o't 

A  tentier  way  : 
Then  farewell,  folly,  hide  and  hair  o't, 

For  ance  and  ay. 


BURNS  S    P0E3IS.  211 


EXTEMPORE  IN  THE  COURT  OF  SESSION. 
2Vnc— Killicrankie. 

LORD  ADVOCATE. 

He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted. 
Till  in  a  declamation  mist 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 
He  gaped  for't,  he  graped  for't, 

He  fand  it  was  awa',  man ; 
But  what  his  common  sense  came  short, 

He  eked  it  out  wi'  law,  man. 

MR.  ERSKIiVE. 

Collected  Harry  stood  awee. 

Then  open'd  out  his  arm,  man ; 
His  lordship  sat  wi'  ruefu'  e'e. 

And  eyed  the  gathering  storm,  man : 
Like  wind-driven  hail  it  did  assail, 

Or  toi'rents  oavtc  a  Unn,  man ; 
The  Bench  sae  wise,  lift  up  their  eyes, 

Half-wauken'd  wi'  the  din,  man. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON, 

ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUST,   AT   EDNAM,   ROXBURGHSHIRE,   WITH   BAYS. 

Written  by  desire  of  the  PoeVs  friend,  the  Earl  ofBuchan. 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden's  flood. 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green, 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 
Or  tunes  ^olian  strains  between  : 

While  Summer,  with  a  matron  grace. 
Retreats  to  Dry  burgh's  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade  ; 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind. 

By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head. 
And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind. 

Each  ci'eature  on  his  bounty  fed  : 
p  2 


212  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o'er 

The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent's  roar, 
Or  sweeping  wild,  a  waste  of  snows  : 

So  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  Year, 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won 
While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Pi'oclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


TO   ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq. 

OF  FINTRAY, 

Late  crippled  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg. 
About  to  beg  a  pass  for  leave  to  beg  ; 
Dull,  listless,  teased,  dejected,  and  deprest, 
(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple's  rest ;) 
Will  generous  Graham  list  his  Poet's  v/ail  i 
(It  soothes  poor  misery,  heark'ning  to  her  tale,) 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  survey'd, 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming  trade  I 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature  I  arraign 
Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I  complain. 
The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found. 
One  shakes  the  foresis,  and  one  spui-ns  the  ground. 
Thou  giv'st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his  shell, 
Th'  envenom'd  wasp,  victorious,  guards  his  cell. — 
Thy  minions,  kings,  defend,  control,  devour, 
In  all  the  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power. — 
Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtile  wiles  ensure  ; 
The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure. 
Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  tlieir  drug, 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes  are  snug. 
Ev'n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 
Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  spear  and  dart*!. 

But  oh  !  thou  bitter  step-mother  and  hard, 
To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child — the  Bai-d ! 
A  thing  unteachable  in  world's  skill, 
And  half  an  idiot  too,  more  helpless  still. 
No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op'ning  dun, 
No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun  ; 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  213 

No  liorns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen  worn, 
And  those  alas  !  not  Anialtliea's  horn  ; 
No  nei'ves  olfact'ry,  Mammon's  trusty  cur, 
Clad  in  rich  dulness'  comfortable  fur, 
In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 
He  bears  the  unbroken  blast  from  ev'ry  side : 
Vampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 
And  scorpion  critics  cureless  venom  dart. 

Critics — appaU'd  I  venture  on  the  name, 
Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame  : 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes  ; 
He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His  heart  by  causeless,  wanton  malice  wrung, 
By  blockhea-ds'  daring  into  madness  stung  ; 
His  well- won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear. 
By  miscreants  torn,  Avho  ne'er  one  sprig  must  wear. 
Foil'd,  bleeding,  tortured,  in  the  unequal  strife, 
The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  through  hfe. 
Till  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fired. 
And  fled  each  muse  that  glorious  once  inspired. 
Low  sunk  m  squalid,  unprotected  age. 
Dead  even  resentment  for  his  injured  page. 
He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless  critic's  rage. 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  generous  steed  deceased. 
For  half-starved  snarling  curs  a  dainty  feast ; 
By  toil  and  famine  worn  to  skin  and  bone, 
Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch's  son. 

O  dulness  !  portion  of  the  truly  blest  ! 
Calm  shelter'd  haven  of  eternal  rest  ! 
Thy  sons  ne'er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  fortune's  polar  frost,  or  torrid  beams. 
If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 
With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up  ; 
Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well  deserve, 
They  only  wonder,  "  some  folks  "  do  not  starve. 
The  grave,  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog. 
And  thinks  the  mallard  a  sad,  worthless  dog. 
When  disappointment  snaps  the  clew  of  hope. 
And  through  disastrous  night  they  darkling  grope, 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 
And  just  conclude  that  "fools  are  fortune's  care," 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks, 
Sti'ong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 


214  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Not  so  the  idle  muses'  mad-cap  train, 
Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck  brain ; 
In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 
By  turns  in  soaring  heav'n,  or  vaulted  hell. 

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  eclipsed  as  noon  appears. 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a  woi^ld  of  tears :) 
0  !  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  pray'r ! 
Fintray,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare  ! 
Through  a  loi)g  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown  : 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down ! 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path. 
Give  energy  to  life,  and  soothe  his  latest  breath, 
With  many  a  fiUal  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death  ! 


TO  ROBERT   GRAHAM,  Esq., 

OF   FINTRAY. 
ON   RECEIVING  A   FAVOUR. 

I  CALL  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  Muse  maj  suit  a  bard  that  feigns ; 
Friend  of  my  life  !  my  ardent  spirit  burns, 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns. 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new. 
The  gift  still  dearex',  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day !  thou  other  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 
If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface  ; 
If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace  ; 
Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres, 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years ! 


>#^^^''' 


_y^/nycliul£n       UoUea^e^. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  215 

THE      VISION. 
A    FRAGMENT. 


As  1  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa'-flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 
Where  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 

And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care. 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 
The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky  ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill. 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  repl}-. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path. 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruin'd  wa's,* 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whose  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing,  eerie  din  ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  stai-t  and  shift. 
Like  fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turn'd  mine  eyes, 
And  by  the  moon-beam,  shook,  to  see 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise. 
Attired  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane. 
His  darin'  look  had  daunted  me  ; 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain, 
The  sacred  posy — "  Libertie !  " 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow. 

Might  roused  the  slumbering  dead  to  hear  j 

But  oh,  it  was  a  tale  of  woe, 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear  ! 

He  sang  wi'  joy  the  former  day. 

He  weeping  wail'd  his  latter  times  ; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 
I  winna  venture't  in  my  rhj-mes. 

*  The  ruins  of  Lincluden  Abbey. 


216  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


TO  JOHN  MAXWELL,  ESQ.,   OF  TERRAUGHTY, 

ON    HIS    BIRTH-DAY. 

Health  to  the  Maxwells'  vet'ran  Cliief ! 
Health,  ay  unsour'd  by  care  or  grief  : 
Inspu'ed,  I  turn'd  Fate's  sibyl  leaf 

This  natal  morn, 
I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o'  prief, 

Scarce  quite  half  worn. 

This  day  thou  metes  threescore  eleven, 
And  I  can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second-sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 

To  ilka  Poet) 
On  thee  a  tack  o'  seven  times  seven 

Will  yet  bestow  it. 

If  envious  buckles  view  wi'  soi'row 

Thy  lengthen'd  days  on  this  blest  morrow. 

May  Desolation's  lang-teeth'd  harrow. 

Nine  miles  an  hour, 
Rake  them,  lilce  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brunstane  stoure — 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  mony, 
Baith  honest  men  and  lassies  bonnie. 
May  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  cannie, 

In  social  glee, 
Wi'  mornings  blithe  and  e'enings  funny, 

Bless  them  and  thee. 

Fareweel,  auld  birkie  !  Lord  be  near  ye. 
And  then  the  de'il  he  daurna  steer  ye  : 
Your  friends  ay  love,  your  faes  ay  fear  ye  : 

For  me,  shame  fa'  me. 
If  niest  my  heart  I  dinna  wear  ye 

While  Burns  they  ca'  me. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  ALTAR  TO  INDEPENDENCE 

Those  of  an  independent  mind. 

With  soul  I'esolved,  with  soul  resign'd  ; 

Prepared  Power's  proudest  frown  to  brave, 

Who  will  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave  ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear, 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here; 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  217 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN; 

AN  OCCASIONAL  ADDKESS,   SPOKEN  BY   MISS  FONTENE7-LE 
ON   HER   BENEFIT-NIGHT. 

While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty  things, 
The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings  ; 
While  quacks  of  state  must  each  produce  his  plan, 
And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man  ; 
Amid  this  mighty  fuss,  just  let  me  mention. 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

First  in  the  sexes'  intermix'd  connexion. 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  protection  : 
The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head  elate, 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of  fate, 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defaced  its  lovely  form. 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th'  impending  storm. 

Our  second  Right — but  needless  here  is  caution, 
To  keep  that  right  inviolate  's  the  fashion. 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him. 
He'd  die  before  he'd  wrong  it — 'tis  decorum — 
There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  pohsh'd  days, 
A  time,  when  rough  rude  man  had  naughty  ways ; 
Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick  up  a  riot, 
Nay  even  thus  mvade  a  lady's  quiet — 
Now,  thank  our  stars !  these  Gothic  times  are  fled ; 
Now,  well-bred  men — and  you  are  all  well-bred — 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the  gainers 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit  nor  manners. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our  dearest, 
That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  the  nearest. 
Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings  in  low  prostration 
Most  humbly  own — 'tis  dear,  dear  admiration  ! 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone,  we  live  and  move  ; 
There  taste  that  life  of  life — immortal  love. — 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations,  airs, 
'Gainst  such  an  host  what  flinty  savage  dares — 
When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms. 
Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with  constitutions, 
With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions  ; 
Let  Majesty  your  first  attention  summon, 
Ah  !  qa,  ira  !  the  Majesty  of  WawAN  ! 


218  BURNS  S  POEMS. 


MONODY  ON  A  LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE. 


How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fired  ! 

How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge  lately  glistened ! 
How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft  tired ! 

How  dull  is  that  ear  wliich  to  flattery  so  listened ! 

If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await, 

From  friendship  and  dearest  affection  removed  ; 

How  doubly  severer,  Maria,  thy  fate  ! — 

Thou  diedst  unwept,  as  thou  livedst  unloved. 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Vii-tues,  I  call  not  on  you  ; 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a  tear ; 
But  come,  all  ye  offspring  of  Folly  so  true. 

And  flowers  leb  us  cull  for  Maria's  cold  bier. 

We'll  search  thro'  the  garden  for  each  silly  flower. 
We'll  roam  thro'  the  forest  for  each  idle  weed; 

But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower, 

For  none  e'er  approached  her  but  rued  the  rash  deed. 

We'll  sculpture  the  marble,  we'll  measure  the  lay, 

Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre  ; 
There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on  her  prey. 

Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem  from  his  ire. 


THE   EPITAPH. 


Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglect. 
What  once  was  a  butterfly  gay  in  life's  beam ; 

Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect. 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 


ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 

Hail,  Poesie !  thou  nymph  reserved  ! 

In  chase  o'  thee  what  crowds  ha'e  swerved 

Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  enerved 

'Mang  heaps  o'  clavers ; 
And  och !  o'er  aft  thy  joes  ha'e  starved, 

'Mid  a'  thy  favours! 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  219 

Say,  lassie,  why  thy  train  amang, 
While  loud  the  trump's  heroic  clang, 
And  sock  or  buskin,  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage ; 
Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd  sang, 

But  wi'  miscarriage  ? 

In  Homer's  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives ; 
Eschylus'  pen  Will  Shakspeare  drives ; 
Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin,  'till  him  'rives 

Horatian  fame ; 
In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 

Ev'n  Sappho's  flame. 

But  thee,  Theocritus !  wha  matches  ? 
They  're  no  herd's  ballats,  Maro's  catches : 
Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinklin  patches 

0'  heathen  tatters : 
I  pass  by  hunders,  nameless  \vi*etches, 

That  ape  their  betters. 

In  this  braw  age  o'  wit  and  lear. 
Will  nane  the  shepherd's  whistle  mair 
Blaw  sweetly  in  its  native  air 

And  rural  grace ; 
And  wi'  the  far-famed  Grecian,  share 

A  rival  place  ? 

Yes,  there  is  ane — a  Scottish  callan ! 
There's  ane — come  forrit,  honest  Allan ! 
Thou  need  na  jouk  beyond  the  hallan, 

A  chiel  sae  clever ; 
The  teeth  o'  time  may  gnaw  Tantallan, 

But  thou  's  for  ever ! 

Thou  paints  auld  Nature  to  the  nines. 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines : 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro'  mjTtles  twines, 

Where  Philomel, 
While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines. 

Her  griefs  will  tell ! 

In  gowany  glens  thy  burnie  strays. 
Where  bonnie  lasses  bleach  their  claes, 
Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi'  hawthorns  grey, 
Where  blackbirds  join  the  she])herd's  lays 

At  close  o'  day. 


220  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  Nature's  sel' ; 
Nae  bombast  spates  o'  nonsense  swell ; 
Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 

U'  witchin'  love, 
That  charm,  that  can  the  strongest  quell, 

The  stei'nest  move. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF   ROBERT  RIDDEL,   ESQ.,    OF   GLEN-RIDDEL. 

April,  1794. 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more  ! 
Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating,  on  my  soul : 
Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  verdant  stole. 

More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter's  wildest  roar. 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flow'rs,  with  all  your  dyes  ? 
Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend : 
How  can  I  to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ?  [lies. 

That  strain  flows  round  th'  untimely  tomb  where  Riddel 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  woe, 
And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  this  bier  ; 
The  Man  of  Worth,  who  has  not  left  his  peer, 

Is  in  his  "  narrow  house  "  for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others  greet ; 
Me,  mem'ry  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  25TH  OF  JAX.,  1793,  THE  BIRTH-DAY  OF  THE  AVTHOR, 
ON  HEARING   A   THRUSH   SING    IN   A    MORNING  WALK. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough, 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain ! 
See  aged  Winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign. 

At  thy  blithe  carol  clears  his  furrowed  brow. 

So,  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear. 

Sits  meek  Content,  with  light  unanxious  heart, 
Welcomes  the  I'apid  moments — bids  them  part, 

Nor  asks  if  they  bring  ought  to  hope  or  fear. 

I  thank  thee.  Author  of  this  opening  day  ! 

Thou  whose  binght  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient  skies ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys. 
What  wealth  could  never  give  uor  take  away  ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care  ! 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestowed,  that  mite  with  thee  I'll 
share. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  221 


IMPROMPTU 

ON   MRS.   riddel's  BIRTH-DAY,   4TH   NOV.    V/US. 


Old  Winter  with  his  frosty  beard. 
Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferr'd : 
''  What  have  I  done,  of  all  the  year, 
To  hear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 
My  cheerless  sons  no  pleasure  know ; 
Night's  hoi'rid  car  drags  dreary,  slow: 
My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning, 
But  spleeny  English  hanging,  drowning. 

"  NoAv,  Jove,  for  once,  we  mighty  civil, 
To  counterbalance  all  this  evil ; 
Give  me,  and  I've  no  more  to  say, 
Give  me  Maria's  natal  day ! 
That  brilliant  gift  will  so  enx'ich  me. 
Spring,  summer,  autumn,  cannot  match  me.' 
"  'Tis  done  !"  says  Jove  ; — so  ends  my  story. 
And  Whiter  once  rejoiced  in  glory. 


THE  VOWELS. 

A    TALE. 

'TwAS  where  the  birch  and  soxmding  thong  are  plied, 

The  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride  ; 

Where  ignorance  her  dai'kening  vapour  throws. 

And  cruelty  directs  the  thickening  blows  ; 

Upon  a  time.  Sir  Abece  the  great, 

In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate. 

His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to  mount. 

And  call  the  trembling  vowels  to  account. — 

First  enter'd  A,  a  grave,  broad,  solemn  %vight. 
But,  ah  !  deform'd,  dishonest  to  the  sight ! 
His  twisted  head  look'd  backward  on  his  way. 
And  flagrant  from  the  scourge  he  grunted,  ai ! 

Reluctant,  E  stalk'd  in  ;  with  piteous  grace 
The  justling  tears  ran  down  his  honest  face  ! 
That  name,  that  well-worn  name,  and  all  his  own, 
Pale  he  surrenders  at  the  tyrant's  throne ! 


222  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

The  Pedant  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound 
Not  all  his  mongrel  diphthongs  can  compound ; 
And  next  the  title  following  close  behind, 
He  to  the  nameless,  ghastly  wi'etch  assigu'd. 

The  cobwebb'd  gothic  dome  resounded  Y  ! 
In  sullen  vengeance,  I,  disdain'd  reply  : 
The  pedant  swung  his  felon  cudgel  round, 
And  knock'd  the  groaning  vowel  to  the  ground ! 

In  rueful  apprehension  enter'd  0, 

The  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  woe ; 

Th'  Inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  expert 

Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries  of  his  art ; 

So  grim,  deform'd  with  horrors,  entering  U, 

His  dearest  friend  and  brother  scarcely  knew  ! 

As  trembling  U  stood  staring  all  aghast, 
The  pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutch'd  him  fast, 
In  helpless  infants'  tears  he  dipp'd  his  right. 
Baptized  him  eUf  and  kicked  him  from  his  sight. 


LIBERTY.— A  FRAGMENT. 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among — 
Thee  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song — 

To  thee  I  tui'n  with  swimming  eyes  ; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Beneath  the  hallow'd  turf  where  Wallace  lies  ! 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  l)ed  of  death  ! 

Ye  babbling  winds  in  silence  sweep ; 

Disturb  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep, 
Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath. — 

Is  this  the  power  in  freedom's  w^ar 

That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  ? 
Behold  that  eye  which  shot  immortal  hate. 

Crushing  the  despot's  proudest  bearing. 
That  arm  which,  nerved  with  thundering  fate, 

Braved  usurpation's  boldest  daring  ! 
One  quench'd  in  darkness  like  the  sinking  star, 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering,  powerless  age. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  223 


ELEGY  ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET, 

OF  MONBODDO. 

Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize, 
As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies  ; 
Nor  envious  death  so  triumph 'd  in  a  blow 
As  that  which  laid  the  accomphsh'd  Burnet  low. 

Thy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I  forget  ? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set ! 
In  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  truest  shown. 
As  by  his  noblest  work  the  Godhead  best  is  known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer's  pride,  ye  groves , 
Tliou  crystal  streamlet  with  thy  flowery  shore. 

Ye  woodland  choir  that  chant  your  idle  loves, 
Ye  cease  to  charm — Eliza  is  no  more  ! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  immix'd  with  reedy  fens  ; 

Ye  mossy  streams,  with  sedge  and  rushes  stored. 
Ye  rugged  chfis,  o'erhanging  dreary  glens. 

To  you  I  fly,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumb'rous  pride  was  all  their  worth. 
Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail  1 

And  thou,  sweet  excellence  !  forsake  our  earth. 
And  not  a  muse  in  honest  gi'ief  bewail  ? 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
And  virtue's  hght,  that  beams  beyond  the  spheres 

But  like  the  sun  eclipsed  at  morning  tide. 
Thou  left'st  us  darlding  in  a  world  of  tears. 

The  parent's  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee. 
That  heart  how  sunk,  a  prey  to  grief  and  care  I 

So  deck'd  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree. 
So  from  it  ravish'd,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


224  BURNS  S   POEMS. 


ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN   BY  MISS  FONTENELLE,  ON   HER  BENEFIT  NIGHT,  DEC.  4,  1796» 
AT  THE   THEATRE,    DUMFRIES. 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour, 

And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night  than  ever, 

A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 

'Twould  vamp  my  bill,  said  1,  if  nothing  better ; 

So,  sought  a  Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies  ; 

Told  him  I  came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes  ; 

Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed  ; 

And  last  my  Prologue-busmess  slily  hinted. 

"  Ma'am,  let  me  tell  you,"  quoth  my  man  of  rhymes, 

*'  I  know  your  bent — these  are  no  laughing  times ; 

Can  you — but  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my  fears, — 

Dissolve  in  pause — and  sentimental  tears, 

With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sentence, 

Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers  fell  Repentance ; 

Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  hoiu'id  stand. 

Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand. 

Calling  the  storms  to  bear  him  o'er  a  guilty  land  ? " 

I  could  no  more — askance  the  creature  eyemg, 
D'ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made  for  crying  ? 
I'll  laugh,  that's  poz — nay  more,  the  world  shall  loiow  it  ; 
And  so,  your  servant !  gloomy  Master  Poet ! 

Firm  as  my  creed,  sirs,  'tis  my  fix'd  belief, 
That  Misery  's  another  word  for  Grief  ; 
I  also  thinlc — so  may  1  be  a  bride ! 
That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoy'd. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh. 
Still  under  bleak  Misfortune's  blasting  eye ; 
Doom'd  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive — 
To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five  : 
Laugh  in  Misfortune's  face — the  beldam  witch  ! 
Say,  you'll  be  merry,  tho'  you  can't  be  I'ich. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love, 
Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast  strove  ; 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur'st  in  desperate  thought — a  rope — thy  neck — 
Or,  whei'e  the  beetling  cliff  o'erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap  : 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  225 

V/ould'st  thou  be  cured,  thou  silly,  moping  elf  ? 
Laugh  at  her  follies — laugh  e'en  at  thyself ; 
Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific. 
And  love  a  kinder — that's  your  grand  specific. 

To  sum  up  all,  he  merry,  I  advise  ; 
And  as  we're  merry,  may  we  still  he  wise. 


VERSES  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WITH   A    PRESENT  OF   SONGS. 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives. 
In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers  join'd, 

Accept  the  gift ;  tho'  humble  he  who  gives, 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 

So  may  no  ruffian-feeling  in  thy  breast, 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among ; 

But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest. 
Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song. 

Or  pity's  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals  ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  sti-ain  endeai's, 
And  heaven-born  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

(MISS  JESSY  LEWARS,   DITMFRIES)  ;    WITH    BOOKS  WHICH  TKK 
BARD   PRESENTED    HER. 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair. 
And  with  them  take  the  poet's  prayer 
That  fate  may  in  her  fairest  page. 
With  every  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  thy  name  : 
With  native  worth,  and  spotless  fame. 
And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man's  felon  snare  ; 
All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find. 
And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward  : 
So  prays  thy  faithful  friend,  the  Bard. 

Q 


226  BURNS'S    POEMS. 


VERSES  TO  J.  RANKINE. 

.The  person  to  whom  his  Poem  on  shooting  the  Partridge  is  addressed 
while  Rankine  occupied  the  farm  of  Adamhill,  in  Ayi'shire.] 

Ae  day,  as  Death,  that  grusome  carl, 
Was  driving  to  the  tither  warl' 
A  mixtie-maxtie  motley  squad, 
And  mony  a  guilt-bespotted  lad ; 
Black  gowns  of  each  denomination, 
And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station, 
From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter, 
To  him  that  wmtles  in  a  halter  ; 
Ashamed  himsel'  to  see  the  ^vretches, 

He  mutters,  glowrin'  at  the  b 8, 

"  By  God  I'll  not  be  seen  behint  them, 
Nor  'mang  the  spiritual  corps  present  them. 
Without,  at  least,  ae  honest  man. 

To  grace  this  d d  infernal  clan." 

By  Adamhill  a  glance  he  threw, 
"  Lord  God  ! "  quoth  he,  "  I  have  it  now. 
There's  just  the  man  I  want,  i'  faith!" 
And  quickly  stoppit  Rankine's  breath. 


TO  MRS.  DtlNLOP. 

ON  SENSIBIUTY. 


Sensibility,  how  charming. 

Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  tell  j 

But  distress  with  horrors  arming, 
Thou  hast  also  known  too  well ! 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily. 
Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray : 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley- 
See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 

Hear  the  wood-lark  charm  the  forest, 
Telling  o'er  his  little  joys  : 

Hapless  bii'd  !  a  prey  the  surest 
To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure 
Finer  feelings  can  bestow  ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe  ! 


BURNS  S   POEMS.  227 


TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTER. 

Dumfries,  17&6. 
My  honour'd  Colonel,  deep  I  feel 
Your  int'rest  in  the  Poet's  weal ; 
Ah !  now  sma'  heart  ha'e  I  to  speel 

The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill 

And  potion  glasses. 

0  what  a  cantie  warl'  were  it, 

Would  pain,  and  care,  aud  sickness  spare  it ; 

And  Fortune  favour  worth  and  merit. 

As  they  deserve  ; 
(And  ay  a  rowth  roast-beef  and  claret. 

Syne  wha  wad  stance  X) 

Dame  Life,  tho'  fiction  out  may  trick  her, 
And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her  ; 
Oh  !  flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 

I've  found  her  still, 
Ay  wavering  like  the  Avillow- wicker, 

'Tween  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watches,  like  baudrons  by  a  ratton. 
Our  sinfu'  saul  to  get  a  claut  on 

Wi'  felon  ire  ;  . 
Syne,  whip  !  his  tail  ye  '11  ne'er  cast  saut  on, 

He's  aff  like  fire. 

Ah  Nick !  ah  Nick  !  it  is  na  fair. 
First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware. 
Bright  wines  and  bonnie  lasses  rare. 

To  put  us  daft ; 
Syne  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare, 

O'  hell's  damn'd  waft 

Poor  man,  the  flie,  aft  bizzes  by. 
And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh. 
Thy  auld  damn'd  elbow  yeuks  wi'  joy, 

And  hellish  pleasure  ; 
Already  in  thy  fancy's  eye. 

Thy  sicker  treasure. 
Q  2 


228  BURNS  S   POEMS. 

Soon  heels-o'er-gowdie  !  in  he  gangs, 
And  like  a  sheep-head  on  a  tangs, 
Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

And  murdering  wrestle, 
As  dangling  in  the  wind  he  hangs 

A  gibbet's  tassel. 

But  lest  you  think  I  am  uncivil, 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 

Abjuring  a'  intentions  evil, 

I  quit  my  pen : 
The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  devil ! 

Amen  !  Amen  ! 


LINES 

SENT  TO  A   GENTLKMAN  WHOM   HE   HAD   OKFKNDBD. 


The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom's  way, 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send  ; 

(Not  moony  madness  more  astray ;) 
Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 

Mine  was  th*  insensate  frenzied  part, 
Ah,  why  should  I  such  scenes  outlive  I 

Scenes  so  abhon-ent  to  my  heart ! 
'Tis  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


W  M  F  R  I  }E 

From.  CastledYfes. 


EPITAPHS,  EPIGRAMS,  &c. 


FOR  THE  AUTHOR'S  FATHER. 

0  YE,  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains. 
Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend  ! 

Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains. 
The  tender  father  and  the  gen'rous  friend. 

The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe  ; 

The  dauntless  heart  that  fear'd  no  human  pride ; 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe  ; 

"For  ev'n  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side." 


INSCRIPTION  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FERGUSSON. 

HERB  LIES  ROBERT  FERGUSSON,   POET. 

Bom  September  5th,  1751.— Died  15th  October,  1774. 
No  sculptured  marble  here,  no  pompous  lay, 

"  No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust," 
This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 

To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  Poet's  dust. 


FOR  R.  A.,  ESQ. 
Know  thou,  0  stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  loved,  much  honour'd  name  I 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 
A  wanner  heart  death  ne'er  made  cold. 


ON  A  FRIEND. 
An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest 
A.S  e'er  God  with  his  unage  blest ; 
The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth  ; 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth  ; 
Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  warm'd, 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform'd  : 
If  there's  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss  ', 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


230  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


ON  \\TEE  JOHNNY. 
Hie  jacet  wee  Johnny. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  0  reader,  know. 
That  death  has  murder'd  Johnny ! 

An'  here  his  body  hes  £u'  low — 
For  saul,  he  ne'er  had  ony. 


ON  JOHN  DOVE, 

INNKEEPER,   MAUCHLINE. 

Here  hes  Johnny  Pigeon  ; 
What  was  his  religion  ? 

Wha  e'er  desu'ed  to  ken, 
To  some  other  warl' 
Maun  foUow  the  carle. 

For  here  Johnny  Pigeon  had  nane  I 

Strong  ale  was  ablution — 
Small  beer,  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori  ; 
But  a  full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  his  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 


A  / 


FOR  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

The  poor  man  weeps — here  Gavin  sleeps. 
Whom  canting  wretches  blamed  ; 

But  with  such  as  he,  where'er  he  be. 
May  1  be  saved,  or  damn'd  ! 


ON  A  CELEBRATED  RULING  ELDER. 
Here  Souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep  : 

To  hell  if  he's  gane  thither, 
Satan,  gi'e  him  thy  gear  to  keep. 

He'll  hand  it  weel  thegither. 


ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC. 
Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  banes  : 

0  Death,  it's  my  opinion, 
Thou  ne'er  took  such  a  bleth'rin  b — ch 

Into  thy  dark  dominion. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  231 


ON  A  WRITER  IN  DUMFRIES. 


Here  lies  John  Bushby,  honest  man  ! 
Cheat  him,  Devil,  if  you  can. 


ON  A  SCHOOLMASTER  IN   CLEISH    PARISH 
FIFE-SHIRE. 

Here  lie  Willie  Michie's  banes  : 
O  Satan,  when  ye  tak'  him, 

Gi'e  him  the  schoolin'  of  your  weans ; 
For  clever  de'ils  he'll  mak'  'em  ! 


ON  A  HEN-PECKED  COUNTRY  SQUIRE. 

As  father  Adam  first  was  fool'd, 
A  case  that's  still  too  common, 

Here  lies  a  man  a  woman  ruled. 
The  devil  ruled  the  woman. 


ON  THE  SAME. 


0  Death  !  hadst  thou  but  spared  his  life. 

Whom  we  this  day  lament ; 
We  freely  wad  exchanged  the  wife, 

And  a'  been  weel  content. 

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

The  swap  we  yet  will  do't ; 
Tak'  thou  the  carline's  carcase  aff, 

Thou'se  get  the  saul  to  boot. 


ON  THE  SAME. 


One  Queen  Artemisia,  as  old  stories  tell. 
When  deprived  of  her  husband  she  loved  so  well, 
In  respect  for  the  love  and  affection  he'd  show'd  her. 
She  reduced  him  to  dust,  and  she  drank  up  the  powder ; 
But  Q,ueen  Netherplace,  of  a  ditterent  complexion. 
When  call'd  on  to  order  the  fun'ral  direction. 
Would  have  eat  her  dead  lord  on  a  slender  pretence, 
JMot  to  show  her  respect,  but — to  save  the  expense. 


232  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


ON  WAT. 

Such  a  reptile  was  Wat, 

Such  a  miscreant  slave, 
That  the  veiy  worms  damned  him 

When  laid  in  his  grave. 
"  In  his  flesh  there's  a  famine," 

A  starved  reptile  cries  ; 
*'  And  his  heart  is  rank  poison," 

Another  replies. 


ON  CAPTAIN  FRANCIS  GROSE. 

The  devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was  a-dying, 

So  whip  !  at  the  summons,  old  Satan  came  flying ; 

But  when  he  approach'd  where  poor  Francis  lay  moaning, 

And  saw  each  bed-post  with  its  burden  a-gi'oaning, 

Astonished,  confounded,  cried  Satan,  «  By  G — ! 

I'll  want  'im,  ere  I  take  such  a  damnable  load." 


ON  A  WAG  IN  MAUCHLINE. 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a'. 

He  aften  did  assist  ye  ; 
For  had  ye  staid  whole  weeks  awa'. 

Your  wives  they  ne'er  had  miss'd  ye. 
Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  press 

To  school  in  bands  thegither, 
0  tread  ye  lightly  on  this  grass, 

Perhaps  he  was  your  father. 


ON  A  COUNTRY  LAIRD, 

WHO   WAS    NOT   QUITE    SO   WISE    AS   SOLOMON. 

Bless  Jesus  Christ,  0  Cardoness, 

With  grateful  lifted  eyes, 
Who  said  that  not  the  soul  alone, 

But  body  too  must  rise  : 
For  had  he  said,  "  the  soul  alone 

From  death  I  will  deliver  ;" 
Alas  !  alas  !  0  Cardoness, 

Then  thou  hadst  slept  for  ever. 


BURNS  S    P0E3IS.  233 


LINES  ON  MRS.  KESIBLE. 


Kemble,  thou  cur'st  my  unbelief 

Of  Moses  and  his  rod  ; 
At  Yarico's  sweet  notes  of  grief 

The  rock  with  tears  had  liow'd. 


TO  aiR.  SYME, 

IN    ANSWER  TO  AN   INVITATION  TO   JOIN  A  DINNER  PARTY. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 
Audi  cook'i'y  the  first  in  the  nation ; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit, 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


TO  MR.  SYME, 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  A  DOZEN  OF  PORTKR. 

0,  HAD  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind. 
Or  hops  the  flavour  of  thy  wit, 

*Twere  drink  for  first  of  humankind, 
A  gift  that  e'en  for  Syme  were  fit. 
Jerusalem  Tavern,  Dumfries. 


ON  HEARING  THAT  THERE  WAS  FALSEHOOD  IN 
THE  REV.  DR.  B 'S  VERY  LOOKS. 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 

I  must  and  will  deny. 
They  say  their  master  is  a  knave— 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie  ? 


ON   ELPHINSTONE'S    TRANSLATIONS    OP   MARTIAL'S 
EPIGRAMS. 

0  THOU,  whom  poesy  abhors. 
Whom  prose  has  turned  out  of  doors, 
Heard'st  thou  that  gi-oan  %  proceed  no  farther ; 
'Twas  laurell'd  Ivlartial  roaring  IMurther  ! 


234  BURNS  S   POEMS. 


ON  MISS  J.  SCOTT  OF  AYR. 

Oh  !  had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times 
Been  Jeanie  Scott,  as  thou  art, 

The  bravest  heart  on  Enghsh  ground 
Had  yielded  like  a  coward. 


WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW   OF    THE    GLOBE  TAVERN 
DUMFRIES. 

The  greybeard.  Old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of  his  treasures, 

Give  me  with  gay  Folly  to  Uve  ; 
I  grant  him,  calm-blooded,  time-settled  pleasures^ 

But  Folly  has  raptures  to  give. 


ON  SEEING  THE  BEAUTIFUL  SEAT  OP  LORD 
GALLOWAY. 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair  "i 

Flit,  Galloway  !  and  find 
Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave, 

The  pictui-e  of  thy  mind  ! 


ON  THE  SAME. 


No  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway, 
The  Stewarts  all  were  brave  ; 

Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools. 
Not  one  of  them  a  knave. 


ON  THE  SAME. 
Bright  ran  thy  line,  0  Galloway, 

Thro'  many  a  far-famed  sire  ! 
So  ran  the  far-famed  Roman  way, 

So  ended  in  a  mire  ! 


TO  THE  SAME, 

ON  THB  AOTHOR  BEING  THREATENED  WITH  HIS  RESfiNTMKNT. 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  Galloway, 

In  quiet  let  me  live  : 
I  ask  no  kmdness  at  thy  hand. 

For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 


BURNS  S    POEMS.  235 


ON    BEING    ASKED  WHY  GOD    MADE    mSS    DAVIES  SO 
LITTLE,  AND  MRS.  *  *  *  SO  LARGE. 

Written  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  inn  at  Moffat. 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small, 
And  why  so  huge  the  granite  ? 
^  Because  God  meant  mankind  should  set 

The  higher  value  on  it. 


WRITTEN  AT  INVERARY, 

Whoe'er  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

I  pity  much  his  case, 
Unless  he  come  to  wait  upon 

The  Lord  their  God,  his  Grace. 

There's  naething  here  but  Highland  pride. 
And  Highland  cauld  and  hunger ; 

If  Providence  has  sent  me  here, 
'Twas  surely  in  an  anger  ! 


A  VERSE 
Composed  and  repeated  hy  Burns  to  the  Master  of  the  House,  on 
taking  leave  at  a  place  in  the  Highlands,  where  he  had  been  hospi- 
tably  entertained. 

When  death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er, 

A  time  that  surely  shall  come ; 
In  Heaven  itself  I'll  ask  no  more 

Than  just  a  Highland  welcome. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  POCKET-BOOK. 

Grant  me,  indulgent  Heav'n,  that  I  may  live 
To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pains  they  give. 
Deal  Freedom's  sacred  treasures  free  as  air, 
Till  slave  and  despot  be  but  things  that  were. 


THE  CREED  OF  POVERTY. 

In  politics  if  thou  would'st  mix, 
And  mean  thy  fortunes  be. 

Bear  this  in  mind — be  deaf  and  blind 
Let  great  folks  hear  and  see. 


•36  BURNS  S    POEMS. 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW  OF  THE  INN  AT  CARRON. 

We  came  na  here  to  view  yoiu'  warks, 

In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise, 
But  only,  lest  we  gang  to  hell. 

It  may  be  nae  surprise : 

But  whan  we  tirl'd  at  your  door, 
Your  porter  dought  na  hear  us ; 

Sae  may,  should  we  to  hell's  yetts  come. 
Your  billy  Satan  sair  us ! 


ON  BEING  APPOINTED  TO  THE  EXCISE. 

Searching  old  -wives'  barrels, 

Och  hone  !  the  day  ! 
That  clarty  barm  should  stain  my  laurels, 

But — what'U  ye  say  ? 
These  movin'  tilings  ca'd  wives  and  weans 
Wad  move  the  very  hearts  o'  stanes. 


WRITTEN   ON  A   WINDOW  AT  THE  KING'S  ARMS  TAVERN, 
DUMFRIES. 

Yk  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  all  this  sneering 

'Gainst  poor  Excisemen  1  give  the  cause  a  hearing : — 

What  are  your  landlords'  rent-rolls?  teasing  ledgers  : 
What  premiers,  what  ?  even  monarchs'  mighty  gangers : 

Nay  what  are  priests,  those  seeming  godly  wise  men  I 
What  are  they,  pray,  but  spiritual  Excisemen  ? 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

O  Tliou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 

For  every  creature's  want ! 
We  bless  thee,  God  of  Nature  wide, 

For  all  thy  goodness  lent : 
And  if  it  please  thee,  Heavenly  Guide, 

May  never  worse  be  sent  ; 
But  whether  granted  or  denied, 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content ! 

Amen, 


BURxVSS   POEMS.  237 


EXTEMPORE. 


WRITTEN   IN  ANSWER  TO  A  CARD   FROM  AN   FNTIMATE   OP   BimNS, 
WISHrNG   HIM   TO  SPEND  AN   HOUR  AT  A  TAVERN. 

The  King's  most  humble  servant,  I 

Can  scarcely  spare  a  minute  ; 
But  I'll  be  wi'  ye  by  an'  by, 

Or  else  the  devil's  in  it. 


EXTEMPORE  LINES 

DELIVERED  AT  A  MEETING  OF  THE  DUMFRIES-SHIRE  VOLUNTEERS,  ON 
THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  ADflHRAL  RODNEY'S  VICTORY,  APRIL  12,  1782, 
WHEN  BURNS   WAS  CALLED  ON   FOR  A  SONG. 

T.NSTEAD  of  a  song,  boys,  I'll  give  you  a  toast, — 
Here's  the  memory  of  those  on  the  twelfth  that  we  lost ; 
That  we  lost,  did  I  say  ?  nay,  by  heav'n,  that  we  found. 
For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world  goes  round. 
The  next  in  succession,  I'll  give  you  the  King — 
Whoe'er  would  betray  liim,  on  high  may  he  swing ! 
And  here's  the  grand  fabric,  our  free  Constitution, 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolution  j 
And  longer  with  Politics  not  to  be  ci-amm'd. 
Be  Anarchy  cursed,  and  be  T;yTanny  damn'd; 
And  who  would  to  Liberty  e'er  prove  disloyal. 
May  his  son  be  a  hangman,  and  he  his  first  trial ! 


THE  HEN-PECKED  HUSBAND. 

Cursed  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in  life. 
The  crouching  vassal  to  the  tyrant  wife  ! 
Who  has  no  will  but  by  her  high  permission  ; 
Who  has  no  sixpence  but  in  her  possession ; 
Who  must  to  her  his  dear  friend's  secret  tell ; 
Who  dreads  a  curtain  lecture  worse  than  hell ! 
Were  such  the  wife  had  fallen  to  my  pai't, 
I'd  break  her  spirit,  or  I'd  break  her  heart; 
I'd  charm  her  with  the  magic  of  a  switch, 
I'd  kiss  her  maids,  and  kick  the  perverse  b — ch. 


SONGS    AND     BALLADS. 


HANDSOME  NELL*. 

TMMe— "  I  am  a  man  unmarried." 

0,  ONCE  I  loved  a  bonnie  lass, 

Ay,  and  I  love  her  still. 
And  whilst  that  honour  warms  my  breast 

I'll  love  my  liandsome  Nell. 

As  bonnie  lasses  I  ha'e  seen, 

And  mony  full  as  braw, 
But  for  a  modest  gracefu'  mien 

The  like  I  never  saw. 

A  bonnie  lass,  I  will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  e'e, 
But  without  some  better  qualities 

She's  no  a  lass  for  me. 

But  Nelly's  looks  are  blithe  and  sweet ; 

And  what  is  best  of  a'. 
Her  reputation  is  complete. 

And  fair  without  a  flaw. 

She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat, 

Both  decent  and  genteel ; 
And  then  there's  something  in  her  gait 

Gars  ony  dress  look  week 

A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  touch  the  heart. 

But  it's  innocence  and  modesty 
That  poUshes  the  dart. 

'Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 

'Tis  this  enchants  my  soul  ; 
For  absolutely  in  my  breast 

She  reigns  without  control. 

•  This  was  our  Poet's  first  attempt. 


BURNS  S   SONGS     4ND    BALLADS.  239 


BONNIE  LESLEY. 


Tune—"  The  Collier's  bonnie  daughter.' 

O  SAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Boi'der  ? 

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  ne'er  made  sic  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  : 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  heai-ts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  de'il  he  could  ua  scaith  thee. 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  j 

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  ha'e  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


FRAGMENT. 


Tune — "  I  had  a  horse,  and  I  had  nae  mail.* 

When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

My  mind  it  was  na  steady. 
Where'er  I  gaed,  where'er  I  rade 

A  mistress  still  I  had  aye  : 

But  when  I  cam'  roun'  by  Mauchline  town. 

Not  dreadin'  ony  body. 
My  heart  was  caught  before  I  thought. 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady. 


240  BURNS  S  SONGS   v\ND    BALLADS. 


TIBBIE,  I  HA'E  SEEN  THE  DAY, 

Tune — "  Invercauld's  ReeL" 

CHORUS. 

0  Tibbie,  Iha'e  seen  the  day. 

Ye  wad  nae  been  sae  shy  ; 
For  lack  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  geek  at  me  because  I'm  poor, 
But  fient  a  hair  care  I. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 
Because  ye  ha'e  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. 
Although  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean. 
Wha  follows  onie  saucy  quean 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

Although  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  ha'e  the  name  o'  gear, 
Ye'll  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier, 
Though  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear, 
Be  better  than  the  kye. 

But  Tibbie,  lass,  tak'  my  advice. 
Your  daddie's  gear  mak's  you  sae  nice  ; 
The  de'il  a  ane  wad  spier  your  pi'ice, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 
I  wad  na  gie  her  in  her  sark, 
For  thee,  wi'  a'  thy  thousan'  mark  ; 
Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  241 


1  DREAMD  I  LAY  MTTERE  FLOWERS  WERE 
SPRINGING, 


These  two  stanzas  I  composed  when  I  was  s<>venteen,  and  are  among  ch« 
oldest  of  my  printed  pieces." — Burnt's  Reliquea. 

I  DREAM 'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing. 

Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 
List'ning  to  the  wild  birds  singing, 

By  a  falling,  ci-ystal  stream  : 
Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring  ; 

Thro'  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave  ; 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring, 

O'er  the  swelling,  driunlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning, 

Such  the  pleasures  I  enjoy'd  ; 
But  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  storming, 

A'  my  flow'ry  bliss  destroy'd. 
Tho'  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me, 

(She  promised  fair,  and  pei'form'd  but  ill ;) 
Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereaved  me, 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 


LUCKLESS   FORTUNE, 

0  RAGING  fortune's  withering  l)lasi 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low  !  O, 

0  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low  !  0. 

My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green. 
My  blossom  sweet  did  blow,  0  ; 

The  dew  fell  fresh,  the  sun  rose  mild. 
And  made  my  branches  grow,  0. 

But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 
Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  0, 

But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 
Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  0. 


242  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLAD3. 


THE  HIGHLAND   LASSIE. 


Tune—"  The  Deuks  dang  o'er  my  Daddy .'  " 

Nae  gentle  dames,  though  e'er  sae  fail', 
Shall  ever  be  my  muse's  care  ; 
Their  titles  a'  are  empty  show  ; 
Gi'e  me  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  0, 
Aboon  the  plain  sae  rushy,  0, 
I  set  me  down  wV  ricjht  good  will 
To  sing  my  highland  lassie,  0. 

Oh,  were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine, 
You  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine  ! 
The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I  bear  my  highland  lassie,  0. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me. 
And  I  maun  ci-oss  the  raging  sea  ; 
But  while  my  crimson  cuiTeuts  flow 
I'll  love  my  highland  lassie,  0. 

Although  through  foreign  climes  I  range, 
I  know  her  heart  will  never  change. 
For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour's  gloWj 
My  faithful  highland  lassie,  O. 

For  her  I'll  dare  the  billows'  roar, 
For  her  I'll  trace  a  distant  shore, 
That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw- 
Around  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand. 
By  sacred  truth  and  honour's  band  ' 
Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low 
I'm  thine,  my  highland  lassie,  0. 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushp.  Of 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  OJ 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go. 
To  ting  my  highland  lassie,  0! 


BURNS  S  SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  243 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN*. 

A  BALLAD. 


There  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high, 
And  they  ha'e  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a  plough  and  plough'd  him  down, 

Put  clods  upon  his  head, 
And  they  ha'e  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall  ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again. 

And  sore  surprised  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  show  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  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim, 
They  heaved  m  John  Bai'leycoi-n, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

♦  This  is  partly  composed  on  the  plan  of  an  old  song  Icnown  hy 
tlie  same  name. 

R   2 


244  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

To  work  him  further  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  used  him  worst  of  all. 

For  he  crush'd  him  'tween  two  stones. 

And  they  ha'e  ta'en  his  very  heart's  bloodj 
And  drank  it  I'ound  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, 

Though  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  ! 


MONTGOMERIE'S  PEGGY. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Tune — "  Galla  Water." 
Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir, 

Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie. 
Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be 

Had  I  my  dear  Montgomei'ie's  Peggy. 

When  o'er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms. 
And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy  ; 

I'd  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I'd  shelter  dear  Montgomerie's  Peggy. 

Were  I  a  baron  proud  and  high, 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready. 

Then  a'  'twad  gi'e  o'  joy  to  me, 

The  sharin'  't  with  Montgomerie's  Peggy. 


BURNRS    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  245 


THE   RIGS   O'  BARLEY. 


Tune — "  Corn  rigs  are  bonnie. 

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  ken'd  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain  ; 

I  loved  her  most  sincerely  ; 
I  kiss'd  her  o\vre  and  owre  again 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

I  lock'd  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  sae  bright, 

That  shone  that  hour  sae  clearly  ! 
She  aye  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

I  ha'e  been  blithe  wi'  comrades  dear  ; 

I  ha'e  been  meiTy  drinking  ; 
I  ha'e  been  joj'fu'  gathering  gear  ; 

I  ha'e  been  happy  thinking  ; 
But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw, 

Though  three  times  doubled  fairly. 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a' 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn  rigs  an'  barley  rigs. 

And  corn  rigs  are  bonnie  ; 
ni  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night 

Amang  the  rigs  wi'  Annie. 


246  BURN'S  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER*. 


Tune—"  The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle. 

My  Father  was  a  Farmer 

Upon  the  Carrick  border, 
And  carefully  he  bred  me 

In  decency  and  order. 
He  bade  me  act  a  manly  part, 

Though  I  had  ne'er  a  farthing. 
For  without  an  honest  manly  heaii;. 

No  man  was  worth  regarding. 

Then  out  into  the  world, 

My  course  I  did  determine, 
Though  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish. 

Yet  to  be  great  Avas  charming. 
My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst, 

Nor  yet  my  education  ; 
Resolved  was  I,  at  least  to  try, 

To  mend  my  situation. 

In  many  a  way,  and  vain  essay, 

I  courted  fortune's  favour ; 
Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between. 

To  frustrate  each  endeavour ; 
Sometimes  by  foes  I  was  o'erpower'd ; 

Sometimes  by  friends  forsaken  ; 
And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top 

I  still  was  worst  mistaken. 

Then  sore  hardss'd,  and  tired  at  last, 

With  fortune's  vain  delusion  ; 
I  dropt  my  schemes  like  idle  dreams. 

And  came  to  this  conclusion — 
The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid  ; 

Its  good  or  ill  untried  ; 
But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  pow'r, 

And  so  I  would  enjoy  it. 

*  *'  This  song  is  a  wild  rhapsody,  miserably  deficient  in  versifica- 
tions  but  as  the  sentiments  are  the  genuine  feelings  of  my  heart,  for 
ibat  reason  I  have  a  particular  pleasure  in  conning  it  over." 

Bdrns's  Reliques,  p.  329. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  2-4' 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I  ; 

Nor  person  to  befriend  me  ; 
So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat  and  broil. 

And  labour  to  sustain  me. 
To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow. 

My  father  bred  me  early  ; 
For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred. 

Was  a  match  for  fortune  faii-ly. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown  and  poor, 

Through  life  I'm  doom'd  to  wander, 
Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay 

In  everlasting  slumber : 
No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'er 

Might  breed  me  pain  or  sorrow  ; 
I  live  to-day,  as  well's  I  may, 

Regardless  of  to-morrow. 

But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well 

As  a  monarch  in  a  palace. 
Though  fortune's  frown  still  hunts  me  down, 

With  all  her  wonted  malice  ; 
I  make,  indeed,  my  daily  bread. 

But  ne'er  can  make  it  farther  ; 
But  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need, 

I  do  not  much  regard  her. 

When  sometimes  by  my  labour 

I  earn  a  little  money. 
Some  unforeseen  misfortune 

Comes  generally  upon  me  ; 
Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect, 

Or  my  good-natui-ed  folly ; 
But  come  what  will,  I've  sworn  it  still, 

I'll  ne'er  be  melancholy. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power 

With  unremitting  ardour, 
The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bUss, 

You  leave  your  view  the  farther  : 
Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts. 

Or  nations  to  adore  you, 
A  cheerful  honest-hearted  clowu 

I  will  prefer  before  you. 


248  UURNS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 

SONG, 

COMPOSED   IN  AUGUST. 

I'tine — "I  had  a  horse,  I  had  nae  mair." 
Now  westlin'  winds,  and  slauglit'ring  guus 

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  ; 

Tlie  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  Imnet. 

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  murd'ring  cry, 

The  flutt'ring,  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  rustlmg  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  I 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  249 


THE  RANTIN'  DOG  THE  DADDIE  0'T». 

0  WHA  my  babie-clouts  will  buy  ? 
Wha  will  tent  me  when  I  cry  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  wliare  I  lie  ? 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 

Wha  will  o^vn  he  did  the  fau't  ? 
Wha  will  buy  my  groanin'  maut  I 
Wha  will  tell  me  what  to  ea't  ? 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 

When  I  mount  the  creepie-chair, 
Wha  will  sit  beside  me  there  ? 
Gi'e  me  Rob,  I  seek  nae  mair, 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 

Wha  will  crack  to  me  my  lane  ? 
Wha  will  mak'  me  fidgiu'  fain  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  o'er  again  ? 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 


O  LEAVE   NOVELS. 

Tune—*'  Mauchline  Belles." 
O  LEAVE  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles, 

Ye're  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel ; 
Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 

For  rakish  rooks,  hke  Rob  Mossgiel, 
Your  fine  Tom  Jones  and  Graudisons, 

They  make  your  youthful  fancies  reel, 
They  heat  your  brains,  and  fire  your  veins. 

And  then  you're  prey  for  Rob  Mossgiel. 

Beware  a  tongue  that's  smoothly  hung, 

A  heart  that  wai'mly  seems  to  feel  ; 
That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part, 

'Tis  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 
The  frank  address,  the  soft  cai'ess, 

Are  worse  than  poison'd  darts  of  steel, 
The  frank  address,  and  politesse, 

Are  all  finesse  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 

*  '•  I  composed  this  song  pretty  early  in  life,  and  sent  it  to  a  young 
girl,  a  very  particular  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  was  at  that  tin;e 
under  a  cloud." — Burns's  lieliqiies,  p.  278. 


250  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


NANNIE. 


Tune — "  ]My  Nannie,  O." 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar*  flows, 
'Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O, 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  closed, 
And  I'll  awa'  to  Nannie,  0. 

The  westlin'  wind  blaws  loud  an'  shill ; 

The  night's  baith  mu-k  an'  rainy,  0  ; 
But  I'll  get  my  plaid,  an'  out  I'll  steal, 

An'  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  0. 

My  Nannie's  charming,  sweet,  an'  youngs 
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,  0  : 

The  op'ning  gowan,  wet  wi'  dew, 
Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree, 

An'  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  0  ; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be  ? 
I'm  welcome  aye  to  Nannie,  0. 

My  riches  a'  's  my  penny  fee, 
An'  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  0  ; 

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,  0 ; 

But  I'm  as  biythe  that  hand  his  plough, 
An'  ha'e  nae  care  but  Nannie,  0. 

Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by, 
I'll  tak'  what  Heav'n  will  sen'  me,  0  : 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  T, 
But  live,  an'  love  my  Nannie,  0. 

*  Originally  Stincbar. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  261 


FORLORN,  JIY  LOVE,  NO  COMFORT  NEAR. 

Tune — "Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near. 
Far,  far  from  tliee,  I  wander  here  ; 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I  most  repme,  love. 

0  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me. 
But  near,  near,  near  me  ; 
How  khidly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me. 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love! 

Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky, 
That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy, 
No  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 
Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 
0  wert  thou,  &c. 

Cold,  alter' d  friendship's  cruel  part, 

To  poison  fortune's  ruthless  dart — 

Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart, 

And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

0  wert  thou,  &c. 

But  dreary  though  the  moments  fleet, 
O  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet ! 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 
O  wert  thou,  &c. 


HER   FLOWING  LOCKS. 

A    FRAGMENT. 


Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing  ; 
How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling, 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her  ! 

Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi'  dew, 
O  what  a  feast  her  bonnie  mou' ! 
Her  cheeks  a  mair  celestial  hue, 
A  crimson  still  diviner. 


252  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


THERE'S  NOUGHT   BUT  CARE. 


Tune — *'  Green  grow  the  rushes." 

Cfreen  grow  the  rash€S,  0  ! 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent. 

Were  spent  ainang  the  lasses,  0  ! 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  hau'. 
In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  0  ; 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O  ? 

The  warl'y  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.,  0. 

But  gi'e  me  a  cannie  hour  at  e'en. 
My  anns  about  my  dearie,  0  ; 

An'  warl'y  cares,  an'  warl'y  men. 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  0  I 

For  you  sae  douce,  wha  sneer  at  this, 
Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O : 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw. 
He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  0. 

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,  0. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ! 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent^ 

Were  spent  among  Vie  lassei^,  0 ' 


UURNS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  258 


KOBIN. 


Tune—"  Dainty  Davie." 

There  was  a  lad  was  born  at  Kyle*, 
But  what  na  day  o'  what  iia  style — 
I  doubt  it's  hardly  worth  the  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 

Robin  icas  a  rovin'  hop, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin' ;  • 

Robin  teas  a  roinn'  boy, 

Rantin'  rovin'  Robin. 

Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  but  ana 
Was  five-and-twenty  days  begun, 
'Twas  then  a  blast  o'  Januar'  win' 
Blew  handsel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof : 
Quo'  scho,  "Wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  cuif, 
I  think  we  '11  ca'  liim  Robin. 

"  He'll  ha'e  misfortunes  great  and  sma'. 
But  ay  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  ! 

"  Guid  faith,"  quo'  scho,  "  I  doubt  ye'll  gar 
The  bonnie  lasses  lie  aspar. 
But  twenty  faults  ye  may  ha'e  waur, 
So  blessin's  on  thee,  Robin  ! " 

Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy,  SjC. 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin* ; 
Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 

Rantin'  rovin'  Robin. 

*  Kyle — a  district  of  Ayrshire.    The  reader  need  not  be  informed 
who  '•  Robin"  was. — Eu. 


254  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


BONNIE    PEGGY  ALISON. 


Tune— "BTa.es  o*  Balquliidder." 

I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

An'  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again. 
An'  I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

My  bonnie  Peggy  Alison  ! 

Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near^ 

I  ever  mair  defy  them,  0  ; 
Young  kings  upon  their  handsel  throne 

Are  no  sae  blest  as  I  am,  0  ! 

When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charms, 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O ; 

I  seek  nae  mair  o'  Heaven  to  share, 
Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure,  0  ! 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 
I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever,  0  ; — 

And  on  thy  lips^I  seal  my  vow. 
And  break  it  shall  I  never,  0  ! 

I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 

An'  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again, 
An'  I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

My  bonnie  Peggy  Alison  ! 


MY  JEAN. 


[This  beautiful  Fragment  is  an  early  Composition.] 
Tune—"  The  Northern  Lass." 

Though  cruel  Fate  should  bid  us  part. 

As  far  's  the  Pole  and  Line, 
Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 

Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Though  mountains  frown  and  deserts  howl. 

And  oceans  roar  between ; 
Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

1  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


BURNSS   SONGS   AND    BALLADS.  255 


YOUNG    PEGGY. 

[ThiL:  is  one  of  the  Poet's  earliest  compositions.  It  is  copied 
from  a  3IS.  book  which  he  had  before  his  first  publication. — 
Cromek.'] 

Tunc—"  The  last  time  i  came  owre  the  muix*.** 

Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass. 

Her  blusii  is  like  the  morning, 
The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass, 

With  pearly  gems  adorning. 
Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 

That  gild  the  passing  shower, 
And  glitter  o'er  the  ci-ystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  fresh'ning  flower. 

Her  lips  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 

A  richer  dye  has  graced  them  ; 
They  charm  th'  admu-ing  gazer's  sight. 

And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them. 
Her  smiles  are  like  the  evening  mild, 

When  feather'd  pairs  are  courting, 
And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild. 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 

Were  fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe. 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her  ; 
As  blooming  spring  unbends  tlie  brow 

Of  savage,  surly  winter. 
Detraction's  eye  no  aim  can  gain 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen ; 
And  spiteful  envy  grins  in  vain, 

The  poisou'd  tooth  to  fasten. 

Ye  powers  of  honour,  love,  and  truth. 

From  every  ill  defend  her  ; 
Inspire  the  highly-favour'd  youth 

The  destinies  intend  her  ; 
Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame. 

Responsive  in  each  bosom  ; 
And  bless  the  dear  parental  narae 

With  many  a  filial  blossom. 


256  BURNS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS. 


[Recovered  from  the  recitation  of  a  lady  in  Glasgow,  and 

first  published  by  Cromek.] 

Tune — "  If  he  be  a  butcher  neat  and  trim." 

On  Gessnock  banks  there  lives  a  lass — 
Could  I  describe  her  shape  aud  mien  ; 

The  graces  of  her  ^Yeel-far'd  face, 

And  the  glancin'  of  her  sparkliu'  een. 

She's  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phcebus  first  is  seen, 

When  dew-dx'ops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn  ; 
An'  she 's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  een. 

She's  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash. 

That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between, 

And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush  ; 
An'  she 's  twa  glancin'  spai'klin'  een. 

She's  spotless  as  the  flow'ring  thorn 

With  flow'rs  so  white  and  leaves  so  green. 

When  purest  in-the  dewy  morn  ; 
An'  she 's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb, 
When  flow'ry  May  adorns  the  scene, 

That  wantons  round  its  bleating  dam ; 
An  she 's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

That  shades  the  mountain-side  at  e'en, 

When  flow'r-reviving  rains  are  past ; 
An'  she 's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  een. 

Her  forehead's  like  the  show'ry  bow, 
When  shining  sunbeams  intervene 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow  : 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  ev'ning  thrush 
That  sings  on  Cessnock  banks  unseen, 

While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush  j 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  een. 


BURNS S    SONGS    AND    BALLAUS  257 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherries  ripe 
That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen. 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight ; 
An'  she 's  twa  giancin'  sparklin'  een. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 

With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 
That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep  ; 

An'  she's  twa  giancin'  sparklin'  een. 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragi'ant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom'd  bean, 

When  Phcebus  sinks  behind  the  seas  ; 
An'  she 's  twa  giancin'  sparklin'  een. 

But  it's  not  her  air,  her  fox'm,  her  face, 
Tho'  matching  Beauty's  fabled  queeu, 

But  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev'iy  grace, 
An'  chiefly  in  her  sparklin'  een. 


Tune — "  Blue  Bonnets." 

Powers  celestial,  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 
While  in  distant  climes  I  wander 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care  : 
Let  her  form  sae  fair  and  faultless, 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own  ; 
Let  my  Mary's  kindred  spirit, 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down. 

Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her. 

Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast  ; 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her, 

Soothe  her  bosom  mto  rest : 
Guardian  angels,  0  protect  her, 

When  in  distant  lands  I  roam  , 
To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  mo. 

Make  her  bosom  still  my  home*. 

*  Probably  written  on  Highland  Mary,   on  the  eve  of  the  poet's 
departure  to  the  West  Indies. 

8 


258        BURNS  S  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  CURE  FOR  ALL  CARE. 


Ttme — "  Prepare,  my  dear  brethren,  to  the  tavern  let's  fly.* 

No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write, 
No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 
No  sly  man  of  business  contri\ang  a  snare, 
For  a  big-belly'd  bottle's  the  whole  of  my  cai-e. 

The  peer  I  don't  envy,  I  give  him  his  bow ; 
I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  though  ever  so  low  ; 
But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that  are  here, 
And  a  bottle  lUce  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother — his  hoi'se  ; 
There  centum  per  centum,  the  cit,  with  his  purse ; 
But  see  you  the  Crown  how  it  waves  in  the  ah*, 
There,  a  big-belly'd  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas  !  she  did  die  ; 
For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly  ; 
I  fomid  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair, 
That  a  big-belly'd  bottle  's  a  cure  for  all  care. 

I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make  ; 
A  letter  inform'd  me  that  all  was  to  wreck  ; — 
But  the  pursy  old  landioi'd  just  waddled  up  stairs, 
With  a  glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cai'es. 

"  Life's  cares  they  are  comforts,"  * — a  maxim  laid  down 
By  the  bard,  what  d'ye  call  him?  that  wore  the  black  gov-ti ; 
And  faith  I  agi'ee  with  th'  old  prig  to  a  hair ; 
For  a  big-belly'd  bottle's  a  heav'n  of  care. 

A  Stanza  added  in  a  Masonic  Lodge. 
Then  fill  up  a  bumper  and  make  it  o'erflow. 
And  honours  masonic  prepare  for  to  throw  ! 
May  every  true  brother  of  the  compass  and  square 
Have  a  big-belly'd  bottle  when  harass'd  with  care. 

*  Young's  Night  Thoughts. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS,  259 


MENIE. 

Tune— "  Johnny's  Grey  Breeks." 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 

Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues, 
Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

AH  freshly  steep'd  in  morning  dews. 

And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat. 

And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  9 
For  iVsjettjet  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  vi'lets  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  sheep-herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 
And  owre  the  moorlands  whistles  shill, 

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  9 
For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a  hawk. 

An'  it  winna  let  a  body  be. 

*  This  chorus  is  part  of  a  song  composed  by  a  gentleman  in 
Edinburgh,  >a  particular  friend  of  the  author's.  Menie  is  ^l.e 
common  abbreviation  of  Marianne. 


260  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLAPS. 


THE  LASS  O'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — "  Miss  Forbes's  Farewell  to  Banff." 

'TwAS  even — the  dewy  fields  wei'e  green, 

On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang  ; 
The  zephyr  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  musmg  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanced  to  spy  ; 
Her  look  was  like  the  morning's  eye. 

Her  air  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  a  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. 

0,  had  she  been  a  country  maid. 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Tho'  shelter'd  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  in  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  slipp'ry  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. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  261 


THE   FAREWELL 

TO  THE  BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES'S  LODGE,  TARBOLTON. 

Tune—*'  Good  night,  and  joy  be  wV  you  a' !  " 

Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  ! 

Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tie  ! 
Ye  favour'd,  ye  enlighteu'd  few, 

Companions  of  my  social  joy  ! 
Though  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie. 

Pursuing  fortune's  sHdd'ry  ba', 
With  melting  heart  and  brimful  eye, 

I'll  mind  you  still,  though  far  awa'. 

Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

Aud  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night ; 
Oft,  honoured  with  supreme  command. 

Presided  o'er  the  sons  of  light  : 
And  by  that  hierogl;y'phic  bright. 

Which  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw  ! 
Strong  mem'ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 

Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa'. 

May  freedom,  harmony,  and  love. 

Unite  you  in  the  grand  design, 
Beneath  th'  omniscient  eye  above. 

The  glorious  Architect  divine  ! 
That  you  may  keep  th'  unerring  line, 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law. 
Till  order  bright  completely  shine. 

Shall  be  my  pray'r  when  far  awa'. 

And  you,  farewell !  whose  merits  claim, 

Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear  ! 
Heav'n  bless  your  honour'd,  noble  name, 

To  Masonry  and  Scotia  dear  ! 
A  last  request  permit  me  here. 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a', 
One  round,  I  ask  it  with  a  tear. 

To  him,  the  bard  that's  far  awa'. 


262  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


WHISTLE,  A?sD  I'LL  COME  TO  YOU,  MY  LAD. 


0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad  ; 
0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad  : 
Though  father  and  mither  and  a'  should  gae  mad, 
0  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  ajee  ; 
Syne  up  the  back-stile,  and  let  naebody  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin'  to  me. 
And  come,  &c. 

0  whistle,  &c. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  you  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  though  that  ye  cared  na  a  flie  : 
But  steal  me  a  blink  o'  your  bouuie  black  e'e. 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  looking  at  me. 
Yet  look,  &c. 

0  whistle,  &c. 

Aye  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me, 
And  whyles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee  ; 
But  court  na  anlther,  though  jokin'  ye  be. 
For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 
For  fear,  &c. 

0  whistle,  &c. 


ELIZA. 

Tune—'*  Gilderoy." 

From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go. 

And  from  my  native  shore  ; 
The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 

A  boundless  ocean's  roar  ; 
But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide. 

Between  my  love  and  me, 
They  never,  never  can  divide 

My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  263 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I  adore  ! 
A  boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear. 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  : 
But  the  last  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 

While  Death  stands  victor  by. 
That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part. 

And  thine  that  latest  sigh. 


I  AM  MY  MAMMY'S  AE  BAIRN. 

[Of  this  song  the  chorus  and  second  stanza  are  old.] 
Time—"  I'm  o^vre  young  to  mai-ry  yet." 

1  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  iak'  me/rae  my  mammie  yet. 

My  mammie  coft  me  a  new  gown. 
The  kirk  maun  ha'e  the  gi'acmg  o't ; 

Were  I  to  lie  wi'  you,  kind  Sir, 
I'm  fear'd  ye'd  spoil  the  lacing  o't. 
I'm  owre  young,  &c. 

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,  Sii*. 
I'm  owre  young,  &c. 

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,  &c. 


264  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


THE   AUTHOR'S   FAREWELL    TO   HIS   NATIVE 
CGUNTRY. 

[Bums  intended  this  song  as  a  farewell  dirge  to  his  native  land, 
from  which  he  was  to  embark  in  a  few  days  for  Jamaica.  "  I 
had  taken,"  says  he,  "  the  last  farewell  of  my  friends :  my  chest 
was  on  the  road  to  Greenock :  I  composed  the  last  song  I  should 
ever  measure  in  Caledonia, — ♦  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering 
fast.'"] 

Tune — '•  Roslin  Castle." 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast, 
Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast, 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  loul  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  wi'  care, 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

The  Autumn  moui'ns  her  rip'ning  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  I'ound  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierced  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  ! 
Fareweh,  my  friends  !  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declai*e. 
Farewell  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr  ! 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  265 


BONNIE  LASSIE,  WILL  YE  GO. 

Tune—"  The  Bilks  of  Abergeldie." 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  u'ill  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ; 
Bonnie  lassie,  tcill  ye  go  to  the  Birks  of  Aber/eldy  ? 
Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes, 
And  o'er  the  cr}-stal  streamlet  plays. 
Come  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  Bbks  of  Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 

While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 

The  little  birdies  blithely  sing. 

Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 

In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Boimie  lassie,  &c. 

The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa's, 
The  foaming  stream  deep  roaring  fa's, 
O'er-hung  wi'  fragrant  spreaduag  shaws, 
The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie  lassie,  &e. 

The  hoary  cliff's  are  crown'd  wi'  flowers. 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  bumiie  pours, 
And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 

Let  fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee. 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  fi'ae  me. 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee, 
In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 


THE    YOUNG   HIGHLAND   ROVER. 


Tune — "  IMorag." 
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  ! 


266  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning^ 
Shall  soon  wi'  leaves  be  hinging, 

The  birdies  dowie  moaning, 
Shall  a'  be  blithely  singing, 
And  every  flower  be  springing. 

Sae  I'll  rejoice  the  lee-laug  day, 
When  by  his  mighty  warden 

My  youth's  return'd  to  fair  Strathspey. 
And  bonnie  Castle  Gordon. 


M'PHERSON'S  FAREWELL. 

Tune — "  M'Pherson's  Lament." 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wTotch's  destinie  ! 
M'Pherson's  time  will  not  be  long 

On  yonder  gallows  tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he  ,- 
He  play'd  a  spring  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ? — 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I've  dai-ed  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  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  avenged  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  play'd  a  spring  and  danced  it  rounds 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  267 


THICKEST    NIGHT   O'ERHANG   MY   DWELLING. 


Tune—"  Strathallan's  Lament." 
Thickest  niglit  o'erhang  my  dwelling  ! 

Howling  tempests  o'er  me  rave  ! 
Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 

Still  surround  my  lonely  cave  ! 

Crystal  streamlets,  gently  flowing, 
Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 

Western  breezes,  softly  blowing, 
Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged. 
Wrongs  injurious  to  redress. 

Honour's  w^ar  we  strongly  waged, 
But  the  heavens  denied  success. 

Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us. 
Not  a  hope  that  dare  attend. 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us — 
But  a  world  without  a  friend  ! 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 


[The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old.] 

Up  in  the  morning's  no  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ,- 
When  a"  the  hills  are  covered  wi'  snaw, 

rm  sure  it's  vointer  fairly. 

Cauld  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west. 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 
Sae  loud  and  shrill's  I  hear  the  blast, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 
Up  in  the  mox*ning,  «&e. 

The  birds  sit  chittermg  in  the  thorn, 
A'  day  they  fare  but  sparely  ; 

And  lang's  the  night  frae  e'en  to  morn, 
I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 
Up  in  the  mornmg,  &c. 


268  nruNSS  songs  and  ballads. 


BLITHE   WAS   SHE. 

Tune — "  Andro  and  his  cutty  gun." 
Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she. 

Blithe  teas  she  but  and  ben  : 
Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Em, 

But  blither  in  Glenlurit  glen. 

By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw  ; 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o'  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

Her  looks  were  like  a  flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn ; 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 
As  Ught'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'  Pliemie's  e'e. 

The  Highland  hills  I've  wander'd  wide, 
And  o'er  the  Lowlands  I  ha'e  been ; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she. 

Blithe  was  she  but  and  ben  •• 
Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

But  blither  in  Glenturit  glen. 


STAY,   MY   CHARIVIER. 

Tune — "  An  Gillie  dubh  ciar-dhubh." 
Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 
Cruel,  ci'uel  to  deceive  me  ! 
Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve  me ; 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

By  my  love  so  ill  requited  ; 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  plighted  ; 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted  ; 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so 


BURNS S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS  269 


THE    BANKS    OF   THE   DEVON 

Tune—"  Bhannerach  dhon  nacri." 
How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding  Devon, 

With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers  blooming  fair ! 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 

Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower. 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew ! 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower. 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew. 

O  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 
With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  ! 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn ! 

Let  Boui'bon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies. 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud  rose  \ 

A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 


RAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER  BLOWING. 

Tune — "  M'Grigor  of  Ruara's  Lament." 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  Avoodlands  strewing. 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 
Isabella  strayed  deploring  : 
"  Farewell,  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure; 
Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow — 
Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow  ! 

"  O'er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering. 
On  the  hopeless  future  pondering ; 
Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 
Fell  despair  my  fancy  seizes. 
Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 
Load,  to  misery  most  distressing, 
0  how  gladly  I'd  resign  thee, 
And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee  !" 


270  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


HOW  LONG  AND  DREARY  IS  THE  NiGL 

Tune — '•  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen."  * 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 

When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  ! 
I  restless  he  frae  e'en  to  morn, 

Tho'  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 

For  oh,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang. 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie  ; 
And  oh,  her  widow' d  heart,  is  sair. 

That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 

When  I  think  on  the  lightsome  days 

I  spent  wi'  thee,  ray  dearie ; 
And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 

How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ? 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hom-s  ; 

The  joyless  day  how  dreary ! 
It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

For  oh,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang. 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie; 
And  oh,  her  widow'd  heart  is  sair. 

That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 


A  ROSE-BUD  BY  MY  EARLY   WALK. 


Tunc—"  The  Shepherd's  Wife." 

A  ROSE-BUD  by  my  early  walk, 
Adown  a  corn-enclosed  bawk, 
Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk, 
All  on  a  dewy  morning. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fledr 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread, 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 
It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A  little  linnet  fondly  prest, 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  morning. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  271 

She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood  ; 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd, 
Awake  the  early  moi'ning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird !  young  Jeannie  fair. 
On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air, 
Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 
That  tents  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud !  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 
That  watch'd  thy  early  morning. 


O  WERE  I  ON  PARNASSUS'  IlLLL. 

[This  song  wasAvritten  in  honour  of  Mrs.  Bum&j 
Tune—"  My  love  is  lost  to  me." 

0  WERE  I  on  Parnassus'  hill  ! 
Or  had  of  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  bounie  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, 

1  couldna  sing,  I  couldna  say. 

How  much— how  dear  1  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green, 
Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean. 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een — 

By  heaven  and  earth  1  love  thee ! 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame. 

The  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame  ,• 

And  ay  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name : 

1  only  Kve  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. 


272  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


STREAMS  THAT  GLIDE. 

Tune — "  Morag." 
Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains. 
Never  bound  by  winter's  chains  ! 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  commix'd  Avith  foulest  stains 

From  tyi'anny's  empurpled  bands  ; 
These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 
I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves  ; 
Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 

The  banks  by  Castle  Gordon. 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay. 
Shading  from  the  burning  ray 

Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 
Or  the  ruthless  native's  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil : 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 

The  storms  by  Castle  Gordon. 

Wildly  here,  without  control, 
Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole; 

In  that  sober  pensive  mood, 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood  ; 
Life's  poor  day  I'll  musing  rave. 
And  find  at  night  a  sheltei'ing  cave. 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave 

By  bonuie  Castle  Gordon. 


TIBBIE    DUNBAR. 

Tune—"  Johnny  M'Gill." 

O  WILT  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

0  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar? 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse,  or  be  drawn  in  a  car. 
Or  walk  by  my  side,  0  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

1  carena  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his  money, 
1  carena  thy  kin  sae  high  and  sae  lordly : 
But  say  thou  wilt  ha'e  me  for  better  for  waur, 
And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar. 


BUIIXS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  273 


MUSING  ON   THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 


Twwe— "Druimion  dabh." 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Which  divides  my  love  and  me  ; 

Wearying  Heaven  in  warm  devotion, 
For  his  weal  where'er  he  be. 

Hope  and  fear's  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  nature's  law ; 

Whisp"ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 
Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa'. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded. 
Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear, 

Care-untroubled,  j  oy-surrounded. 
Gaudy  day  to  you  is  dear. 

Gentle  night,  do  thou  befriend  me ; 

Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw ; 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me. 

Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa' ! 


WHERE  BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER'S  STORMS. 

Tune — "  Neil  Gow's  Lamentation  for  Abercairny." 

Where,  braving  angry  winter's  storms. 

The  lofty  Ochils  rise. 
Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy's  charms 

First  blest  my  wondering  eyes. 
As  one  who,  by  some  savage  stream, 

A  lonely  gem  surveys, 
Astonish'd,  doubly  mai*ks  its  beam 

With  art's  most  poUsh'd  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequester'd  shade. 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour. 
Where  Peggy's  charms  I  first  survey'd. 

When  first  I  felt  their  pow'r  I 
The  tyrant  death,  with  grim  control. 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath  ; 
But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 

Must  be  a  stronger  death. 


274  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


MY   HARRY. 

Tune — '•  Highlander's  Lament." 

My  Harry  was  a  gallant  gay, 

Fu'  stately  strode  he  ou  the  plain : 

But  now  he's  banish'd  far  away, 
I'll  never  see  him  back  again. 

Ofor  him  back  again  ! 

Ofor  him  back  again  ! 
I  lead  gi'e  a'  Knockhaspie's  land. 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

When  a'  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 
I  wander  dowie  up  the  glen  ; 

I  sit  me  down  and  greet  my  fill, 
And  ay  I  wish  him  back  again. 

0  were  some  villains  hangit  high. 
And  ilka  body  had  their  ain ! 

Then  I  might  see  the  joyfu'  sight. 
My  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

0/or  him  back  again! 

Ofor  him  back  again! 
I  wad  gi'e  a'  Knockhaspie's  land. 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


MY  BONNIE  MARY* 

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'  Leitli ; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry  ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  lea'e  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready  ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tai'ry  ; 
Nor  shout  o'  war  that's  heard  afai', 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 
*  This  air  is  Oswald's ;  the  first  half -stanza  of  the  song  ir  old. 


oj/^^  a/^-^^ 


^ 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  275 


BLOOMING   NELLY. 


Tune—"  The  lady  of  the  flowery  field." 

On  a  bauk  of  flowers,  in  a  summer  day, 

For  summer  lightly  clrest. 
The  youthful,  blooming  Nelly  lay. 

With  love  and  sleep  opprest : 

When  Willie,  wand'ring  through  the  wood, 
Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued  ; 

He  gazed,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  blush'd. 
And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes,  like  weapons  sheathed, 

Were  seal'd  in  soft  repose  ; 
Her  lips,  still  as  she  fragrant  breathed, 

They  richer  dyed  the  rose. 

The  springing  lilies  sweetly  prest. 
Wild,  wanton  kiss'd  her  rival  breast  ; 

He  gazed,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  blush'd, 
His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

Her  robes,  light  waving  in  the  breeze. 

Her  tender  limbs  embrace  ; 
Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease. 

All  harmony  and  gi'ace  ! 

Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 
A  faltering,  ardent  kiss  he  stole  ; 

He  gazed,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  blush'd. 
And  sigh'd  his  very  soul  ! 

As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake, 

On  fear-inspired  wings  ; 
So  Nelly,  starting,  half  awake. 

Away  affrighted  springs : 

But  Willie  follow'd — as  he  should, 

He  overtook  her  in  the  wood  : 
He  vow'd,  he  pray'd,  he  found  the  maid 

Forgiving  all  and  good. 


T  2 


276  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN  BLAW. 


Tune—^^  Miss  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey." 

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  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  ; 
Thei'e's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  BOSOM  BURNS. 

Tune — "  Seventh  of  November." 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet, 
Tho'  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil'd. 

Ne'er  summer-sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide. 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  Line  ; 
Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 

Heaven  gave  me  more,  it  made  thee  mine. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight. 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give  ; 
While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move. 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I  live  ! 
When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part  ; 
The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band. 

It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breaks  my  heart. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  277 


TnE  LAZY  MIST. 

Irish  Air — "  Coolun." 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
Coucealmg  the  course  of  the  dark  winding  rill  ; 
How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly,  appear, 
As  autumn  to  winter  resigns  the  pale  year  1 
The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are  brown. 
And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  summer  is  flown : 
.\part  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse. 
How  quick  time  is  flying,  how  keen  fate  pursues  ! 

How  long  I  have  Uved,  but  how  much  lived  in  vain  ; 

How  little  of  life's  scanty  span  may  remain : 

What  aspects,  old  Time,  in  his  progress  has  worn ; 

What  ties,  cruel  fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn. 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit  is  gained ! 

And  downward,  how  weaken'd,  how  darkened,  how  pain'd  ! 

This  life's  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can  give. 

For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sure  must  live. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

Tune — *•  Failse  na  Miosg." 
[The  first  half-stanza  of  this  song  is  old.] 

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  Highkands  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,  Avherever  I  go. 


278  BURNS  S   SOXGS   AND    BALLADS. 


BEWARE   OF  BONNIE  ANN*. 


Ye  gallants  bright,  I  rede  you  right, 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann  ; 
Her  comely  face  sae  fu'  o'  grace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 
Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  niglit, 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan  ; 
Sae  jimpy  laced  her  genty  waist, 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  grace,  and  love,  attendant  move, 

And  pleasure  leads  the  van  ; 
In  a'  their  charms,  and  conquering  arms, 

They  wait  on  bonnie  Aim. 
The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 

But  love  enslaves  the  man  ; 
Ye  gallants  braw,  I  rede  you  a'. 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann. 


FIRST  WHEN  MAGGIE  WAS  MY  CARE. 

Tune — "  Whistle  owre  the  lave  o't." 
First  when  Maggie  was  my  care. 
Heaven,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air  ; 
Now  we're  maiTied — 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  beguiled — 

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  ma'ggots'  meat, 
Dish'd  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 
I  could  write — but  Meg  maun  see't — 

Whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

*  "  I  composed  this  song  out  of  compliment  to  Miss  Ann  Masterton 
the  daughter  of  my  friend  Allan  Masterton,  author  of  the  air  of 
Strathallan's  Lament,  and  two  or  three  others  in  this  work." 

Burns'  Reliques,  p.  2G5. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  279 


CA'  THE  EWES*. 


Tune—"  Ca'  the  Ewes  to  the  Knowes.' 

Ca'  the  ewes  to  the  knowes, 
Co"  them  whare  the  heather  groios, 
Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  roives, 
My  bonnie  dearie  I 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water  side, 
There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad, 
He  row'd  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 
An'  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

Will  ye  gang  down  the  water-side, 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide. 
Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide  \ 
The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 
My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  fool, 
And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool. 
And  naebody  to  see  me. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet. 
And  in  my  arms  ye'se  lie  and  sleep. 
And  ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

If  ye '11  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said, 
I'se  gang  wi'  you,  my  shepherd  lad, 
And  ye  may  rowe  me  in  your  plaid, 
And  I  sail  be  your  dearie, 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea  ; 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
Till  clay-cauld  death  §all  blin'  my  e'e. 
Ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 
*  Part  of  this  song  is  old. 


280  BURNS  S    SOXGS   AND    BALLADS. 


THERE'S  A  YOUTH  IX  THIS  CITY. 

Tune — "  Neil  Gow's  Lament." 

There's  a  youth  in  this  city, 

It  were  a  great  pity 
That  he  frae  our  lasses  should  wander  awa' ; 

For  he's  bonnie  an'  braw, 

Weel-favoured  with  a', 
And  his  hair  has  a  natural  buckle  an'  a'. 

His  coat  is  the  hue 

Of  his  bonnet  sae  blue  ; 
His  fecket  is  white  as  the  new-driven  snaw  ; 

His  hose  they  are  blae, 

And  his  shoon  like  the  slae, 
And  his  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle  us  a'. 

For  beauty  and  fortune 

The  laddie's  been  courtin' ; 
Weel  featured,  weel  tocher'd,  weel  mounted,  and  braw ; 

But  chiefly  the  siller, 

That  gars*^him  gang  till  her, 
The  penny's  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a'. 

There's  Meg  wi'  the  mailen 

That  fain  wad  a  haen  him  ; 
And  Susie,  v/hose  daddie  was  laird  o'  the  ha'  ; 

There's  laug-tocher'd  Nancy 

Maist  fetters  his  fancy  ; 
But  the  laddie's  dear  sel'  he  lo'es  dearest  of  a'. 


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  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 
Yet  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BAIiLADS.  281 

John  Anderson  ray  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  monie  a  cantie  day,  John, 

We've  had  vvi'  ane  anither  : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


WILLIE  BRE^VED  A  PECK  0'  MAUT. 


[These  verses  were  composed  to  celebrate  a  visit  which  the  Poet  and 
Allan  Masterton  made  to  William  Nichol,  of  the  High-school, 
Edinburgh,  who  happened  to  be  at  Moffat  during  the  autumn 
vacation. — The  air  is  by  Masterton.3 

0  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut. 

And  Rob  and  Allan  cam'  to  see  ; 
Three  blyther  hearts  that  lee-lang  night, 

Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  na'/ou,  we're  nae  thatfou. 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e  ; 
The  cock  map  craio,  the  day  may  daiv'. 

But  ay  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  see  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  loon  is  he  ! 
Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa'. 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three  ! 

We  are  na'/ou,  tve're  nae  thatfou, 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e  ; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw'. 

But  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley-bree. 


282  BURNS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


TO  MARY  m  HEAVEN. 


Tune—"  JMiss  Forbes's  Farewell  to  Banff." 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

That  lovest  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  ]\Iary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  I 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  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,  thick'ning,  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  bh'ds  sang  love  on  every  spray. 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west, 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  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  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  liis  breast  I 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  283 


THE  BATTLE   OF   SHERIFF  MUIR, 

SBTWEBN  THE  DUKE   OF   ARGYLE   AND   THE   EARL  OF   RIAR 

Tune — "  Cameronian  Rant." 

**  O  cam'  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, 

Or  herd  the  sheep  wi'  me,  man  ? 
Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-muir, 

And  did  the  battle  see,  man  ? " 
I  saw  the  battle,  sair  and  teugh, 
And  reekin'-red  ran  monie  a  sheugh. 
My  heart,  for  fear,  gae  sough  for  sough, 
To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds, 
0'  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  outgusli'd, 

And  monie  a  bouk  did  fa',  man. 
The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 
I  wat  they  glanced  twenty  miles : 
They  hack'd  and  hash'd  while  broadswords  clashM, 
And  through  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  dared  our  whigs, 

And  covenant  true  blues,  man  ; 
In  lines  extended  lang  and  large. 
When  bayonets  opposed  the  targe, 
And  thousands  hasten'd  to  the  charge, 
Wi'  Highland  wrath,  they  frae  the  slieath 
Drew  blades  o'  death,  till,  out  o'  breath, 

They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man. 

"  0  how  de'il,  Tam,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  irae  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,  cursed  lot !  the  gates  were  shut, 
And  monie  a  huntit,  poor  red  coat, 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man." 


284  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 

My  sister  Kate  cam'  up  tne  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  good  will 
That  day  their  neebors'  blood  to  spill ; 
For  fear,  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Theu'  cogs  o'  brose  ;  all  crying  woeSj 

And  so  it  goes  you  see,  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  monie  bade  the  world  guid-night ; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell. 

By  red  clajmores,  an'^.  muskets'  knell, 

Wi'  dying  yell,  the  tories  fell. 
And  whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man. 


I  GAED  A  WAEFU-  GATE,  YESTREEN. 

TM?2e— "  Blathrio  o't." 
I  GAED  a  waefu'  gate,  yestreen, 

A  gate,  I  fear,  I'll  dearly  rue  ; 
I  gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o'  bonnie  blue. 
'Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright  ; 

Her  lips,  like  roses  wat  wi'  dew. 
Her  heaving  bosom,  lily-white  ; — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 

She  talk'd,  she  smiled,  my  heart  she  wj-led/ 

She  charm'd  my  soul  I  wist  na  how  ; 
And  aye  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 

Cam'  frae  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 
But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed, 

She'll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow  ; 
Should  she  refuse,  I'll  lay  my  dead 

To  her  twa  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 


BURNS  S  SONGS   AND   BALLADS.  285 


MY  HEART  IS  A-BREAKING,  DEAR  TITTIE. 


Tune— "The  Muckin' o'  Geordie's Byre." 

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  ? 


In  poortitia  I  might  mak'  a  fen' ; 
What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow, 
If  I  maunna  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 

There's  Lo'wrie,  the  laird  o'  Drummeller. 

"  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  gi'e  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten: 

But,  if  it's  ordain'd  I  maun  tak'  him, 
0  wha  will  I  get  but  Tam  Glen? 

Yestreen  at  the  Valentines'  dealing, 
My  heart  to  my  raou'  gied  a  sten  ; 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written,  Tam  Glen. 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  wauken 
My  drouldt  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken  ; 

His  likeness  cam'  up  the  house  staukin', 
And  the  very  gray  breeks  o'  Tam  Glen ! 

Come  counsel,  dear  Tittie,  don't  tarry  ; 

I'll  gi'e  you  my  bonnie  black  hen, 
Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 


286  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS, 


YOUNG  JOCKEY. 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blythest  lad 

In  a'  our  town  or  here  awa' ; 
Fu'  blythe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud,* 

Fu'  lightly  danced  he  in  the  ha' ! 
He  roosed  my  een  sae  bonnie  blue, 

He  roosed  my  waist  sae  genty  sma' ; 
And  aye  my  heart  came  to  my  mou', 

When  ne'er  a  body  heard  or  saw. 

My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain, 

Thro'  wind  and  weet,  thro'  frost  and  snaw  ; 
And  o'er  the  lea  I  look  fu'  fain 

When  Jockey's  owsen  hameward  ca'. 
And  aye  the  night  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  tak's  me  a' ; 
And  aye  he  vows  he'll  be  my  ain 

As  lang  's  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 


THE  BRAES   O'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — "  Miss  Forbes." 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen. 

The  flowers  decay'd  on  Catrine  lee, 
Nae  lav'rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  nature  sicken'd  on  the  e'e. 
Through  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel'  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while. 
And  aye  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 

Fareweel  the  braes  of  Ballochmyle. 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers, 

Again  ye'U  flourish  fresh  and  fair  ; 
Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with'riug  bowel's, 

Again  ye'll  charm  the  vocal  aii\ 
But  here,  alas  !  for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  bu'die  charm,  or  floweret  smile  ; 
Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fareweel,  fareweel !  sweet  Ballochmyh 

*  The  gaud — at  the  plough. 


"A „/■*;?„/-'.,/„„/,. 


BURNS'S  SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  287 


CBAIGIE-BIIRN    WOOD. 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigie-Burn, 
And  blythe  awakes  the  morrow  ; 

But  a'  the  pride  o'  Spring's  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing  ; 

But  what  a  weary  wight  can  please, 
And  care  his  bosom  wringing  ? 

Fain,  fain  would  I  ray  griefs  impart. 

Yet  dare  na  for  your  anger  ; 
But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 

If  thou  shalt  love  anither, 
"When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  ti*ee, 

Around  my  grave  they'll  wither. 


GANE  IS  THE  DAY. 

Tune—"  Gudewife,  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. 

Tlien  gudewife,  count  the  lawin. 

The  lawin,  the  lawin. 
Then  gudewife,  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. 
Then  gudewife,  &c. 

My  coggie  is  a  haly  pool, 
That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  and  dool ; 
And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout. 
An'  ye  drink  deep  ye'll  find  him  out. 
Then  gudewife,  &c. 


288  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLA]jS. 


MEIKLE  THINKS   MY  LOVE. 

Tune— "My  Tocher's  the  Jewel." 

0  MEIKLE  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty, 

And  meikie  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  Idn  ; 
But  little  thinks  my  luve  I  ken  brawlie 

My  tocher's  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 
It's  a'  for  the  apple  he'll  nourish  the  tree  ; 

It's  a'  for  the  hiney  he'll  cherish  the  bee  ; 
My  laddie's  sa  meikie  in  luve  wi'  the  siller, 

He  canna  ha'e  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Your  proflFer  o'  luve's  an  airl-penny, 

My  tocher's  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy  ; 
But  an  ye  be  crafty,  I  am  cunnin', 

Sae  ye  wi'  anither  your  fortune  maun  try. 
Ye  're  like  to  the  timmer  o'  yon  rotten  wood, 

Ye  're  like  to  the  bark  o'  yon  rotten  tree, 
Ye  '11  slip  frae  me  Uke  a  knotless  thread, 

An'  ye  '11  ci'ack  your  credit  wi'  mae  nor  me. 


THE   BANKS   OF  NITH. 

Tune — "  Robie  Donna  Gorach." 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 

Where  royal  cities  stately  stand  ; 
But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith  to  me. 

Where  Cummins  ance  had  high  command. 
When  shall  I  see  that  honour'd  land, 

That  winding  stream  I  love  so  dear  ? 
Must  wayward  fortune's  adverse  hand 

For  evei',  ever  keep  me  here  ? 

How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales. 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gayly  bloom  ; 
How  sweetly  wind  tiiy  sloping  dales, 

Wliere  lambkins  wanton  through  the  broom  ! 
Though  wandermg,  now,  must  be  my  doom. 

Far  from  thy  bonnie  banks  and  braes. 
May  there  ray  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days  ! 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  289 


WHAT   CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE 


What  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a  young  lassie, 
What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi'  an  auld  man  1 

Bad  luck  on  the  penny  that  tempted  my  minnie 
To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  an'  Ian' ! 

He's  always  compleenm'  frae  moi-nin'  to  e'enin'. 
He  hoasts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day  lang, 

He's  doylt  and  he's  dozen,  his  bluid  it  is  frozen, 
0,  di-eary'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  antie  Katie  upon  me  tak's  pity, 
I'll  do  my  endeavour  to  follow  her  plan  ; 

ril  cross  him,  and  %vi'ack  him,  until  I  heai*t-break  hie?.. 
And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a  new  pan. 


THE   BONNIE  WEE    THING, 

Tune—"  The  Lads  of  Saltcoats." 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  eannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wast  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom. 
Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 

Wistfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  bonnie  face  o'  thine  ; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty 
In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 

To  adore  thee  is  my  duty. 
Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  ! 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  eannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wast  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 
Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 
u 


290  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 

Tune—"  Falkland  Fair." 
Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 
That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o'  the  Clyde,    [to  feed, 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  through  the  heather 
And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on  his  reed. 
Where  the  grouse,  &c. 

Not  Gowrie's  rich  valley,  nor  Forth's  sunny  shores, 
To  me  ha'e  the  charms  o'  yon  wild,  mossy  moors  ; 
For  there,  by  a  lanely,  sequester'd,  clear  stream, 
Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my  dream. 

Amang  the  wild  mountams  shall  still  be  my  path, 
Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow  strath  : 
For  there,  wi'  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove. 
While  o'er  us,  unheeded,  fly  the  swift  hours  o'  love. 

She  is  not  the  fairest,  although  she  is  fair  ; 
0'  nice  education  but  sma'  is  her  share  : 
Her  pai'entage  huml^le  as  humble  can  be  ; 
But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo'es  me. 

To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him  a  prize, 
In  her  armour  of  glances,  and  blushes,  and  sighs  ? 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  ha'e  polished  her  dai'ts. 
They  dazzle  our  eon,  as  they  fly  to  our  hearts. 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond  sparkling  c'e, 
Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me  ; 
And  the  heart-beating  love,  as  I'm  clasp'd  in  her  arms, 
0,  these  are  my  lassie's  all-conquering  charms ! 


HOW  CAN  I  BE  BLITHE  AND  GLAD. 

Tune — "  Over  the  hills  an'  far  awa'." 
0  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'. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  291 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door, 

My  friends  they  ha'e  disown'd  me  a', 

But  i  ha'e  ane  will  tak'  my  part, 
The  bouuie  lad  that's  far  awa'. 

A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gave  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gave  me  twa  ; 
And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 

The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa'. 

The  weary  winter  soon  will  pass, 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birken-shaw  ; 

And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born. 
And  lie '11  come  hame  that's  far  awa'. 


^VHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER  DOOR? 


Tune—''  Lass,  au  I  come  near  thee." 

Wha  is  that  at  ray  bower  door  ? 

0  wha  is  it  bnt  Findlay  ! 
Then  gae  your  gate,  ye'se  nae  be  here— 

Indeed  maun  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
What  mak'  ye  sae  like  a  thief  ? 

0  come  and  see,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
Before  the  morn  ye' 11  work  mischief — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Gif  I  rise  and  let  you  in — 

Let  me  in,  quo'  Findlay  : 
Y«'ll  keep  me  waukin'  wi'  your  din — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay — 

Let  me  stay,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
I  fear  ye'll  bide  till  break  o'  day — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain — 

I'll  remain,  quo'  Findlay  : 
I  dread  ye'll  learn  the  gate  again — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
What  may  pass  within  this  bower — 

Let  it  pass,  quo'  Findlay  : 
Ye  maun  conceal  till  your  last  hour — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
u  2 


292  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


THERE'LL  NEVER  BE  PEACE. 

Tune — Jacobite  air. 

Br  you  castle  wa',  at  the  close  o'  the  day, 
I  heard  a  man  sing,  though  his  head  it  was  grey  ; 
And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  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  yird ; 
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  sair  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. 


I  DO   CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE  FAIR. 


1  DO  confess  thou  art  sae  fah', 
I  wad  been  o'er  the  lugs  in  luve  ; 

Had  I  na  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  speak,  thy  heart  could  muve. 

I  do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 

Thou  art  sae  thriftless  o'  thy  sweets, 

Thy  favours  are  the  silly  wind 
That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 

See  yonder  rose-bud,  rich  in  dew, 

Amang  its  native  briers  sae  coy, 
How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue 

When  pu'd  and  worn  a  common  toy  I 

Sic  fate  ere  lang  shall  thee  betide, 

Though  thou  may  gayly  bloom  a  while  ; 

Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside. 
Like  ony  common  weed  and  vile. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  293 


O  SAW  YE   MY  DEARIE. 

Altered  from  the  old  song  of  Eppie  Macnab,  which  had  more  wit 
than  decency.] 

Tune — "  Eppie  Macnab." 

0  SAW  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  1 
O  saw  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 
She's  down  in  the  yard,  she's  kissin'  the  laird, 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  ain  Jock  Rab. 
O  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ! 
0  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ! 
Whate'er  thou  hast  done,  be  it  hxte,  be  it  soon, 
Thou's  welcome  again  to  thy  ain  Jock  Rab. 

What  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 
What  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 
She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee  forgot, 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  ain  Jock  Rab. 
0  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ! 
O  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ! 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou's  fair, 
Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  ain  Jock  Rab, 


NAEBODY. 

I  ha'e  a  wife  o'  my  ain, 
I  '11  partake  wi'  naebody  ; 

I  'II  tak'  cuckold  frae  nane, 
I  '11  gi'e  cuckold  to  naebody. 

I  ha'e  a  penny  to  spend. 
There — thanks  to  naebody  ; 

I  ha'e  naething  to  lend, 
I  '11  borx'ow  frae  naebody. 

I  am  naebody's  lord, 

I  '11  be  slave  to  naebody  ; 

I  ha'e  a  guid  braid  sword, 
I  '11  tak  dunts  frae  naebody, 

1  '11  be  merry  and  free, 
I  '11  be  sad  for  naebody  ; 

If  naebody  care  for  me, 
I  '11  care  for  naebody. 


294  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


CHLORIS. 

Tune—"  My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground." 
My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 

The  primrose  banks  how  fair : 
The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers. 

And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair. 

The  lav' rock  shuns  the  palace  gay, 

And  o'er  the  cottage  sings  : 
For  nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I  ween. 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 

Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu'  string 

In  lordly  lighted  ha' : 
The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 

Blythe,  in  the  birken  shaw. 

The  princely  revel  may  survey 

Our  rustic  dance  wi'  scorn ; 
But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  ? 

The  shepherd,  in  the  flow'ry  glen. 
In  shepherd's  phrase  will  woo  ; 

The  courtier  tells  a  finer  tale, 
But  is  his  heart  as  true  1 

These  wild- wood  flowers  I've  pu'd,  to  deck 

That  spotless  breast  o'  thine  : 
The  courtiers'  gems  may  witness  love — 

But  'tis  na  love  like  mine. 


AE  FOND  KISS. 

Tune — '•  Rory  Dall'sport." 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ! 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  'II  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  1 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me  ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  295 

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  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  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-A\Tung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 


O  FOR  ANE-AND-TWENTY,  TAM  ! 

Ttcne—"  The  Moudiewort." 

An'  0/or  ane-and-twenty.  Tarn  ! 

An'  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty.  Tarn  ! 
I'll  learn  my  kin  a  ratllin'  sang. 

An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty.  Tarn. 

They  snool  me  sair,  and  hand  me  down, 
And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tarn  ! 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun*, 
And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 

A  gleib  o'  Ian',  a  elaut  o'  gear, 
Was  left  me  by  my  aunty,  Tam : 

At  kith  or  kin  I  need  na  spier. 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

They'll  ha'e  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof, 
Tho'  I  mysel'  ha'e  plenty,  Tam  : 

But  hear'st  thou,  laddie  1  there's  my  loof, 
I'm  thine  at  ane-and-twenty.  Tain  ! 

An'  Ofor  ane-and-twenty,  Tam! 

An'  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 
I'll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin'  sonn. 

An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam! 


296  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


BESS  AND  HER  SPINNING-WHEEL. 


Tune — "  The  sweet  lass  that  lo'es  me." 

0  LEEZE  me  on  my  spiiining-wheel, 
0  leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel  ; 
Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien, 
And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e'en  ! 
I'll  set  me  down  and  smg  and  spin, 
While  laigh  descends  the  simmer  sun, 
Blest  wi'  content,  and  milk  and  meal — 
O  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-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  spinning-wheel. 

On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail, 
And  echo  cons  the  doolfu'  tale  ; 
The  liutwhites  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  spinning-wheel. 

Wi'  sma'  to  sell,  and  less  to  buy, 
Aboon  distress,  below  enyy, 
O  wha  would  leave  this  humble  state. 
For  a'  the  pride  of  a'  the  great  ? 
Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys, 
Amid  theii*  cumbrous,  dmsome  joys. 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning-wheel  \ 


BURNS'S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS.  297 


SIC  A  A^aFE  AS  ^MLLIE  HAD. 


Tune—"  Tibbie  Fowler." 

Willie  Wastle  dwelt  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, 

0  Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mither  ; 
Sic  a  mfe  as  WilUe  had, 

1  wad  na  gi'e  a  button  for  her. 

She  has  an  e'e,  she  has  but  ane. 

The  cat  has  twa,  the  vei-y  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  gi'e  a  button  for  her. 

She's  bow-hough'd,  she's  hein-shinn'd, 

Ae  lirapin'  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  twm  o'  that  upon  her  shouther  ; 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  na  gi'e  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  gi'e  a  button  for  her. 


298  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

Tune — A  Gaelic  air. 
Scene — A  field  of  battle  ;   time  of  the  day,  evening — the  wounded 
and  dying  of  the  victorious  army  are  supposed  to  Join  in  the 
following  Song. 
Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and  ye  skies, 

Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun  ; 
Farewell,  loves,  and  friendships,  ye  dear,  tender  ties, 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  I 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy  foe, 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave  ; 
Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant !  but  know. 

No  terrors  hast  thou  for  the  brave. 

Thou  strik'st  the  dull  peasant— he  sinks  in  the  dark, 

Nor  saves  e'en  the  wreck  of  a  name; 
Thou  strik'st  the  young  hero — a  glorious  mai-k  ! 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame. 

In  the  field  of  proud  honour — our  swords  in  our  hands, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 
While  victory  shines  on  life's  last  ebbing  sands, 

O  !  who  would  not  rest  with  the  brave  ! 


AS  I  WAS  A-WANDERING. 

[This  is  an  old  Highland  air,  and  the  title  menns,  "  my  love  did 
deceive  me."    There  is  much  feeling  expressed  in  this  song.] 

Tu7ie — "  Rinn  Meudial  mo  Mhealladh." 

As  I  was  a-wand'ring  ae  midsummer  e'enin'. 

The  pipers  and  youngsters  were  making  their  game  ; 
Amang  them  I  spied  my  faithless  fause  lover. 

Which  bled  a'  the  wounds  o'  my  dolour  again. 

Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  may  pleasure  gae  wi'  him  ; 

I  may  be  distress'd,  but  I  winna  complain  ; 
1  flatter  my  fancy  I  may  get  anither. 

My  heai-t  it  shall  never  be  broken  for  ane. 

I  couldna  get  sleeping  till  dawnin'  for  greetin', 
The  tears  trickled  down  like  the  hail  and  the  rain  : 

Had  I  na  got  greetin',  my  heart  would  ha'e  broken, 
For,  oh  !  love  forsaken 's  a  tormenting  pain. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  299 

Although  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o'  the  siller, 

I  dinna  env?/  him  the  gains  he  can  win ; 
I  rather  wad  bear  a'  the  lade  o'  my  sorrow. 

Than  ever  ha'e  acted  sae  faithless  to  him. 

Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  may  pleasure  gae  wi'  him, 
I  may  be  distress'd,  but  I  winna  complain  ; 

I  flatter  my  fancy  I  may  get  anither. 

My  heart  it  shall  never  be  broken  for  ane. 


O  LUVE  WILL  VENTURE  IN. 

Tune—"  The  Posie." 

0  LUVE  will  venture  in  where  it  daurna  weel  be  seen, 
0  luve  will  venture  in  where  wisdom  ance  has  been ; 
But  I  will  do\vn  yon  river  rove,  amang  the  woods  sae  gi-een, 
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 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May.  [peer  ; 

I'll  pu'  the  budding  rose,  when  Phoebus  peeps  in  view. 
For  it's  like  a  baumy  kiss  o'  her  sweet  bonnie  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  Fll  swear  by  a'  above, 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band  shall  ne'er  remuve; 
And  this  will  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


300  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


COUNTRY  LASSIE. 

Tune — "John,  come  kiss  me  now." 

In  simmer  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 

And  corn  waved  green  in  ilka  field, 
While  clover  blooms  white  o'er  the  lea. 

And  I'oses  blaw  in  ilka  bield  ; 
Blithe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel, 

Says,  I'll  be  wed,  come  o't  what  will. 
Out  spak'  a  dame  in  wrinkled  eild, 

"  0'  guid  advisement  comes  nae  ill. — 

"  It's  ye  ha'e  wooers  mony  a  ane, 

And  lassie,  ye're  but  young,  ye  ken ; 
Then  wait  a  wee,  and  cannie  wale 

A  routhie  but,  a  routhie  ben  : 
There's  Johnnie  o'  the  Buskie-glen, 

Fu'  is  his  barn,  fu'  is  his  bvTe  ; 
Tak'  this  frae  me,  my  bonnie  hen. 

It's  plenty  beets  the  luver's  fire." 

For  Johnnie  o'  the  Buskie-glen 

I  dinna  care  a  single  flie  ; 
He  lo'es  sae  well  his  craps  and  kye, 

He  has  nae  luve  to  spare  for  me : 
But  bUthe's  the  blink  o'  Robie's  e'e, 

And  weel  I  wat  he  lo'es  me  dear  ; 
Ae  blink  o'  him  I  wad  nae  gi'e 

For  Buskie-glen  and  a'  his  gear. 

"  0  thoughtless  lassie !  life's  a  faught  ; 

The  canniest  gate  the  strife  is  sair  ; 
But  aye  fu' -han't  is  fechtin  best, 

A  hungry  care's  an  unco  care  : 
But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spai'e. 

An'  wilfu'  folk  maun  ha'e  their  will  ; 
Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill." 

O,  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o'  land. 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye  ; 
But  the  tender  heart  o'  leesome  luve, 

The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy : 
We  may  be  poor — Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on ; 
Content  and  luve  bring  peace  and  joy, 

What  mair  ha'e  queens  upon  a  throne  ! 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  301 


JOCKEY'S   TA'EN  THE   PARTING  KISS. 


Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss^ 
Owre  the  mountains  he  is  gane, 

And  with  him  is  a'  my  bhss, 
Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

Spare  my  love,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beatin'  rain  ! 

Spare  my  love,  thou  feathery  snaw, 
Drifting  owre  the  frozen  plain  ! 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
Owre  the  day's  fair,  gladsome  ee, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 
Sweetly  blythe  his  waukening  be  ! 

He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 
Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name  ; 

For  where'er  he  distant  roves, 
Jockey's  heart  is  still  at  hame. 


THE   CHEVALIEK'S  LAMENT. 

Tune — "  Captain  O'Kane." 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  returnin/^, 
The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  thro'  the  vale ; 

The  hawthorn  trees  blow  in  the  dews  of  the  morning. 
And  wild  scatter'd  cowslips  bedeck  the  green  dale  : 

But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem  fair. 

While  the  lingei'ing  moments  are  number'd  by  care  ? 
No  flowers  gaily  springing,  nor  birds  sweetly  singing, 

Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I  dared  could  it  merit  their  malice, 
A  king  and  a  father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 

His  right  are  these  hills  and  his  right  are  these  valleys. 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  I  can  find  none. 

But  'tis  not  my  suff'erings  thus  wretched,  forlorn. 

My  brave  gallant  fi'icnds,  'tis  your  ruin  I  mourn  : 
Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal  in  hot  bloody  trial, 

Alas  !  can  I  make  you  no  sweeter  return  ? 


302  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


THE  BANKS  0'  DOON. 

FIRST  VERSION. 

Tune—''  Catharine  Ogie." 

Ye  flowering  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fail' ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ! 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bomiie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  ha'e  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose. 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


SECOND  VERSION. 


Tune — "  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

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  heaii;,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  through  the  flowering  thorn  ; 
Thou  minds  nue  o'  departed  joys. 

Departed  never  to  return. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  305 

Oft  ha'e  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine  ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  : 
But  my  false  luver  stole  my  rose, 

And  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


FAIR  ELIZA. 


Tune—"  The  bonnie  bnicket  Lassie." 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 
Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithfu'  heart  ? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ; 

If  to  love  thy  heai't  denies. 
For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 

Under  friendship's  kind  disguise ! 

Thee,  dear  maid,  ha'e  I  offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee  : 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 

Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom. 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe  : 
Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom. 

In  the  pride  o'  sunny  noon  ; 
Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon  ; 
Not  the  poet  in  the  moment 

Fancy  lightens  in  his  e'e. 
Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture, 

That  thy  px'esence  gi'ea  to  me. 


304  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    RALLADS. 


FLOW  GENTLY,  SVN^EET  AFTON. 

Tune — "  Afton  Water." 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes^ 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  m  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  scream  hig  forbear, 
I  chai'ge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbermg  fau*. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills. 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear  winduig  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  gatheriu-g  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. 


BONNIE   BELL. 

The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

And  surly  Winter  grimly  flies  ; 
Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 

And  bonnie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies  ; 
Fresh  o'er  the  mountains  breaks  forth  the  morning, 

The  ev'ning  gilds  the  ocean's  swell  ; 
All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun's  returning, 

And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonnie  Bell. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  306 

The  flowery  Spi'ing  leads  sunny  Summer, 

And  yellow  Autumn  presses  near, 
Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  Winter, 

Till  smiling  Spring  again  appear. 
Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 

Old  time  and  nature  their  changes  tell, 
But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging, 

I  adore  my  boimie  Bell. 


THE  GALLANT  WEAVER. 

Tunc — "  The  Weaver's  ^March." 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin'  to  the  sea. 
By  mony  a  flow'r,  and  spreading  tree, 
There  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  me. 
He  is  a  gallant  weaver. 

Oh  !  I  had  wooers  eight  or  nine. 
They  gi'ed  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine ; 
And  I  was  fear'd  my  heart  wad  tine, 
And  I  gi'ed  it  to  the  weaver. 

My  daddie  sign'd  my  tocher  band. 
To  gi'e  the  lad  that  has  the  land  ; 
But  to  my  heart  I'll  add  my  hand. 
And  gi'e  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. 


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  gi'e  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  ray  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. 


306  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


THE  BAIRNS  GAT  OUT. 

Tmie—"  The  deuks  clang  o'er  my  dacklie." 

The  baii'ns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout, 

The  deuks  dang  o'er  my  daddie,  0  ! 
The  fien'-ma-care,  quo'  the  feirie  auld  wife. 

He  was  but  a  paidhn'  body,  0  ! 
He  paidles  out,  an'  he  paidles  in, 

An'  he  paidles  late  an'  early,  O  ! 
This  seven  lang  years  I  ha'e  lien  by  his  side. 

An'  he  is  but  a  fusionless  carlie,  0  ! 

0,  baud  your  tongue,  my  feirie  auld  wife, 

0,  baud  your  tongue  now,  Nansie,  O  1 
I've  seen  the  day,  and  sae  ha'e  ye, 

Ye  wadua  been  sae  donsie,  0  ! 
I've  seen  the  day  ye  butter'd  my  brose, 

And  cuddled  me  late  and  early,  O  ! 
But  downa-do's  come  o'or  me  now, 

And,  oh !  I  feel  it  sairly,  0  ! 


SHE'S  FAIR  AND  PAUSE. 

She  's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart, 

I  lo'ed  her  meikle  and  lang  ; 
She  's  broken  her  vow,  she  's  broken  my  heart. 

And  I  may  e'en  gae  hang. 
A  eoof  came  in  with  routh  o'  gear. 
And  I  ha'e  tint  my  dearest  dear  ; 
But  woman  is  but  warld's  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonnie  lass  gang. 

Whae'er  ye  be  that  woman  love. 

To  this  be  never  blind, 
Nae  ferlie  'tis  though  fickle  she  prove, 

A  woman  has  't  by  kind : 
O  woman  lovely,  woman  fair  ! 
An  angel  form 's  fa'n  to  thy  share, 
'Twad  been  owi-e  meikle  to  've  gi'en  tbee  mair- 

I  mean  an  angel  mind. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  307 


THE  EXCISEMAN. 


The  de'il  cam'  fiddling  through  the  town, 
And  danced  awa'  w  i'  the  Exciseman  j 

And  ilka  wife  cried — Auld  Mahoun, 
We  wish  you  luck  o'  the  prize,  man  ! 

The  de'U's  awa',  the  de'il's  awa\ 
The  de'il's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman,- 

He's  danced  awa',  he's  danced  awa', 
He's  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman. 

We'll  mak'  our  maut,  we'U  brew  our  drink. 
We'll  dance,  and  sing,  and  rejoice,  man  ; 

And  monie  thanks  to  the  raeikle  black  de'il 
That  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman. 

There's  threesome  reels,  there's  foursome  reels. 
There's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man  ; 

But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam'  to  the  land 
Was — the  de'il's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman. 

Tlie  de'il's  atva',  the  de'il's  awa'. 
The  de'il's  aioa''  wi'  the  Exciseman  ; 

He''s  danced  awa',  he's  danced  awa'. 
He's  danced  atva'  wi'  the  Exciseman. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CULLODEN. 


The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see ; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries — "  Alas  ! " 

And  ay  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  e'e : 
"  Drumossie  moor,  Druraossie  day, 

A  w'aefu'  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  Duke  ! 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be  ; 
For  monie  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 

That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee." 
X  2 


308  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 

Tune — "  Wishaw's  Favourite." 

0,  MY  luve's  like  a  red,  I'ed  rose, 
That's  newly  sjirung  in  June : 

0,  my  luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I  : 
And  I  will  luve  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 : 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


POLLY   STEWART. 

Tune — "  Ye're  welcome,  Charlie  Stewart. 
0  lovehj  Polly  Steimrt, 

0  charming  Polly  Stewart, 
There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May 
That's  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades,  it  fa's. 

And  art  can  ne'er  renew  it ; 
But  worth  and  truth  eternal  youth 

Will  gi'e  to  Polly  Stewart. 

May  he  whase  arms  shall  fauld  thy  charms 

Possess  a  leal  and  true  heart ; 
To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 

He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart ! 

0  lovely  Polly  Stewart, 

0  charming  Polly  Steivart, 
There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May 

That's  half  so /air  as  thou  art. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  309 


FOR  THE  SAKE  O'  SOMEBODY. 


Tune-~"  The  Highland  Watch's  Farewell." 

My  heart  is  sair,  I  -darena  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  tha,t  smile  on  virtuous  love, 

0,  sweetly  smile  on  somebody ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 
And  send  me  safe  my  somebody. 
Oh-hon  1  for  somebody  ! 
Oh-hey !  for  somebody ! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  ? 
For  the  sake  o'  somebody ! 


I'LL  AY  CA'  IN  BY  YON  TOWN. 


rU  ay  CO"  in  by  yon  town, 

And  by  yon  garden  green  again  ; 
I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  toivn. 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 

There's  nane  sail  ken,  there's  nane  sail  guess 
What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again, 

But  she,  my  faii'est,  faithfu'  lass  ; 
And  stowlins  we  sail  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  ! 

ril  ay  ca*  in  by  yon  town, 

And  by  yon  garden  green  again  ; 
I'll  ay  ca'  in  tnj  yon  toion. 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 


310  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


WHEN  JANUAR'  A^^ND. 

Tune—*'  The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me.-" 

When  Januax'  wind  was  blawing  cauld, 

As  to  the  north  I  took  my  way, 
Tiie  mu'ksonie  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I  knew  na  where  to  lodge  till  day. 

By  my  good  luck  a  maid  I  met, 

Just  in  the  middle  o'  my  care  ; 
And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 

To  walk  into  a  chamber  fair. 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid. 
And  bade  her  mak'  a  bed  to  me. 

She  made  the  bed  baith  large  and  wide, 
Wi'  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down ; 

She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips. 

And  drank,  "  Young  man,  now  sleep  ye  soun'." 

She  snatch'd  the  candle  in  her  hand, 
And  frae  tlie  chamber  went  wi'  speed  ; 

But  I  call'd  her  quickly  back  again. 
To  lay  some  mair  below  my  head. 

A  cod  she  laid  below  my  head. 

And  served  me  wi'  due  respect ; 
And  to  salute  her  wi'  a  kiss, 

I  put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

"  Hand  afF  your  hands,  young  man,"  she  says, 

"  And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be  ; 
If  ye  ha'e  onie  love  for  me, 

0  wrang  na  my  virginitie  ! " 

Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gowd, 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie ; 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

Twa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see  ; 
Her  limbs  the  polish'd  marble  stane, 

The  lass  that  "Made  the  bed  to  me. 


BlltNSS    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  ;U1 

I  kiss'd  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

And  aye  slie  wist  na  what  to  say  ; 
1  hiid  her  'tween  me  and  the  wa' — 

Tlie  lassie  thought  na  lang  till  day. 

Upon  the  morrow  when  we  rose, 

I  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 
But  aye  she  blush'd  and  aye  she  sigli'd. 

And  said,  "  Alas !  ye've  ruin'd  me.'' 

1  clasp'd  her  waist,  and  kiss'd  her  syne, 
While  the  tear  stood  twmklin'  in  her  e'e  ; 

I  said,  "  My  lassie,  dinna  cry. 

For  ye  aye  shall  mak'  the  bed  to  me." 

She  took  her  mither's  holland  sheets, 

And  made  thera  a'  in  sarks  to  me  : 
Blythe  and  merry  may  she  be. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

The  bonnie  lass  made  the  bed  to  me, 

The  braw  lass  made  the  bed  to  me  ; 
I'll  ne'er  forget  till  the  day  I  die, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 


O  MAY,  THY  MORN. 


0  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  darena  name. 

But  I  will  ay  remember  ; 
And  dear  was  she  I  darena  name, 

But  I  will  ay  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  darena  tell. 
The  dearest  o'  the  quorum  ; 

And  here's  to  them,  we  darena  tell 
'  The  dearest  o'  the  quorum ! 


!12  BURNS  S    SONGS    AxVD    BALLADS. 


O  WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON  TOWN. 

Tune — "  I'll  gang  nae  mair  to  yon  town." 

O  WAT  ye  wha's  in  yon  town, 
Ye  see  the  e'enin'  sun  upon  ? 

The  fairest  dame'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  iiow'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  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  town, 
And  on  yon  bonnie  bi'aes  of  Ayr  ; 

But  my  delight  in  you  tow-n, 
And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  fair. 

Without  my  love  not  a'  the  charms 
0'  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy  ; 

But  gi'e  me  Lucy  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. 

0  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinking  sun's  gaun  down  upon ; 
A  fairer  than  's  in  yon  town. 

His  setting  beams  ne'er  shone  upon. 

If  angry  Fate  is  sworn  my  foe. 

And  sufF'ring  I  am  doom'd  to  bear  ; 

1  careless  quit  aught  else  below. 

But  spare  me,  spare  me,  Lucy  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. 


r^^ 


A'lr 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


LOUIS,  WHAT  RECK  I  BY  THEE. 


313 


Tune—"  My  mother's  aye  glow'ring  owreme. 

Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee, 
Oi'  Geordie  on  his  ocean : 

Dyvor,  beggar  louns  to  me, 
I  reign  in  Jeanie's  bosom. 

Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law, 
And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me  ; 

Kings  and  nations  swith  awa', 
Rief  randies,  I  disown  ye  ! 


ANNA,  THY  CHARMS. 

Tutu — ••  Bonnie  Mai-y." 

Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire, 
And  waste  my  soul  with  care  ; 

But  ah  !  how  bootless  to  admii*e, 
When  fated  to  despair  1 

Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  fair. 
To  hope  may  be  forgiv'n ; 

For  sure  'twere  impious  to  despaii', 
So  much  in  sight  of  heav'n. 


TO  THEE,  L0\T:D  NITH. 


Tu  ne — Unkno\\Ti. 
To  thee,  loved  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains, 

Where  late  wi'  careless  thought  1  ranged^ 
Tho'  prest  wi'  care  and  sunlv  in  woe, 

To  thee  I  bring  a  heart  unchanged. 

I  love  thee,  Nith,  thy  banks  and  braes, 
Tho'  mem'ry  there  my  bosom  tear  ; 

For  there  he  roved  that  brake  my  hearl. 
Yet  to  that  heart,  ah !  still  how  doftr  5 


314  BURNs's   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


WAE  IS  MY  HEART. 


Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear  's  in  my  e'e  ; 
Lang,  lang  joy's  been  a  stranger  to  me : 
Forsaken  and  friendless  my  burden  I  bear, 
And  the  sweet  voice  o'  pity  ne'er  sounds  in  my  ear. 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasures ;  and  deep  ha'e  I  loved  ; 
Love,  thou  hast  sorrows ;  and  sair  ha'e  I  proved : 
But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in  my  breast, 
I  can  feel  by  its  thi'obbings  will  soon  be  at  I'est. 

O  if  I  were  liappy,  where  happy  I  ha'e  been, 
Down  by  yon  stream  and  yon  bounie  castle  green ; 
For  there  he  is  wand'ring  and  musing  on  me, 
Wha  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  Phillis's  e'e. 


GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 


Time—"  Wandering  Willie." 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December  ! 

Ance  mah'  I  hail  thee,  Avi'  sorrow  and  care  ; 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  I'emember, 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh,  ne'er  to  meet  mair  ! 
Fond  lovers'  parting  is  sweet  painful  pleasure  ; 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour ; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  O  farewell  for  ever, 

Is  anguish  unmingled  and  agony  pure. 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest. 

Till  the  last  leaf  of  the  summer  is  flown. 
Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom. 

Since  my  last  hope  and  my  comfort  is  gone  ; 
Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 

Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care ; 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  I'emember, 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh,  ne'er  to  meet  mair! 


BURNS'S    SONGS    AND    BALLAJDS.  3L 

CASSILLIS'  BAIsKS. 
Tune— Unknown. 

Now  bank  an'  brae  are  claith'd  in  green, 

An'  scatter'd  cowslips  sweetly  spring  ; 
By  Girvan  s  fairy-haunted  stream 

The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing, 
To  Cassillis'  banks  when  e'ening  fa's, 

There  wi'  my  Mary  let  me  flee, 
There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love, 

The  bounie  blink  o'  Mary's  e'e ! 

The  chield  wha  boast  o'  warld's  walth 

Is  aften  laird  o'  meikle  care ; 
But  Mary  she  is  a'  my  ain — 

Ah  !  fortune  canna  gi'e  me  main 
Then  let  me  range  by  Cassillis'  banks, 

Wi'  her,  the  lassie  dear  to  me, 
And  ketch  her  ilka  glance  o'  love, 

The  bonnie  bliuk  o'  Marj-'s  e'e  I 

AMANG  THE  TREES. 
TM?ie— "The  King  ol  France,  he  rade  a  race.'' 

Amang  the  trees  where  humming  bees 

At  buds  and  flowers  were  hinging,  O,    . 
Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone. 

And  to  her  pipe  was  singing,  0 ; 
'Twas  pibroch,  sang,  t^trathspey,  or  reels,  • 

She  dirl'd  them  aff  fu'  clearly  0, 
When  there  cam'  a  yell  o'  foreign  squecls, 

That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  O  — 

Their  capon  craws  and  queer  ha  ha's. 

They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  0  ; 
The  hungry  bike  did  scrape  and  pike 

Till  we  were  wae  and  wearie,  0 ; 
But  a  royal  ghaist  wha  once  was  cased 

A  prisoner  aughteen  year  awa', 
He  fired  a  fiddler  in  the  North 

Then  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  0. 


31G  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


MY  PEGGY'S   FACE. 

My  Peggy's  face,  ray  Peggy's  form, 
The  frost  of  hei'mit  age  might  warm  ; 
My  Peggy's  worth,  my  Peggy's  mind, 
Might  charm  the  first  of  humankind. 
I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air. 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art, 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye. 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  ; 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway, 
"Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ! 
The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear. 
The  gentle  look  that  rage  disarms — 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


THE  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  fairei', 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer. 
And  niest  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 


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'tf 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't  j 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithely  bear  it. 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 


I5L'RNSS    SONGS    AND    BALLADS  3i; 


MY   LADY'S  GOWN,   THERE'S  GAIRS  UPON 'T. 


Tune—"  Gregg's  Pipes." 

My  lady's  gown,  there's  gairs  ttpon't. 
And  gowdenjlowers  sae  rare  upon't  ; 
But  Jenny's  jhnps  andjirkinet. 
My  lord  thinks  muckle  mair  upon't. 

My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane, 

But  hounds  or  hawks  wi'  hun  are  nane  ; 

By  Colin's  cottage  lies  his  game, 

11'  Colin's  Jenny  be  at  hame. 

My  lady's  white,  my  lady's  red, 
And  Idth  and  kin  o'  CassUlis'  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, 
Whare  goi'-cocks  thro'  the  heather  pariS, 
There  wons  auld  Colin's  bonnie  lass, 
A  lily  in  a  wilderness. 

Sae  sweetly  move  her  gentle  limbs. 
Like  music  notes  o'  lovers'  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  ttpon't, 
And  gowdenjlowers  sae  rare  upon't , 
But  Jenny's jimps  andjirkinet. 
My  lord  thinks  muckle  mair  h;  cj/J. 


318  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 


Tu7ie — "Catharine  Ogie." 

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  bir]<, 

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  oursel's  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  ! 

0  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  ha'e  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  I 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  deai'ly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


^<r?/yjA^,/^„: 


he  Castle   of    .'.o.i 


i 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  319 


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,  lia,  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'  owre  a  Hnn  ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 

SUghted  love  is  sair  to  bide. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  1 

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  heal. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings. 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ; 

And  0,  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  could  na  be  her  death. 

Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath  ; 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith. 
Ha.,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 


320  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


AULD  ROB  MOKKIS. 

There's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen. 
He's  the  king  o'  guid  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  evening  amang  the  new  hay  ; 
As  blithe  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  would  burst  in  my  breast. 

O,  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 
I  then  might  ha'e  hoped  she  wad  smiled  upon  me  J 
O,  how  past  describing  had  then  been  my  bhss, 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express  ! 


THE   GOWDEN  LOCKS  OF  ANNA. 

Tunc — "  Banks  of  Banna." 

Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine, 

A  place  where  body  saw  na' ; 
Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  o'  mine 

The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 
The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness 

Rejoicing  o'er  his  manna, 
Was  uaething  to  my  hinny  bliss 

Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  monarehs  tak'  the  east  and  west, 

Frae  Indus  to  Savannah  ! 
Gi'e  me  within  my  straming  grasp 

The  melting  form  of  Anna. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  321 

There  I'll  despise  imperial  charms, 

An  empress  or  sultana, 
While  dying  raptm-es  in  her  arras 

I  give  and  tak'  with  Anna  ! 

Awa',  thou  flaunting  god  o'  day, 

Awa',  thou  pale  Diana  ! 
Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray, 

When  I'm  to  meet  my  Anna. 
Come,  in  thy  raven  pl.umage,  night  ! 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a' ; 
And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 

My  transports  with  my  Anna  ! 


MY  AIN  KIND  DEARIE,  O. 

Tune — "  The  Lea  Rig." 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 

Tells  bugh  tin '-time  is  near,  my  jo ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furi-ow'd  field. 

Return  sae  dowf  and  wearie,  O  ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  bilks 

Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  0. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I'd  rove,  and  ne'er  be  eerie,  0, 
If  through  that  glen,  I  gaed  to  thee. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 
Although  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,  0. 

The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun. 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deei%  my  jo. 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen. 

Along  the  bui'n  to  steer,  my  jo  ; 
Gi'e  me  the  hour  o'  gloamin'  gray, 

It  mak's  my  heart  sae  cheery,  0, 
To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  0. 
Y 


322  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


MARY  CAJIPBELL 


Tune — "  Ewe-bughts,  Marion." 

Will  ye  go  to  tlfe  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  th'  Atlantic's  roar  ? 

0  sweet  grow  the  lime  and  the  orang-^, 
And  the  apple  on  the  pine  ; 

But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

1  ha'e  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  my  Marj', 

I  ha'e  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  be  true  ; 
And  sae  may  the  heavens  forget  me. 
When  I  forget  my  vow  ! 

O  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand  ; 

0  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

We  ha'e  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join, 
And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  p:trt  as 

The  hour,  and  the  moment  o'  time  ' 


O  POORTITH  CAULD. 


Tu}ie — "  I  had  a  horse." 

0  POORTITH  cauld,  and  restless  lov< 
Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye 

Yet  poortith  a'  I  could  forgive, 
An  'twere  na  for  my  Jeanie. 

0  wh>/  should/ate  sic  pleasure  have. 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwininp  ? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  on/ortune's  shining  f 


BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS.  323 

This  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 

Its  pride,  and  a'  the  lave  o't ; 
Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man, 

That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't ! 

Her  een,  sae  bounie  blue,  betray 

How  she  repays  my  passion  ; 
But  prudence  is  her  o'erword  aye. 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 

0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 
0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter's  fate  ? 

He  woos  his  simple  dearie  ; 
The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state. 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 

0  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have. 

Life's  dearest  bunds  tintwinlng  9 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  on  fortune's  shining  ? 


OH!   OPEN   THE  DOOR  TO   ME. 

With  Alterations. 

Ou,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show. 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  0  ! 
Though  thou  hast  been  false,  I'll  ever  prove  tme, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  0  ! 

Cauld  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 

But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  0  ! 
The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 

Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  0  ! 

The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave. 

And  time  is  setting  with  me,  0  ! 
False  friends,  false  love,  farewell !  for  mail* 

I'll  ne'er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  0  ! 

She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  open'd  it  wide : 
She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  O ! 

My  true  love,  she  cried,  and  sank  down  by  his  sidC; 
Never  to  rise  again,  0 ! — 
y  2 


324  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


WANDERING  ^^^LLIE. 

Messrs  Erskine  and  Thomson  having  suggested  some  changes 
in  the  following  song,  our  Poet,  with  his  usual  judgment,  adopted 
some  of  their  alterations,  and  rejected  others.  The  last  edition  is 
as  follows : — 

Here  awa',  there  awa',  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa',  there  awa',  baud  awa'  hame ; 

Con^e  to  my  bosom  my  aiu  only  dearie. 

Tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Winter  a\  inds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  parting. 
Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  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  alai'ms  ! 

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, 
F'ow  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. 


GALLA-WATER. 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
That  wander  through  the  blooming  heather  ; 

But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  Ettrick  shaws, 
Can  match  the  lads  o'  Galla-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'  Galla-water. 

Although  his  daddie  was  nae  laird. 
And  though  I  ha'e  na  meikle  tocher ; 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love. 

We'll  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla-water. 

It  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  was  wealth. 
That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure  ; 

The  bands  and  bliss  o'  mutual  love, 
0  that's  the  chiefest  warld's  treasure  ! 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  325 


SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO'ES  ME  BEST  OF   A'. 

Tune — "  Onagh's  Water-fall." 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 

Her  eyebroAvs  of  a  darker  hue, 
Bewitchingly  o'er-arching 

Twa  laughing  een  o'  bonnie  blue : 
Her  smiling,  sae  wyling, 

Wad  make  a  wretch  forget  his  woe  ; 
What  pleasure,  what  treasure. 

Unto  these  rosy  lips  to  grow  ! 
Such  was  my  Chloris'  bonnie  face, 

When  first  her  bonnie  face  I  saw  ; 
And  aye  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 

Like  harmony  her  motion  ; 

Her  pretty  ancle  is  a  spy 
Betraying  fair  proportion. 

Wad  mak  a  saint  forget  the  sky. 
Sae  warming,  sae  charming. 

Her  faultless  form,  and  gracefu'  air  : 
I  lie  feature — auld  Nature 

Declared  that  she  could  do  nae  mair. 
Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o'  love. 

By  conquering  beauty's  sovereign  law; 
And  aye  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm. 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a\ 

Let  others  love  the  city. 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon  ; 
Gi'e  me  the  lonely  valley. 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon  ; 
Fair  beaming,  and  streaming. 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang  ; 
While  falling,  recalling. 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  his  sang  ; 
There,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 

By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw. 
And  hear  my  vows  o'  truth  and  love. 

And  say  thou  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 


}26  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


LORD  GREGORY. 

0  MIRK,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour, 

And  loud  the  tempest's  roar  ; 
A  waefu'  wanderer  seeks  thy  tow'r. 

Lord  Gregoi-y,  ope  thy  door. 

An  exile  frae  her  father's  ha', 

And  a'  for  loving  thee  ; 
At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw, 

If  love  it  may  na  be  ' 

Lord  Gregory,  mind'st  thou  not  the  grovo^ 

By  bonnie  Irwin  side. 
Where  fii-st  I  own'd  that  Adrgin-love 

I  lang,  lang  had  denied  ? 

How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow, 

Thou  wad  for  aye  be  mine  ! 
And  my  fond  heart,  itsel'  sae  true. 

It  ne'er  mistx'usted  thine. 

Hard  is  thy  heart.  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast : 
Thou  dart  of  heaven,  that  flashest  by, 

0  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above. 

Your  willing  victim  see  ! 
But  spare,  and  pardon  my  fause  love, 

His  wrangs  to  heaven  and  me  ! 


MARY  MORISON. 


Tune—"  Bide  ye  yet. 


0  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  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun  ; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 


BURNS  S   PONGS   AND    BALLADS.  32/ 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  Hghted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw : 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  tlie  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ?  ' 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his 

Whase  only  fau't  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gi'e. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ! 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


MEG   O'   THE    MILL. 


Tunc — "  O  bonnie  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a  Barrack  ?'* 

0  KEN  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten, 
An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
She  has  gotten  a  coof  wi'  a  claut  o'  siller. 
And  broken  the  heart  o'  the  barley  Miller. 

The  Miller  was  strappin',  the  Miller  was  ruddy  ; 
A  heart  like  a  lord,  and  a  hue  like  a  lady  ; 
The  Laird  was  a  widdiefu',  bleerit  knurl ; 
She's  left  the  guid  fellow  and  ta'en  the  churl. 

The  Miller  he  hecht  her  a  heart  leal  and  loving : 
The  Laird  did  address  her  wi'  matter  mail-  moving, 
A  fine  pacing  horse  wi'  a  clear  chained  bridle, 
A  whip  by  her  side,  and  a  bonnie  side-saddle. 

O  wae  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevailing  ; 
And  wae  on  the  love  that  is  fix'd  on  a  mailen  ! 
A  tocher's  nae  word  in  a  true  lover's  parle — 
liut,  gi'e  me  my  love,  and  a  fig  for  the  warl' ! 


328  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


^^IIEN  WILD  AVAR'S  DEADLY  BLAST  WAS   BLAW.V. 


Tune—''  The  Mill  Mill,  O." 
When  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 

And  gentle  peace  returning, 
Wi'  monie  a  sweet  babe  fatherless, 

And  monie  a  widow  mourning ; 
1  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger. 
My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 

A  poor  and  honest  sodger. 

A  leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 

My  hand  unstain'd  wi'  plunder  ; 
And  for  fair  Scotia,  hame  again, 

I  cheery  on  did  wander : 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile 

That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonnie  glen, 

Where  early  life  I  sported  ; 
I  pass'd  the  mill,  and  trysting-thorn, 

Where  Nancy  aft  I  courted  : 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling  ! 
And  turn'd  me  I'ound  to  hide  the  flood 

That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

Wi'  alter'd  voice,  quoth  I,  Sweet  lass, 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom, 
O  !  happy,  happy  may  he  be, 

That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 
My  purse  is  light,  I've  far  to  gang. 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger  ; 
I've  served  my  king  and  country  lang. 

Take  pity  on  a  sodger. 

Sae  wistfully  she  gazed  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever : 
Quo'  she,  A  sodger  ance  I  lo'ed. 

Forget  him  shall  I  never : 
Our  humble  cot,  and  hamely  fare, 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it. 
That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade, 

Ye're  welcome  for  the  sake  o't. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  32P 

She  gazed — she  redden'd  like  a  rose — 

Syne  pale  like  onie  lily ; 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ? 
By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky — 

By  whom  true  love's  regarded, 
I  am  the  man  ;  and  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  i*ewarded  1 

The  wars  are  o'er,  and  I'm  come  liame. 

And  find  thee  still  true-hearted  ; 
Though  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in  love, 

And  mair  we'se  ne'er  be  parted. 
Quo'  she,  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailen  pleuish'd  fairly ; 
And  come,  my  faithfu'  sodger  lad, 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly  ! 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor  ; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize, 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour : 
The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger ; 
Remember  he's  his  country's  stay 

In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


JESSIE. 

Tune — "  Bonny  Dundee." 
TRUE-hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o'  the  Yarrow, 

And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o'  the  Ayr, 
But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nith's  winding  river, 

Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair : 
To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over  ; 

To  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain  ; 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 

And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  his  chain. 

0,  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning, 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close  ; 
But  in  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young  Jessie, 

Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 
Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  ensnaring  ; 

Enthroned  in  her  een  he  delivers  his  law. 
And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a  stranger. 

Her  modest  demeanour's  the  jewel  of  a'. 


330  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


FRAGMENT, 

IN  WITKEBSPOON'S  COLLECTION  OF  SCOTS  SONGS. 

Tune—"  Hughie  Graham." 
"  0  GIN  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa', 
And  I  mysel'  a  drop  o'  dew, 

Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa' ! 

"  Oh,  there  beyond  expression  blest, 
I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 

Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 
Till  fley'd  awa  by  Phoebus'  light." 

0  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spi'ing  ; 

And  I,  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 
When  wearied  on  my  little  wing : 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  ! 

But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing. 

When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renew' d. 


MISS  LESLEY  BAILLIE. 

Tune — "  Liggeram  Cosh." 
Blithe  ha'e  I  been  on  yon  hill. 

As  the  lambs  before  rae  : 
Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 

As  the  breeze  flew  o'er  me : 
Now  nae  longer  sport  and  play. 

Mirth  or  sang  can  please  me  ; 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy. 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

Heavy,  heavy,  is  the  task, 

Hopeless  love  declaring : 
Trembling,  I  dow  nocht  but  glow'r. 

Sighing,  dumb,  despairing ! 
If  she  winna  ease  the  thraws 

In  my  bosom  swelling, 
Underneath  the  grass-green  sod 

Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 

*  The  two  latter  verses  only  are  by  Burns. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  331 


LOG  AX  WATER. 


O  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide, 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride  ; 
And  years  sinsyne  ha'e  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  bow'rs. 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flow'r«  ' 

BUthe  morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye. 

And  ev'ning's  tears  ar'e  teai'S  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. 

0  wae  upon  you,  men  o'  state. 
That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate  ! 
As  ye  mak'  monie  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  WilUe,  liame  to  Logan  braes  ! 


332  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


BONNIE    JEAN. 

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  merriUe  : 

The  blithest  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  flow'rs, 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad, 
The  flower  and  pride  o'  a'  the  glen  ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep  and  kye. 
And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryst. 

He  danced  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  moonbeam  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  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 
Or  what  wad  mak'  her  weel  again. 

But  did  na  Jeanie's  heart  loup  light, 
And  did  na  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  bii'ds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove  ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest. 
And  whisper'd  thus  his  tale  o'  love  : 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  33:5 

O  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear  ; 

0  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me, 
Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  maramie's  cot, 

And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi'  me  ? 

At  barn  or  b>Te  thou  shalt  na  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  nae  : 
At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  consent, 

And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa. 


PHILLIS    THE    FAIR. 

Tune—"  Robin  Adair." 

While  larks  with  little  wing 

Fann'd  the  i)ure  air. 
Tasting  the  breathmg  spring. 

Forth  I  did  fare  : 
Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peep'd  o'er  the  mountains  high  ; 
Such  thy  morn !  did  I  cry, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

In  each  bird's  careless  song, 

Glad  did  1  share  ; 
While  yon  wild  flow'rs  among. 

Chance  led  me  thei'e  : 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day. 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray  j 
Such  thy  bloom!  did  I  say, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

Down  in  a  shady  walk, 

Doves  cooing  were, 
I  mark'd  the  cruel  hawk 

Caught  in  a  snare  : 
So  kind  may  Fortune  be, 
Such  make  his  destiny, 
He  who  would  injux'e  thee, 

Phillis  the  fair. 


>34  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


HAD  I  A  CAVE,  &c. 

[An  unfortunate  cii-cumstance  which  happened  to  his  friend 
Cunningham,  suggested  this  iine  pathetic  song  to  the  Poet's 
fancy.] 

Tune — "  Robin  Adair." 

Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore. 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves'  dashing  roar, 

There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 

There  seek  my  lost  repose, 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 
Ne'er  to  wake  more. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare. 
All  thy  fond  plighted  vows — fleeting  as  aii  ? 

To  thy  new  lover  hie. 

Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 

Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there  ! 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o'  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  ha'e  ran  about  the  braes, 

And  pu't  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  weVe  wandered  mony  a  Aveary  foot. 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  ha'e  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  : 
But  seas  between  us  braid  ha'e  roar'd, 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  335 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine  ; 
And  we'll  tak'  a  right  good-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. 


BY  ALLAN  STREAM. 


Tune — "Allan  Water." 

By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove, 

While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Benledi  ; 
The  winds  were  whispering  thro'  the  grove. 

The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready  : 
I  listen' d  to  a  lover's  sang, 

And  thought  on  youtlifu'  pleasures  mony  : 
And  ay  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang — 

0  dearly  do  I  love  thee,  Annie  I 

0  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  mak'  it  eerie  ; 
Nor  ever  soi-row  stain  the  hour. 

The  place  and  time  I  met  my  dearie  ! 
Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast, 

She,  sinking,  said,  "  I'm  thme  for  ever ! " 
While  mony  a  kiss  the  seal  imprest, 

The  sacred  vow,  we  ne'er  should  sevei-. 

The  haunt  o'  spring's  the  primrose  brae. 

The  simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow  ; 
How  cheery  thro'  her  shortening  day 

Is  autumn,  in  her  weeds  o'  yellow  ! 
But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart. 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure. 
Or  thro'  each  nerve  the  rapture  dai*t, 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom's  treasure  ! 


336  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


ADOWN  WINDING  NITH. 

Adown  winding  Nitli  I  did  wander, 

To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring  ; 

Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  waudei", 
Of  Pliillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 

Awa'  wV  your  belles  and  your  beauties. 
They  never  wi'  her  can  compare  ; 

Whaever  has  met  wi'  my  Phillis, 
Has  met  wi'  the  queen  o'  the/air. 

The  daisy  amused  my  fond  fancy, 

So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild  ; 
Thou  emblem,  said  I,  o'  my  Phillis ! 

For  she  is  simplicity's  child. 

The  rose-bud's  the  blush  o'  my  charmer. 
Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  'tis  prest  : 

How  fail"  and  how  pure  is  the  lily! 
But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 

Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbour, 
They  ne'er  wi'  my  Phillis  can  vie  : 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  o'  the  woodbine. 
Its  dew-drop  o'  diamond,  her  eye. 

Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning. 

That  wakes  thro'  the  green-spreading  grove. 

When  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  mountains 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 

But  beauty  how  frail  and  how  fleeting, 
The  bloom  of  a  fine  summer's  day ! 

While  Avorth  in  the  mind  o'  my  Phillis 
Will  flourish  without  a  decay. 

Awa'  wi'  your  belles  and  your  beautieg. 
They  never  wi'  her  can  compare  ; 

Whaever  has  met  wi'  my  Phillis, 
Has  met  wi'  the  queen  o'  the/air. 


ayi^^^^L^ 


BURNS'S   SONGS   ASl)    BALLADS.  337 


COME,  LET  ME  TAKE  THEE. 


Tune—"  Cauld  Kail." 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast. 

And  pledge  we  Be'er  shall  sunder  ; 
And  I  shall  spurn,  as  vilest  dust, 

The  warld's  wealth  and  grandeur  : 
And  do  I  hear  my  Jeanie  own 

That  equal  transports  move  her  ? 
I  ask  for  dearest  life  alone. 

That  I  may  live  to  love  her. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi'  all  thy  charms, 

I  clasp  ray  countless  treasure ; 
I'll  seek  nae  mair  o'  heaven  to  share, 

Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure  : 
And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever  ! 
And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never  ! 


BEHOLD  THE  HOUR. 


Tune—"  Oran  Gaoil." 
Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart ! 
Sever'd  from  thee  can  I  survive  ? 

But  fate  has  will'd,  and  we  must  part. 
I'll  often  greet  this  surging  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail  ; 
"E'en  here  I  took  the  last  farewell ; 

There  latest  mark'd  her  vanish'd  sail.'* 

Along  tile  solitary  shore. 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I'll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye  : 
Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I'll  say. 

Where  now  my  Nancy's  path  may  be  ! 
While  through  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 

0  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ! 


338  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


DAINTY    DA  VLB. 


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. 

3Ieet  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  bi*eezes  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  x'epair 
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. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Bonnie  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 
There  I'll  spend  the  day  wi'  you. 

My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 


THOU  HAST  LEFT  ME  EVER. 

Tune — "  Fee  him.  Father." 
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. 
I  shall  see  thee  never.  [Jamie, 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  thou  hast  me  forsaken  ; 
Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  thou  hast  me  forsaken. 
Thou  canst  love  auitber  jo,  while  my  heart  is  breaking. 
Soon  my  weary  een  I'll  close — never  man*  to  waken,  Jamie, 
Never  mair  to  waken. 


BURKS  S   SONGS    AND   BALLADS.  339 


DELUDED  SWAIN,  THE  PLEASURE. 


Tune—"  The  Collier's  Dochter." 
Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 

The  fickle  fair  can  give  thee, 
Is  but  a  fairy  treasure — 

Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee. 

The  billows  on  the  ocean, 
The  breezes  idly  roaming, 

The  clouds'  uncertain  motion — 
They  are  but  tj'pes  of  woman. 

O  !  art  thou  not  ashamed. 

To  dote  upon  a  feature  ? 
If  man  thou  wouldst  be  named, 

Despise  the  silly  creature. 

Go,  find  an  honest  fellow  ; 

Good  claret  set  before  thee  : 
Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow. 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory. 


NANCY. 

Tune—"  The  Quaker's  Wife." 
Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy  ; 
Ev'ry  pulse  along  my  veins, 

Ev'ry  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart. 
There  to  throb  and  languish  : 

Though  desnair  had  wrung  its  core. 
That  would  heal  its  anguish. 

Take  away  these  rosy  lips. 
Rich  with  balmy  treasure  : 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love. 
Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love  ? 

Night  without  a  morning  : 
Love's  the  cloudless  summer  sun, 

Nature  gay  adorning. 
z  2 


340  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


FAIR  JENNY. 


Tune — "  Saw  ye  my  Father?" 

Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the  morning, 
That  danced  to  the  lark's  early  song  ? 

Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wand'ring, 
At  evening  the  wild  woods  among  ? 

No  more  a-winding  the  course  of  yon  river. 
And  marking  sweet  ilow'rets  so  fair  : 

No  more  I  trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure. 
But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  summer 's  forsaken  our  valleys, 

And  grim,  surly  whiter  is  near  ? 
No,  no,  the  bees  humming  roxmd  the  gay  roses 

Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Fain  would  I  hide  what  I  fear  to  discover. 
Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I  Imown  ; 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  ia  my  bosom, 
Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal. 

Nor  hope  dare  a  comfort  bestow  : 
Come  then,  enamour'd  and  fond  of  my  anguish. 

Enjoyment  I'll  seek  in  my  woe. 


WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE? 


7\tne~"  The  Sutor's  Dochter." 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 
When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 
By  the  treasure  of  my  soul. 
That's  the  love  I  bear  thee  ! 
I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie  ; 
Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow, 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 


Oy^^  Q^^^ ^d^m^/r^^^-^x^ 


BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS.  341 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me  ; 
Or  if  thou  wiltna  be  my  ain, 
Sayna  thou'lt  refuse  me  : 
If  it  winna,  canna  be, 
Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me, 
Let  me,  lassie,  quicldy  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me  ; 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 


BANNOCKBURN. 


Tune—"  Hey,  tuttie,  tattie." 

Scots,  wha  ha'e  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  glorious  victorie  ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour  ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power- 
Edward  !  chains  and  slaverie  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  gra,ve  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa', 
Caledonian  !  on  wi'  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be — shall  be  free. 


Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Forward  !  let  us  do,  or  die  ! 


342  BUBNSS   SONGS   AND   BALLADS. 


HUSBAND,  HUSBAND,  CEASE  YOUR  STRH^E. 

Tune—"  My  jo  Janet." 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 

Nor  longer  idly  rave.  Sir  ; 
Though  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  b'ye  allegiance  ! 
"  Sad  will  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,  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  vnO.  fly  for  fear. 

My  spouse,  Nancy.'* 


BURNS  S  SONGS    AND   BALLADS.  343 


ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

Tune—"  O'er  the  HiUs,"  <Src 
How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 
When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  2 
How  can  I  the  thought  forego, 
He's  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  ? 
Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove, 
Still  my  heart  is  with  my  loA'e  ; 
Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 
Are  with  him  that's  far  away. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away. 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away: 
Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 
Are  aye  with  him  that's  far  away. 

When  in  summer's  noon  I  faint. 
As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant. 
Haply  in  this  scorching  sun 
My  sailor's  thund'ring  at  his  gun : 
Bullets,  spai'e  my  only  joy  ! 
Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  ! 
Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may. 
Spare  but  him  that's  far  away. 

At  the  starless  midnight  hour. 

When  winter  rules  with  boundless  power  ; 

As  the  storms  the  forest  tear. 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air. 

Listening  to  the  doubling  roar. 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore. 

All  I  can — I  weep  and  pray. 

For  his  weal  that's  far  away. 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend. 
And  bid  wild  war  his  ravage  end, 
Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 
And  as  a  brother  kindly  greet : 
Then  may  heaven,  with  pi'osp'rous  gales. 
Fill  my  sailor's  welcome  sails. 
To  my  arms  their  charge  convey, 
My  dear  lad  that's  far  away. 
On  the  seas  and  far  away. 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away : 
Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 
Are  aye  with  him  that's  far  away. 


344  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


THE  LOVER'S  IMORNING  SALUTE  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune— "Beil  tak'  the  Wars." 

Sleep's!  thou,  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest  creature  1 

Rosy  morn  now  Hfts  his  eye, 
Numbering  ilka  bud  which  Nature 

Waters  wi'  the  tears  o'  joy  : 

Now  thro'  the  leafy  woods, 

And  by  the  reeldng  floods. 
Wild  Nature's  tenants  freely,  gladly  stray  ; 

The  lintwhite  in  his  bower 

Chants  o'er  the  breathing  flower; 

The  lav'roek  to  the  sky 

Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'  joy. 
While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 

Phoebus,  gilding  the  brow  o'  morning. 

Banishes  ilk  dai-ksome  shade. 
Nature  gladdening  and  adorning  ; 

Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid. 

When  absent  frae  my  fair, 

The  murky  shades  o'  care 
With  starless  gloom  o'ercast  my  sullen  sky : 

But  when,  in  beauty's  light. 

She  meets  my  ravish 'd  sight, 

When  through  my  very  heart 

Her  beaming  glories  dart — 
'Tis  then  I  wake  to  Ufe,  to  light,  and  joy. 


BUT  LATELY  SEEN. 


Tune—"  The  Winter  of  Life." 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green 

The  woods  rejoice  the  day. 
Through  gentle  showers  the  laughing  flowers 

In  double  pride  were  gay  : 
But  now  our  joys  are  fled, 

On  winter  blasts  awa'  ! 
Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array, 

Again  shall  bring  them  a'. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  345 

But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 

Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age  ; 
jMy  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  biekl, 

'Sinks  in  time's  wintry  rage. 
Oh,  age  has  weary  days, 

And  nights  o'  sleepless  pain  ! 
Thou  golden  time  o'  youtb.fu'  prime. 

Why  com'st  thou  not  again ! 


CA'  THE  YOWES. 

Tune — *•  Ca*  the  Yowes  to  tlie  Knowce," 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  whare  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  rows. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Hark,  the  mavis'  evening  sang 
Soimding  Clouden's  woods  amang  ; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

We'll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side, 
Through  the  hazels  spreading  wide. 
O'er  the  waves,  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Yonder  Clouden's  silent  towers, 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers. 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear  ; 
Thou'rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  neai'. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art. 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart  ; 
I  can  die — but  canna  part — 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea  ; 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin'  my  ee, 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 


346  BURNS  S   SONGS   AND    BALLADS 


O  AY  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG  ME, 

0  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 
An'  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me  ,- 
If  ye  gi'e  a  woman  a'  her  will, 
Guid  faith  t  she'll  soon  o'er  gang  ye. 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 
Ajid,  fool  I  was  !  I  married  ; 

But  never  honest  man's  intent 
As  cursedly  miscarried. 

Some  sairie  comfort  still  at  last, 
When  a'  thir  days  are  done,  man, 

My  pains  o'  hell  on  earth  are  past — 
I'm  sure  o'  bliss  aboon,  man. 

0  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 
An'  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me  ; 
If  ye  gi'e  a  woman  a'  her  will, 
Guid  faith  !  she'll  soon  o'ergang  ye. 


TO  JIARY. 

Tune—"  Could  auglit  of  song." 

Could  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains, 

Could  artful  numbers  move  thee, 
The  muse  should  tell,  in  labour'd  strains, 

0  Mary,  how  I  love  thee  ! 
They  who  but  feign  a  wounded  heart, 

May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish  ; 
But  what  avails  the  pride  of  art. 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  anguish  1 

Then  let  the  sudden  burstmg  sigh 

The  heart-felt  pang  discover  ; 
And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye, 

0  read  th'  imploring  lover. 
For  well  I  know  thy  gentle  mind 

Disdains  art's  gay  disguismg  ; 
Beyond  what  fancy  e'er  refined 

The  voice  of  nature  prizing. 


BURNS  S  SONGS    AND   BALLADS.  347 


HERE  IS  THE   GLEN. 


Tune—"  Banks  of  Cree." 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower, 
All  underneath  the  birchen  shade  ; 

The  village-bell  has  told  the  hour — 
O  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  1 

'Tis  not  Maria's  whispering  call, 
'Tis  but  the  balmy  breathing  gale, 

Mix'd  with  some  warbler's  dying  fall. 
The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria's  voice  I  hear  ! 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove. 
His  Uttle,  faithful  mate  to  cheer, 

At  once  'tis  music — and  'tis  love. 

And  art  thou  come  ?  and  art  thou  true  1 
0  welcome,  dear,  to  love  and  me ! 

And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew 
Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 


€T  IS  NA,   JEAN,  THY  BONNIE  FAC35. 


Tune—"  The  Maid's  Complaint." 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face. 

Nor  shape  that  I  admire, 
Altho'  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  ungen'rous  wish  I  ha'e, 

Nor  stronger  in  my  breast. 
Than  if  I  canna  mak'  thee  sae. 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 
Content  am  I,  if  Hgaven  shall  give 

But  happiness  to  thee  ; 
And  as  wi'  thee  I'd  wish  to  live. 

For  thee  I'd  bear  to  die. 


348  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND   BALLADS. 


LOVELY  DAVIES. 


Tune—*'  Miss  Muir." 

0  HOW  shall  I,  unskilfu',  try 
The  poet's  occupation, 

The  tunefu'  powers,  in  happy  hours. 

That  whisper  inspiration  ? 
Even  they  maun  dare  an  effort  mair, 

Than  aught  they  ever  gave  us. 
Ere  they  rehearse,  in  equal  verse. 

The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 

Each  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears, 

Like  Phcebus  in  the  morning, 
When  past  the  shower,  and  ev'ry  flower 

The  garden  is  adoi*ning. 
As  the  wretch  looks  o'er  Siberia's  shore, 

When  winter-bound  the  wave  is  ; 
Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  maun  part 

Frae  charming  lovely  Davies. 

Her  smile's  a  gift,  frae  'boon  the  lift. 

That  mak's  us  mair  than  princes  ; 
A  scepter'd  hand,  a  king's  command. 

Is  in  her  darting  glances. 
The  man  in  arms,  'gain§t  female  charms, 

Even  he  her  willing  slave  is  ; 
He  hugs  his  chain,  and  o\vns  the  reign 

Of  conquering,  lovely  Davies. 

My  muse  to  dream  of  such  a  theme. 
Her  feeble  pow'rs  surrender  ; 

The  eagle's  gaze  alone  surA'^eys 
The  sun's  meridian  splendour. 

1  wad  in  vain  essay  the  strain, 
The  deed  too  daring  brave  is  ; 

I'll  drap  the  lyre,  and  mute  admu*e 
The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 


nURNSS    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  349 


SAE   FAR  AWA'. 


Tunc—"  Dalkeith  JMaiden  Bridge." 

O,  SAD  and  heavy  should  I  part, 

But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa' ; 
Unknowing  what  my  way  may  thwart, 

My  native  land  sae  far  awa'. 
Thou  that  of  a'  things  Maker  art, 

That  form'd  this  fair  sae  far  awa', 
Gi'e  body  strength,  then  I'll  ne'er  start 

At  this  my  way  sae  far  awa'. 

How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert. 

So  love  to  her,  sae  far  awa' : 
And  nocht  can  heal  my  bosom's  smart. 

While  oh  !  she  is  sae  far  awa'. 
Nane  other  love,  nane  other  dart, 

I  feel  but  hers,  sae  far  awa' ; 
But  fairer  never  touch'd  a  heart 

Than  hers,  the  fair  sae  far  awa*. 


LET  NOT  WOMAN  E'ER  COMPLAIN. 


Tune — •'  Duncan  Gray," 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Of  inconstancy  in  love  ; 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 
Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove  : 

Look  abroad  through  Nature's  range. 
Nature's  mighty  law  is  change  ; 
Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange 

Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies  ; 

Ocean's  ebb  and  ocean's  flow  : 
Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise. 
Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 
Why  then  ask  of  silly  man 
To  oppose  great  Nature's  plan? 
We'll  be  constant  while  we  can — 
You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


350  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


CHLOE. 

ALTERED   FROM  AN   OLD   ENGLISH   SOVO. 

Tune — "  Dainty  Davie." 
It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flow'rs  were  fresh  and  gaj; 
One  morning  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe 
From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose, 
Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose. 
And  o'er  the  flow'ry  mead  she  goes, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 
Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 
Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn. 
The  youthful,  cha^-ming  Chloe. 

The  feather'd  people  you  might  see, 
Perch'd  all  around  on  evei-y  tree, 
In  notes  of  sweetest  melody 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe ; 
TiU,  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies. 
The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Out-rivaird  by  the  radiant  eyes 

Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

Lovely  icas  she  by  the  dawn. 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 

Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn. 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 


LASSIE  Va'  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS. 

Tune — "  Rothiemurchus'  Rant." 
Lassie  loV  the  lint-white  locks, 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie. 
Wilt  thou  wV  me  tent  thejlocks. 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  0  ? 

Now  nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea, 
And  a'  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee  ; 
0  wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi'  me. 
And  say  thou'lt  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 

And  when  the  welcome  siinmer-shower 
Has  cheer 'd  ilk  drooping  little  flower, 
We'U  to  the  breathing  woodbine  bower 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  0  \ 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  351 

When  C^Tithia  lights,  wi'  silver  ray, 
'rtie  weary  shearer's  hameward  way  ; 
Through  yellow  waving  fields  we'll  stray, 
And  talk  o'  love,  my  dearie,  O. 

And  when  the  howUng  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie's  midnight  rest ; 
Enclasi^ed  to  ray  faithfu'  breast, 
I'll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  0. 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint<vhite  locks, 

Bomue  lassie,  artless  lassie. 
Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent  thejlocks. 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  0  f 


FAREWELL,  THOU   STREAM. 

Tune—"  Nancy's  to  the  Greenwood  gane,"  &'). 
Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Around  EUza's  dwelling  ! 

0  mem'ry  !  spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling  : 

Condemned  to  drag  a  hopeless  chain, 

And  yet  in  secret  languish. 
To  feel  a  fire  in  ev'ry  vein. 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

Love's  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknowTi, 
I  fain  my  griefs  would  cover : 

The  bursting  sigh,  th'  unweeting  groan, 
Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

1  know  thou  doom'st  me  to  despair, 
Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me  ; 

But  oh,  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer — 
For  pity's  sake  forgive  me  ! 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I  heard. 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslaved  me  ; 
I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear'd, 

Till  fears  no  more  had  saved  me : 
Th'  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast. 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing  ; 
'Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 

In  overwhelming  ruin. 


352  BURNS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


0,  PHILLY,  HAPPY  BE  THAT  DAY. 


Tune—"  The  Sow's  Tail." 

He — 0  Philly,  happy  be  that  day 

When,  roving  through  the  gather'd  hay, 
My  youthfu'  heart  was  stown  away, 
And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 

She — O  Willy,  aye  I  bless  the  grove 

Where  first  I  own'd  my  maiden  love, 
While  thou  didst  pledge  the  Powers  above, 
To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

He — As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear, 
So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 
And  charming  is  my  Philly. 

She — As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 

Still  richer  breathes,  and  fairer  blows. 
So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I  bear  my  Willy. 

He  — The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky. 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi'  joy, 
Were  ne'er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a  sight  o'  Philly. 

She — The  little  swallow's  wanton  wing, 

Though  wafting  o'er  the  flowery  spring. 
Did  ne'er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring, 
As  meeting  o'  my  Willy. 

He — The  bee  that  through  the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower. 
Compared  wi'  my  delight  is  poor, 
Upon  the  lips  o'  Philly. 

She — The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet, 

When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet. 
Is  not  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 
As  is  a  kiss  o'  WiUy. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    B4LLADS.  353 

He — Let  fortune's  wheel  at  random  rin, 

And  fools  may  tine,  and  knaves  may  win  ; 
My  thoughts  are  a'  bound  up  in  ane, 
And  that's  my  aiu  dear  Philly. 

She — What's  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gi'e  ! 
I  care  nae  wealth  a  single  flie  ; 
The  lad  I  love's  the  lad  for  me. 
And  that's  ray  ain  dear  Willy. 


O  WHA  IS  SHE  THAT  LO'ES  ME. 

Tune—"  Morag." 

0  WHA  is  she  that  lo'es  me, 
And  has  my  heart  a-keeping  ? 

0  sweet  is  she  that  lo'es  me, 
As  dews  o'  simmer  weeping, 
In  tears  the  rose-buds  steeping. 

0  that's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart. 

My  lassie  ever  dearer  ,- 
0  that's  the  queen  o'  ivoman-kind. 

And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her. 

If  thou  shalt  meet  a  lassie 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming, 

That  e'en  thy  chosen  lassie, 

Ere  while  thy  breast  sae  warming, 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming ; 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking, 
And  thy  attentions  plighted. 

That  ilka  body  talking 

But  her  by  thee  is  slighted  ; 
And  thou  art  all  delighted  ; 

If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one  ; 
When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted, 

If  every  other  fair  one 

But  her  thou  hast  deserted. 
And  thou  art  broken-hearted  ; 


0  that's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart. 
My  lassie  ever  dearer  ; 

0  that's  the  queen  o'  woman-kind, 
And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her, 

A   A 


354  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


CONTENTED   WI'   LITTLE. 

Time — "  Lumps  o'  Pudding." 

Contented  wi'  little,  and  cantie  wi'  inair. 
Whene'er  I  forgather  wi'  sorrow  and  care, 
I  gi'e  them  a  skelp,  as  they're  creepin*  alang, 
Wi'  a  cog  o'  guid  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  guid  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'  guid  fellowship  southers  it  a'  • 
When  at  the  blithe  end  o'  our  journey  at  last, 
Wha  the  de'il  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  jade  gae : 
Come  ease,  or  come  travail ;  come  pleasure  or  pain. 
My  warst  word  is,  "  Welcome,  and  welcome  again ! " 


CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS. 

Tune—"  Roy's  Wife." 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Well  thou  knoiv'st  my  aching  heart. 
And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  F 

Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard. 
Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain's  reward — 
An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Katy  ? 

Farewell !  and  ne'er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy  ; 

Thou  may'st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear- 
But  not  a  love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 

Ca7ist  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 
Well  thou  know'st  my  achinrj  heart. 
And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus/or  pvty  ? 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  355 


MY  NANNIE'S  AWA' 


Tune — "  There'll  never  be  peace,"  &c. 

Now  in  her  gi'een  mantle  blithe  Nature  arrays, 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o'er  the  braes, 
While  bii'ds  warlile  welcome  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  mmd  me  o'  Nannie — and  Nannie's  awa'. 

Thou  lav'rock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of  the  lawn, 
The  shephei'd  to  warn  o'  the  gray-breaking  dawn, 
And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the  night-fa', 
Give  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  dai'k,  dreai'y  winter,  and  wild-driving  snav.-, 
Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie's  awa'. 


TO  GENERAL  DUMOURIER. 

A   P.ARODY   ON   ROBIN    ADAIR. 


You're  welcome  to  despots,  Dumourier, 
You're  welcome  to  despots,  Dumourier  ! 

How  does  Dampierre  do, 

Ay,  and  Bournonville  too. 
Why  did  not  they  come  along  with  you,  Dumourier  ? 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier  ; 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier  ; 
I  will  fight  France  with  you, 
I  will  take  my  chance  with  you  ; 

By  my  soul  I'll  have  a  dance  with  you,  Dumourier. 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier  ; 
Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumoiu-ier  ; 

Then  let  us  fight  about. 

Till  freedom's  spark  is  out. 
Then  we'll  be  damnd,  no  doubt,  Dumourior  I 


556  BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BAl.IiATtS. 


HERE'S    A   HEALTH. 

Tune — •'  The  Bonnets  o'  blue." 
Here's  a  health  to  them  tliat'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  mei'ry  and  wise. 

It  s  guid  to  be  honest  and  true. 
It's  guid  to  support  Caledonia's  cause, 

And  bide  by  the  butf  and  the  blue. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'. 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa'  ; 
Here's  a  health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o'  the  clati, 

Although  that  his  band  be  sma'. 
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'. 


And  here's  to  them  that' 


s  awa 


5  . 


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 ! 
Tliere's  nane  ever  fear'd  that  the  truth  should  be  heard, 

But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indict. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa', 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa'  ; 
Here's  Maitland  and  Wycombe,  and  wha  does  na  like  'em. 

We'll  build  m  a  hole  o'  the  wa'. 
Here's  timmer  that's  red  at  the  heart. 

Here's  fruit  that's  sound  at  the  core  ! 
May  he  that  would  turn  the  buft"  and  blue  coat. 

Be  turn'd  to  the  back  o'  the  door. 

Here's  a  health  to   them  that's  awa', 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa'  ; 
Here's  Chieftain  M'Leod,  a  chieftain  worth  gowd, 

Though  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw  ! 
Here's  friends  on  baith  sides  o'  the  Forth, 

And  friends  on  baith  sides  o'  the  Tweed, 
And  wha  would  betray  old  Albion's  inghts, 

May  they  never  eat  of  her  bread. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  357 


CALEDONIA. 


Tune — "  Humours  of  Glen." 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands  reekori, 

Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  perfume. 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  breckau, 

Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  Tang  yellow  broom. 
Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 

Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly  unseen  : 
For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild  flowers, 

A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Though  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  valleys. 

And  cauld  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave  ; 
Their  sweet-scented  woodlands  that  skirt  the  proud  palace. 

What  are  they  ?     The  haunt  of  the  tyi'ant  and  slave  ! 
The  slave's  spicy  forests,  and  gold-bubbling  fountains, 

The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  disdain; 
He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  mountains. 

Save  love's  willing  fetters,  the  chains  o'  his  Jean. 


0  LAY  THY  LOOF  IN  MINE,  LASS. 

Tune — "  Cordwainers*  March." 

0  LAY  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 
In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  ; 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass. 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 
A  slave  to  Love's  unbounded  sway, 
He  aft  has  wiought  me  meikle  wae  ; 
But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae. 

Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 

There's  mony  a  lass  has  broke  my  rest, 
That  for  a  blink  I  ha'e  lo'ed  best, 
But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast, 

For  ever  to  remain. 
O  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass. 
In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass, 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass. 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 


tfonnas  songs  and  ballads. 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune — *'  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

Thsre  was  once  a  day,  but  old  Time  then  was  young, 

That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  hei*  line. 
From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung, 

(Who  knows  not  that  brave  Caledonia's  divme?) 
From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain, 

To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what  she  would : 
Her  heavenly  relations  there  fixed  her  reign. 

And  pledged  her  their  godheads  to  warrant  it  good. 

A  lambkin  in  peace,  but  a  lion  in  war, 

The  pride  of  her  kindred,  the  heroine  grew : 
Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore — 

"  Whoe'er  shall  provoke  thee,  th'  encounter  shall  rue  ! " 
With  tillage  or  pasture  at  times  she  would  sport, 

To  feed  her  fair  flocks  by  her  green  rustling  corn ; 
But  chiefly  the  woods  were  her  favourite  resoi-t ; 

Her  darUng  amusement,  the  hounds  and  tlie  horn. 

Long  quiet  she  reigned  ;  till  thitherward  steers 

A  flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adrians  strand*  : 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 

They  darken'd  the  air,  and  they  plunder'd  the  land : 
Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their  cry, 

They'd  conquer'd  and  ruin'd  a  world  beside : 
She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let  fly — 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they  died. 

The  fell  harpy-raven  took  wing  from  the  North, 

The  scourge  of  the  seas  and  the  dread  of  the  shore  t ; 
The  wild  Scandinavian  boar  issued  forth 

To  wanton  in  carnage,  and  wallow  in  gore  J  ; 
O'er  countries  and  kingdoms  their  fury  prevail'd, 

No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms  could  repel ; 
But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assail'd. 

As  Largs  well  can  witness,  and  Loncartie  tell§. 

The  Cameleon-savage  disturb'd  her  repose. 
With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion,  and  strife ; 

Provoked  beyond  bearing  at  last  she  arose. 

And  robb'd  him  at  once  of  his  hopes  and  his  life  || : 

*  The  Romans.  f  The  Saxons.  X  The  Danes. 

§  The  two  famous  battles  in  which  the  Danes  or  Norwegians 
were  defeated.  |l'  The  Highlanders  of  the  Isles. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  359 

The  Anglian  lion,  the  tei-ror  of  France, 

Oft  prowling,  ensanguined  the  Tweed's  silver  flood  ; 
But  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance. 

He  learned  to  fear  in  his  own  native  wood. 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer'd,  and  free, 

Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  sliall  run  : 
For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be  ; 

I'll  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the  sun  : 
Rectangle-triangle,  the  figure  we'll  choose. 

The  upi'ight  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is  the  base ; 
But  brave  Caledonia's  the  hj'pothenuse  ; 

Then  ergo  she'll  match  them,  and  match  them  always*. 


O  LASSIE,  ART   THOU  SLEEPING  YET. 

Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 

0  LASSIE,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 
•  Or  art  thou  wakin',  I  would  wit  ? 

For  love  has  bound  me,  hand  and  fit, 
And  I  would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

0  let  me  in  this  ae  night. 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night  ,• 
For  pity's  sake  this  ae  night, 

0  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo. 

Thou  hear'st  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 
Nae  star  blinks  through  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. 

0  let  me  in  this  ae  night. 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 
For  pity's  sake  this  ae  nigh  i, 

0  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo. 

*  This  singular  figure  of  poetry  refers  to  the  famous  proposition 
of  Pythagoras,  the  47th  of  Euclid.  In  a  right-angled  triangle,  the 
square  of  the  hypothenuse  is  always  equal  to  the  squares  of  the 
two  other  sides. 


3G0  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


HER  ANS^\'ER, 


0  TELL  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 
Upbraid  na  me  wi'  eauld  disdain  ! 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam'  again, 
I  winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

/  tell  you  now  this  ae  night. 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 
And  ancefor  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. 

I  tell  you  now,  ^-c. 


SAW  YE  MY  PHELY. 

(Quasi  dicat  Phillis.) 

Tune — "  When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit." 
0  SAW  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
O  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
She's  down  i'  the  grove,  she's  wi'  a  new  love, 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Willy. 

What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  1 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 
She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee  forgot, 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  Willy. 

O  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 
0  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 
As  light  as  the  aii',  and  fause  as  thou's  fair, 
Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  AVilly. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  361 


IS  THERE,  FOR  RONEST  POVERTY. 


Tune—"  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's  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that ! 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gi'e  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  theu'  wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that  ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  ()'  men,  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
•Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  riband,  stai',  and  a'  that ; 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that ! 

A  king  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that  ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  maunna  fa  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  ranks  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  comin'  yet  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


362  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Tu7ie — "  The  hopeless  Lover." 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  groves  m  greer.j 

And  strew'd  the  lea  wi'  flowers  ; 
The  furrow'd,  waving  corn  is  seen 

Rejoice  in  fostering  showers  ; 
While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 

Their  sorrows  to  forego, 
0  w^hy  thus  all  alone  are  mine 

The  weary  steps  of  woe  ! 

The  trout  within  yon  wimpling  hum 

Glides  swift,  a  silver  dart. 
And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 

Defies  the  angler's  art : 
My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 

That  wanton  ti'out  was  I  ; 
But  love,  wi'  unrelenting  beam, 

Has  scorch'd  my  fountain  dry. 

The  little  flow'ret's  peaceful  lot. 

In  yonder  cliff"  that  grows, 
Which,  save  the  linnet's  flight,  I  wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows. 
Was  mine  ;  till  love  has  o'er  me  pass'd. 

And  blighted  a'  my  bloom. 
And  now  beneath  the  withering  blast, 

My  youth  and  joy  consume. 

The  waken'd  lav'rock  warbling  springs, 

And  climbs  the  early  sky, 
Winnowmg  blithe  her  dewy  wings 

In  morning's  rosy  eye  ; 
As  little  reck'd  I  sorrow's  power, 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
0'  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour, 

Made  me  the  thrall  o'  care. 

0  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows, 

Or  Afric's  burning  zone, 
Wi'  man  and  nature  leagued  my  foes. 

So  Peggy  ne'er  I'd  known  ! 
The  wretch  whase  doom  is,  "  hope  nae  mail*  !** 

What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell ! 
Within  whase  bosom,  save  despaii', 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


SL'RXSS    SONGS    AND    BALLADS  363 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOODLARK. 

Tunc—"  Wliere'll  bonnie  Ann  lie?"  or  "  Loch-Eroch-Side." 
O  STAY,  sweet  warbling  woodlai'k,  stay  ! 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray ; 
A  hapless  lover  courts  tliy  lay, 
Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 
For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 
Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

Say  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 
Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'dj 
Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care  ; 
O'  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair  ; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair ! 
Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


HOW  CRUEL  ARE  THE  PARENTS. 

ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD   ENGLISH  SONO. 


Tune — *'  John  Anderson,  my  jo." 
How  cruel  are  the  parents 

Who  riches  only  prize, 
And  to  the  wealthy  booby 

Poor  woman  sacrifice. 
Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 

Has  but  a  choice  of  strife  ; 
To  shun  a  tyrant  father's  hate. 

Become  a  wretched  wife. 

The  ravening  hawk  pursuing. 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flies, 
To  shun  impending  ruin, 

A  while  her  pinions  tries  ; 
Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat, 
She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer. 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


364  BURNS  S  SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


CHLORIS. 

Tune— "Be'il  tak'  the  wars.* 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion, 

Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride  : 
But  when  compared  with  real  passion, 

Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 

What  are  the  showy  treasures  ? 

What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 
The  gay,  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art ; 

The  polish'd  jewel's  blaze 

May  draw  the  wond'ring  gaze, 

And  courtly  grandeur  bright 

The  fancy  may  delight, 
But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  hera-t. 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris, 

In  simplicity's  array ; 
Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  i&. 

Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day. 

O  then,  the  heart  alarming, 

And  all  resistless  charming. 
In  Love's  delightful  fettei-s  she  chams  the  willing  soul  f 

Ambition  would  disown 

The  world's  imperial  crown. 

Even  Avarice  would  deny 

His  worshipp'd  deity. 
And  feel  through  every  vein  Love's  raptures  roll. 


THIS  IS  NO  MY  AIN  LASSIE. 


Tune—"  Tliis  is  no  my  ain  House/ 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie. 

Fair  though  the  lassie  be  ,• 
0  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie. 

Kind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 

I  SEE  a  form,  I  see  a  face, 
Ye  weel  may  wi'  the  fairest  place  : 
It  wants,  to  me,  the  witchin'  grace. 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'(i. 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  365 

She's  bounie,  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'  een. 
When  kind  love  is  in  the  e'e. 

It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks; 
It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks  ; 
But  weel  the  watching  lover  mark« 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 

■0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie. 

Fair  though  the  lassie  be; 
0  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie, 

Kind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 


ON  CHLORIS  BEING  ILL 

Tune — •*  Aye  wakin',  O." 

Long,  long  the  night. 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow. 

While  my  soul's  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  o/sorrow. 


Can  I  cease  to  care  ? 

Can  I  cease  to  languish. 
While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  ? 

Every  hope  is  fled, 
Every  fear  is  terror  ; 

Slumber  even  I  dread, 
Every  dream  is  horror. 

Hear  me,  Pow'rs  divine  ! 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  me  ! 
Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  ! 

Long,  long  the  night. 

Heavy  comes  the  mar  row. 

While  my  soul's  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  o/sorrow. 


366  BURNs's   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


TEE  DUMFRIES  VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune—"  Push  about  the  Jorum." 

April.,  ?795. 
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  oursel's  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  de'il  a  foreign  tinkler  loon 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in't. 
Our  fathers'  bluid  the  kettle  bought. 

And  wlia  wad  dare  to  spoil  it. 
By  heaven  !  the  sacrilegious  dog 

Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own. 

And  the  wretcli  his  true-born  brother, 
Who  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  tiu'one, 

May  they  be  damn'd  together  ! 
Who  will  not  sing,  "  God  save  the  King," 

Shall  hang  as  high's  the  steeple  ; 
But  while  we  bing,  "God  save  the  King," 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  People. 


BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  367 


LAST  MAY    A  BRAW  WOOER. 

Tune— "The  Lothian  Lassie." 
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  forgi'e  me  for  lying,  for  lying, 

The  Lord  foi-gi'e  me  for  lying  ! 

A  weel-stocked  mailen,  himsel'  for  the  laird, 
And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers  : 

I  never  loot  on  that  1  kenn'd  it,  or  cared, 

But  thought  I  might  ha'e  waur  offers,  waur  offers. 
But  thought  I  might  ha'e  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?  in  a  fortnight  or  less. 

The  de'il  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  tryste  o'  Dalgarnock, 
And  wha  but  my  Ane  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'  eouthy  and  sweet. 

Gin  she  had  recover' d  her  hearin', 
And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shackl't  feet. 

But,  heavens !  how  he  fell  a  swearin',  a  sweariu', 

But  heavens !  how  he  fell  a  swearin'. 

He  begged,  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. 


368  BURNS  S    SONGS   AND    BALLADS. 


THE  TITHER  MORN. 

To  a  Highland  Ak. 

The  tither  moi'u. 

When  I  forloi'n, 
Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 

I  did  na  trow 

I'd  see  my  jo, 
Beside  me,  ere  the  gloaming. 

But  he  sae  trig, 

Lap  o'er  the  rig, 
And  dawtingly  did  cheer  me, 

When  I,  what  reck  ! 

Did  least  expec' 
To  see  my  lad  so  near  me. 

His  bonnet  he, 

A  thought  ajee, 
Cock'd  sprush  when  fii'st  he  clasp'd  in«  , 

And  I,  I  wat, 

Wi'  fainness  grat, 
While  in  his  grips  he  press'd  me. 

De'il  tak'  the  war  ! 

I  late  and  air 
Ha'e  wish'd  since  Jock  departed  ; 

But  now  as  glad 

I'm  wi'  my  lad, 
As  short-syne  broken-hearted. 

Fu'  aft  at  e'en, 

Wi'  dancing  keen, 
When  a*  were  blythe  and  men-y, 

I  cared  na  by, 

Sae  sad  was  I 
In  absence  o'  my  dearie. 

But,  praise  be  blest ! 

My  mind's  at  rest, 
I'm  happy  wi'  my  .Johnny  : 

At  kirk  and  fair, 

I'se  ay  be  tliere. 
And  be  as  canty's  ony. 


BURNs's   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  1^69 


O  BONNIE  WAS  YON  ROSY  BRIER. 


Tune — "  I  ^vish  my  love  was  in  a  mire." 

0  BONME  was  yon  rosy  brier, 

That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o'  man  ; 
And  bonnie  she,  and  ah,  how  dear  ! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e'enin'  sun. 

Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew, 

How  pure  amang  the  leaves  sae  green  ; 

But  purer  was  the  lover's  vow, 

They  witness'd  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and  fair  ! 

But  love  is  far  a  sweeter  flower 
Amid  life's  thorny  path  o'  care. 

The  pathless  wild,  and  wimpling  bum, 
Wi'  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine  ; 

And  I  the  world  nor  wish  nor  scorn. 
Its  joys  and  gi'iefs  alike  resign. 


THERE  WAS  A  BONNIE  LASS. 

AN    UNFINISHED   SKETCH. 


There  was  a  bonnie  lass, 
And  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lass. 

And  she  lo'ed  her  bonnie  laddie  dear 
Till  war's  loud  alarms 
Tore  her  laddie  frae  her  arms, 

Wi'  mony  a  sigh  and  tear. 

Over  sea,  over  shore, 

Where  the  cannons  loudly  roar. 
He  still  was  a  sti'anger  to  fear ; 

And  iiocht  could  him  quell, 

Or  his  bosom  assail. 
But  the  bomiie  lass  he  lo'ed  so  dear. 

B   B 


370  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

[This  is  altered  from  an  old  favourite  song  of  the  ?«jms 
name.] 

Tune — "  Coming  through  the  rj'o." 

Coming  through  the  rye,  poor  body, 

Coming  through  the  rye, 
She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Coming  through  the  rye. 
Jenny's  a'  wat,  poor  body, 

Jenny's  seldom  dry  ; 
She  di'aiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Coming  through  the  rye. 

GiP.  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  a'  body  ken  ? 
Jenny's  a'  wat,  poor  body, 

Jenny's  seldom  dry  ; 
She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Coming  through  the  rye. 


ALTHO'  THOU  MAUN   NEVER  BE  MINE. 


Tune — "  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa,  hiney. " 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 

Thou  art  as  szveet  as  the  »mile  when  fond  lovers  meet. 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy.' 

Altho'  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altho'  even  hope  is  denied  ; 
'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — Jess*' : 


BURNS  S    SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  371 

I  mourn  thro'  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms  : 
But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber, 

For  til  en  I  am  lock'd  in  thy  arms— Jessy  ! 

I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I  guess  by  the  love-rolling  e'e  ; 
But,  why  urge  the  tender  confession, 

'Gainst  fortune's  fell  cruel  decree  ? — Jessy  ! 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 

Thou  art  as  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fovd  lovers  meet. 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear— Jess?/! 


HEY  FOR  A  LASS  WI'  A   TOCHER. 


Tune — "  Balinamona  Ora." 

Awa'  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's  alarms, 
The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms : 
0  gi'e  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o'  charms, 
O  gi'e  me  the  lass  wi'  the  weel  stockit  farms. 

ITien  hey  for  a  lass  wV  a  tocher. 
Then  hep  for  a  lass  wV  a  tocher  ,- 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  ici'  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  bonny  green  knowes. 
Ilk  spring  they're  new  deckit  wi'  bonny  white  yowes. 

And  e'en  when  this  beauty  yonr  bosom  has  blest. 
The  brightest  o'  beauty  may  cloy  when  possest  ; 
But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi'  Gebrdie  imprest. 
The  langer  ye  ha'e  them — the  mair  they're  carest. 

Then  hey  for  a  Tass  wi'  a  tmiher. 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  icV  a  tmher. 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tochef. 
The  nice  yelloiv  guineas  for  me. 

R     R     2 


372  BURNS  S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


'TWAS  NA  HER  BONNIE  BLUE  EEN. 


Tune— "liaddie,  lie  near  me." 

'TwAS  na  her  bonuie  blue  een  was  my  ruin  ; 
Fair  though  she  be,  that  was  ne'er  my  undoing : 
'Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did  mind  us, 
'Twas  the  bewitching,  sweet,  stown  glance  o'  kindness, 

Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 
Sair  do  I  fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me  ! 
But  though  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever. 

Mary,  I'm  thine  wi'  a  passion  sincerest, 
And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  o'  the  dearest. 
And  thou  art  the  angel  that  never  can  alter. 
Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would  falter. 


TO  CHARLOTTE  HAMILTON 

[The  Poet's  last  Song !] 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks. 
Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 

Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside. 
And  smile  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do  f 

Full  well  thou  know'st  I  love  thee  dear, 
Couldst  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear ! 
0,  did  not  love  exclaim,  "  Forbear, 
Nor  use  a  faithful  lover  so  ? " 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Tliose  wonted  smiles,  0,  let  me  share  : 
And  by  thy  beauteous  self  I  swear. 

No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall  know. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 
Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 

Wilt  thou  lay  thatfroivn  aside. 
And  smile  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do  ? 


EURNS'S   SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  37i 


A   FRAGMENT. 


Tune — "  John  Anderson  my  jO." 

One  night  as  I  did  wander, 

When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 
I  sat  me  down  to  ponder, 

Upon  an  auld  tree  root : 
Auld  AjT  ran  by  before  me, 

And  bicker'd  to  the  seas ; 
A  cushat  crowded  o'er  me, 

That  echoed  through  the  braes. 


FRAGMENT. 

CHLORIS. 

Tune—"  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover. 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ! 
Why,  why  undeceive  him. 

And  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 

O  why,  while  fancy,  raptured,  slumlK^ra, 
Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme  ; 

Why,  why  wouldst  thou,  cruel ! 
Wake  thy  lover  from  liis  dream  t 


END  or  THE   SOK&S  AND  BALLADS 


GLOSSARY. 


[In  the  present  edition  the  original  Glossary  has  heen  carefully  exa- 
mined, and  much  augmented.  In  all  the  Poems  and  Songs,  where 
the  Scotch  words  vary,  in  orthography  or  pronimciation,  from  English 
ones  merely  by  literal  elision  (such  as  a?*' for  and,  ha'eforhave,  singin' 
for  singing,  &c.),  apostrophes  have  been  uniformly  inserted,  to  in- 
dicate the  place  of  dropped  letters  ;  by  which  means  the  English 
admirers  of  our  Poet  mil  the  more  readily  understand  his  verses. 
Such  words,  therefore,  have  been  retrenched  altogether  from  the 
glossary ;  and  those  purely  Scotch  only  (or,  being  English,  having 
Scotch  meanings)  will  be  found  below. — Ed.] 


'  The  ch  and  gh  have  always  the  guttural  soimd.  The  sovmd  of  the 
English  diphthong  oo  is  commonly  spelt  ou.  The  French  u,  a  soimd 
which  often  occurs  in  the  Scottish  language,  is  marked  oo  or  iti.  The 
a  in  genuine  Scottish  words,  except  when  forming  a  diphthong,  or 
followed  by  an  e  mute  after  a  single  consonant,  sovmds  generally  like 
the  broad  English  a  in  wall.  The  Scottish  diphthong  ae,  always,  and 
ea,  very  often,  soimd  like  the  French  e  masculine.  The  Scottish  diph- 
thong ep  sounds  like  the  Latin  ei." — Burns. 


Aback,  away,  aloof 
Abeigh,  at  a  shy  distance 
Aboon,  above,  up,  over 
Abread,  abroad,  in  sight 
Ahreed,  in  breadth 
Adle,  caudle  ;  a  cordial 
Ae,  one 
Aff,  off;  aff-loof,  oflf-hand. 

unpremeditated 
Afore,  before 
Aft,  oft 
Aften,  often 
A^ley,  awry,  wrong 
Aiblins,  perhaps 
Aik,  an  oak 
Ailsa  Craig  (crag),  a  high 

insulated  rock  in  the  Frith 

of  Clyde 
Ain,  o\vu 

Air,  ear',  early,  soon 
Airlef,airl-penny,  earnest- 
money  ;  lure,  bait 
Aim,  iron 

Ajrt,   quarter  of  the  hea- 
ven? ;  to  direct 

Aith.anoath 

Aits,  (lats 

Aiver,  an  old  horse 

Aizle,  a  hot  cinder 

A  |ee,  ajar ;  on  one  side 


Alake,  alas ! 

Alane,  alone 

Akwart,  awkward 

Amaist,  'maist,  almost 

Ance.once 

Ane,  one,  an 

Anent,   concerning ;    fore- 

anent,  over-against 
Anither,  another 
Ase,  ashes 
Aspar,  astride 
Asteer,  abroad,  stirring 
Atween,  between 
Aught,  possession  ;  as,  in  a' 

viy  aught,  in  all  my  stock; 

whase  aught  thae  chiels  ? 

of  what  kind  (or  family^ 

are  these  men  ? 
Auld,  old  ;   auld  warl ',  an- 
tediluvian,   out-of-drfte  ; 

aul'd-used,  experienced 
Auldfarran,  or  auldfarraut, 

quaint,cunning,  prudent; 

precocious  in  mind 
Aumis,  alms  ;    aumis-dish, 

charity  plate  or  box 
Ava,  at  all 
Awn,  the  beard  of  barley, 

o*tS;  &c  ;  awnie,  bearded 
Ajront,  beyond 


Ba\  ball 

Backets,  ash-boards 

Backlins    comin',     coming 

back,  returning 
Bad,  did  bid      ' 
Baide,  endured,  did  stay 
Baggie,  the  belly 
Bail  le,  borough  magistrate, 

alderman 
Bairn,  a  child 
Bairn-time,     a    family    cl 

children;  a  brood 
Baith,  both 
Ban,  to  swear,  to  curse 
Band,  bond;  bands, bondage 
Bane,  bone;  bany,  bony 
Bang,  to  beat,  to  strive 
Bannocks,  flat,  soft  cakes 
Bardie,  diminutive  of  bard, 

Sir  Bardie,  our  poet 
Barefil,  barefooted 
Barm,  yeast 
Barmie,  yeasty 
Batih,  a  crew,  a  gang 
Batts,  botts 
Baudrons,  a  cat 
Bauld,  bold 
Bawbf  e,  a  halfpenny 
Baws'nt,  having  a    white 

stripe  down  the  face 


376 


GLOSSARY. 


Bawk,  a  ridge,  a  bank 
Bawty,  general  name  of  a 

dog 
Be,  to  let  he,  to  give  over 
Bear,  big,  barley- 
Beast,  full-grown  animal 
Beastie,  dimin.  of  beast 
Beet,  to  add  fuel  to  fire 
Beld,  bald 
Bell,  flower ;  in  the  bell,  in 

blossom 
Belyve,  by  and  by 
Ben,  in;    into  the   room; 
"a  routhie  but  a  routhie 
ben,"  comfortable  house  ; 
benmost,  inmost 
Bethankit, grace  after  meat 
Eeuk,  a  book 
Bicker,  a  kind  of  wooden 

dish  ;  a  short  race 
Biel,  or  bield,  shelter 
Bien,    wealthy,   plentiful, 

comfortable 
Big,  bigg,  to  build 
Biggin',  building,  a  house 
Biggit,  built 
Bill,  a  bull 
Billie,  a  brother  ;  a  young 

fellow^a  companion 
Bing,  a  heap  of  grain,  pota- 
toes, &c. 
Birk,  birch-tree 
Birkie,  lively  young  fellow 
Birring,noise  of  partridges. 

Sec  when  they  spring 
Bit,  crisis,  nick  of  time 
Bizz,  a  bustle;   to  buzz 
Bizzie,  busy 
Blae,  blue;  livid 
Blastie,  a  shrivelled  dwarf, 

a  term  of  contempt 
Blastit,  blasted;  degenerate 
Blate,  bashful,  sheepish 
Blather  or  blether,  bladder 
Blaud,  a  good  piece  of  any- 
thing ;  to  slap 
Blaw,  to  blow  ;  to  boast 
Bleerit,  bleared 
Bleezing,  blazing 
Blellum,  idle  talking  fellow 
Blether,  talk  idly, nonsense 
Bleth'rin,  talking  idly 
Blink,    a  gleam ;    a  lit'le 
while ;  a  smiling  look  ;  to 
look  kindly  ;  shine  by  fits 
Blinker,  aterm  of  contempt 
Blinkin',  smirking 
Bloom,  blossom ;  blooming, 

blossoming 
Blue-gown, authorised  beg- 
gar, such  as  Edie  Ochiltree 
Bluid,  blude,  blood 
Bluntie,  one  abashed 
Blype,  a  shred,  a  strip 
Bock,  to  vomit,  to  gush  in- 
termittently 
Bocked,  gushed,  vomited 
Bodle,  a  small  copper  coin 
Bogles,  spirits,  hobsoblins 
Bole,    recess  ur  hole   in  a 

wall 
Bonnie,    or  bonny,    hand- 
some, beautiful 
Boord,  a  board 
Boortree,  the  shrub  elder 
Boost,  behoved,  must  needs 
Bore,  hole  in  a  wall,  ere  vice 


Botch,  an  angry  tumour 
Bousing  drinking 
Bow-kail,  cabbage 
Bowt,  bended,  crooked 
Brackens,  fern 
Hrae,  a  hillock,  a  declivity 
Braid,  broad;  braid  Scotch 

or  Scots,  plain  language 
Braik,  a  kind  of  harrow 
Rrainge,  to  run  rashly 
Braindg't,  reeled  forward 
Bisk",  broke,  made  insol- 
vent 
Branks,  a  kind  of  wooden 

curb  for  horses 
Brash,  a  sudden  illness 
Brats,  clothes  ;  aprons,  &c. 
Brattle,  a  short  race,  hurry 
Braw,  fine,  handsome 
Braivly,   or  brawlie,  very 

well)  finely,  heartily 
Braxie,  a  morbid  sheep 
Breastie,  dimin  of  breast 
Brcastit,  did  spring  forth 
Brechan,  breckans,  fern 
Bree,  liquor ;   barley-bree, 

ale,  whiskey 
Breef,  an  irresistible  spell 
Breeks,  breeches 
Brent,  smooth  ;  brent  new, 

quite  new;  brent   brow, 

high  smooth  forehead 
Brie,  brow  ;  e'e-brie,  eye- 
Brig,  abridge 
Brisket,  the  breast 
Brither,  a  brother 
Brock,  a  badger 
Brogue,  a  trick 
Broo,  broth, liquid,  water 
Broose,  a  race  at  weddings 
Brose,    stirabout ;     water- 

brose,  oatmeal  gruel 
Browst,brewing;  browster- 

wife,  tavern  landlady 
Brugh,  burgh,  a  borough 
Bruilzie,  a  broil 
Brun^tane,  brimstone 
Brunt,  did  burn,  burnt 
Brust,  to  burst,  burst 
Buckie,  spirited  lad 
Buckskins,  Yankies 
BuiT,  a  blow ;  buff  our  beef, 

beat  one  soundly 
Bught,  a  pen 

Bughtin'-time,  time  of  col- 
lecting ewes  to  be  milked 
Euirdly,  stout-made 
Bum,  hum  as  a  bee  ;  exult 
Bum-clock,     a     humming 

beetle 
Bumming,  humming  as  of 

bees 
Bummle,  to  blunder 
Bummler,  a  blunderer 
Bunker,  a  window-seat 
Burdies,  dimin.  of  birds 
Bure,   did  bear  ;  hure  the 

gree,  bore  the  bell 
Burn,   water;    a  brook,   a 

rivulet 
Burnie,  diminutive  of  burn 
Busk,     to    put    on    dress; 

buskit,  dressed 
Buskie,  bushy 
Buss,  a  bush 
But,  without 


But  an'  ben,  kitchen  and 

parlour  ;  two  rooms 
Butching,  killing 
By  himself,  crazy,  lunatic 
Byp  attour,  besides  that 
Byke,  a  bee-hive,  a  swarm 
Byre,  a  covv-house 

C  A',tocall,to  name,  to  drive 
Ca't,  or  ca"d,  called,driven; 

calved 
Cadger,  costermonger 
Cadie  (cadet),  younger  son, 

lackland;  menial 
Caff,  chaff 

Caird,  a  tinker;  gipsy  man 
Cairn, a  heap  of  stones  serv- 

ingasa  rude  kind  of  mon- 
ument ;  also  a  pinnacle 
Calf-ward,  small  encloauro 

for  calves 
Callan,  callant,  a  boy 
Caller,  fresh,  sound 
Callet,  camp  trull 
Canny,  or   cannie,  gentle, 

careful ;  softly ;  quietly 
Cant,  chant,  song 
Cantie,  or  canty,  cheerful 
Cantrip,  a  charm,  a  spell 
Cap-stane,  top-stone 
Care  na  by,  it  irks  me  not 
Careerin',  moving  cheerily 
Carkin",  fretting,  gnawing, 

corroding 
Carl-hemp,  male  stalk 
Carle,  carlie,  an  old  man 
Carline,  a  stout  old  woman 
Cartes,  cards 
Cast  out,  fall  out,  quarrel 
Caudron,  a  cauldrr.n 
Cauk  and  keel,  chalk  and 

red  or  black  lead-pencil 
Cauld,  caul',  cold 
Caup,  3  wooden  drinking 

vessel ;  a  cup 
Caution,  legal  bail  ;  be  cau- 
tion, become  responsible 
Cavie,    a  coop ;    chicken- 

cavie,  hen-roost 
Chanter,  part  of  a  bagpipe 
Chap,  a  man,  fellow 
Chapman    billies,  pedlars, 

petty  traders  (not  buyers) 
Chaup,  a  stroke,  a  blow 
Cheekit,  cheeked 
Cheep,  chirping,  to  chirp 
Chiel,chield.ayoungfellow 
Chimla  or  chimlie,  chimney 

a  fire-grate,  a  fire-place 
Chimla-lug,  the  fire-side 
Chittering,'      chattering, 

shivering,  trembling 
Chow,  to  chew;  cheek-for- 

chow,  side  by  side 
Chuffie,  fat-faced 
Clachan,acountry  town.or 

village  having  a  church 
Claise,  or  claes,  clothes 
Claith,  cloth 
Claithing,  clothing 
Claivers,  clavers,  nonsense 
Clamb,  did  climb 
Clap,  clapper  of  a  mill 
Clarkit.kept  accounts 
Clarty  or  clatty, dirty, filthy 
Clash,  an  idle  tale,  story  of 

the  day  ;  to  scandalize 


GLOSSARY. 


377 


Clatter,  idle  stories 

Clauffht,  snattlied  at 

Claut.a  handful, a  quantity; 
also  to  clean,  to  scrape 

Clauted,  scraped 

Cleed,  to  i-lnthe 

Cleekit,  hooked  on  ;  having 
caught 

Clinkin',  jerkin^.squatting 

Clinkumbell,  bell-ringer; 
clinkum,  beadle 

ClipF,  wool-shears 

Clishmadaver,  idle  talk 

Clock,  to  cluck,  to  hatch; 
a  beetle 

Clockin",  clucking,  hatch- 
ing ;  dockin-time,  brood- 
ing time 

Cloot,  hoof 

Clootie,  Cloots,  the  devil 

Clour,  a  bump  or  svrelling 
atter  a  blow 

Clud,  a  cloud 

Coble,  a  fishing-boat 

Cockernony,  lock  of  hair 
tied  iin  agirl'shead;  acap 

Cod,  a  pillow 

Coft,  bought 

Cog,  a  wooden  dish ;  sieve 

Coggie,  diminutive  of  cog 

Coila,  from  Kyle,  a  district 
of  Ayrshire 

Collie,  a  name  for  country 
curs 

Collieshangie,  a  dog-fight ; 
fierce  quarrel 

Commaun,  command 

Convfiier,  principal  crafts, 
man  in  a  Scotch  guild 

Cood,  the  cud 

Coof,  a  blockhead,  dullard 

Cooser,  a  stallion 

Coost,  did  cast,  cast  oflF 

Coot,  the  ancle  or  foot 

Cootie,  a  wooden  kitchen 
dish;  fowls  whose  legs 
are  clad  veith  feathers 
are  also  said  to  be  cootie 

Corbies,  ravens 

Corn,  oats  ;  corn't,  oat-fed 

Cotter,  inhabitant  of  a  cot 

Couthie,  kind,  loving  ; 
kindly,  lovingly 

Cove,  a  cave 

Cow,  to  diminish 

Cowe,  to  terrify,  to  keep 
under,  to  lop  ;  a  fright ; 
a  branch  of  furze,  &c. 

Cowp,  to  barter,  to  tumble 
over;  cowp  the  cran,  com- 
pletely overturn  ;  a  gang 

Cowpit,  tumbled 

Cowte,  a  colt 

Cozie,sniig;  cozilie,  snugly 

Crabbit,  fretful 

Crack,  conversation,  to 
converse 

Craft,  or  croft,  a  grass  field 

Craig,  crag  ;  thioat 

Craigie,  cratjgy 

Craik",  crie.-<  or  calls  inces- 
santly ;  landrails 

Crambo-clink,  or  crambo- 
jingle,  rhymes,  doggrel 

Crank,  the  noi.*e  of  an  un- 

greased  wheel ;  bad  verse 

Crankous,  fretful,  captious 


Cranreuch,  hoar-frost 

Crap,  a  crop  ;  to  crop 

Craw,  crow  of  a  cock ;  a 
crow,  a  rook 

Crazed,  worn  out 

Creel,  a  large  basket ;  my 
head  (or  senses)  is  in  a 
creel — I  am  stupified,  or 
under  a  delusion 

Creepie-chair,  stool  of  re- 
pentance 

Creeshie,  greasy 

Croon,  a  continued  moan 

Crooning,  humming 

Crouchie,  crooked-backed 

Crouse,  cheerful,  courage- 
ous, boastful 

Crowdie,  a  composition  of 
oatmeal  and  boilf.'d  water, 
sometimes  from  the  broth 
of  beef,  mutton,  &c. 

Crowdie-time,  breakfast- 
time 

Crowlin',  crawling 

Crump,  crisp 

CrumiDock,  a  cow  with 
crooked  horns 

Cuif,  coof,  a  blockhead 

Cummock,  a  short  staff 

Curch,  a  woman's  cap 

Gurchie,  a  curtsey 

Curler,  a  player  at  a  game 
on  the  ice  called  curling 

Ctirmurring,  murmuring, 
a  slight  rumbling  noise 

Curpin,  the  crupper 

Curple,  the  rear 

Cushat,  the  stock-dove,  or 
wood-pigeon 

Cutty,short;  a  spoon;  cutty 
stool,  stool  of  repentance 

Baffin,  merriment,  foolery 
Daez't,  stupified,  deprived 

of  vigour  or  sensibility 
Daft,  merry,  giddy,  foolish 
Daimen,rare,now  and  then; 
daimen-icker,  an    ear  of 
corn  now  and  then 
Dainty,    pleasant,      good- 
humoured,  agreeable 
Damies,  dames,  ladies 
Dam  (to  tine),  pass  urine 
Dandered,  wandered 
Dang,  knocked, vanquished 
Danton,  to  daunt 
Darklins,  without  light 
Darg,  a  day's  labour 
Daud,  to  thrash  ;   to  abuse 
Daunton,       to      frighten  ; 

dauntonly,  fearlessly 
Daur,  to  dare 
Daut,  to  caress 
Davoc,  dimin.  of  David 
Dawd.or  daud.alaige  piece 
Daw',  daven  ;  dawin,  dawn- 
ing 
Dawtit,  or  dautit,  caressed 
Dead  (be  niy).  be  my  death 
Dearthfu',  dear,  expensive 
Deave,  to  deafen 
Deil's  picture-beuks,  play- 
ing cards 
De'il-ma-care  !  no  matter  ! 
Deleerit,  delirious 
Den,  a  dingle 
Descrive,  to  describe 


Deuks,  ducks 
Devel,  stunning  blow 
Din,  dun,  dark,  swarthy 
Dight,   to   wipe;    to  clean 

corn  from  chaff 
Dine,  sundown  ;  sunset 
Ding,  to  outdo,  exceed  ;   to 

worst,  to  push 
Dink,  ladylike 
Dinna,  do  not 
Dirl,    a    stroke    or    pain  ; 

tremulous  concussion 
Dizzen,  or  diz'n,  a  dozen 
Dochter,  daughter 
Doited,  stupid  ,  anile 
Dolt,  stupified,  crazed 
Donsie,unIucky;  affectedly 

neat  ;  of  vicious  temper 
Dool,  sorrow,  mourning 
Doos,  doves,  pigeons 
Dorty,  saucy,  nice 
Douce,    or    douse,    sober, 

wise,  prudent 
Dought,  was  or  were  able 
Doup,  backside 
Doure, stout,  durable;  stil- 

len, stubborn 
Dow,  am  or  are  able,  can 
Downa,  unable;  downa-do, 

impotent 
Dowff,  wanting  force 
Dowie,    pensive,      melan- 
choly ;  worn  with  grief, 

fatigue,  &C-;  half  asleep 
Doytit,     stupid  ;      doytin, 

loitering,  stumbling 
Draiglet,  bedraggled 
Drap,  a  drop;  draps,   lead 

drops,  small  shot;  to  drop 
Draunting,  drawling 
Dree,  bear,  suffer 
Dreep,  to  ooze,  to  drip 
Dribble,  drizzling  ;  slaver 
Driddle,  awkward  motion 
Driegh,   or    dreigh,    slow, 

plodding;  of  steep  ascent 
Drift,a  drove;  heapof  snow 
Droddum,  the  breech 
Drone,  part  of  a  bagpipe 
Droop-rumpl't,  thin  flank'd 
Droukit,  wet 
Drouth,  thirst,  drought 
Drucken,  drunk, drunken 
Drumly,  muddy  ;  turbid 
Driimmock,  meal  and  wa 

ter  mixed  raw 
Drunt,  pet,  sour  humour 
Dub,a  small  pond;  a  puddle 
Duds,  rags,  clothes 
Duddie,  ragged 
Dung,  overcome  ;  pushed 
Dunt,     a    blow;     dunted, 

beaten,  boxed  ;  throbbed, 

as  the  pulse 
Dush,  to  push  as  a  ram,  &c. 
Dyke,  inclosure  wall 
Dy  vor,  bankrupt;  infamous 

person 

Earn,  an  eagle 

K'e,  eye;   een  (eyne),  eyes 

Eebree,  or  eebrie,  eyebrow 

E'en,  even 

Eerie,  frighted,    dreading 

spirits;  melancholy 
Eild,  old  age 
Elbuck,  the  elbow 


378 

Elder,  kind  of  ch»irc>i  war- 
den and  parish  overseer 
in  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  ; 
of  whom  some    are    ap- 
pointed (oalled    "  ruling 
elders")     to    deliberate 
and  vote  in  church  judi- 
catories 
Eldritch,  elvish;  ghastly 
Enbrugh,  Edinburgh 
Enerv'd,  enervated 
Eneudi,  or  eneugh,  enough 
Ettle,  to  try,  attempt 
Evendown,  downright 
Evermair,  evermore 
Eydent,  diligent 

Fa,  fate ;  attempt 

Fa',  fall ;  lot;  to  fall;  befal; 
fa'n,  fallen 

Fa's,  does  fall ;  water-falls 

Faddom't,  fathomed 

Fae,  a  foe 

Faetn,  foam 

Faike  t.forgi  ven,or  excused 

Fain, glad;  fainness,iapture 

Fair-strae,  chance-medley 

Fallow,  fellow 

f  and,  found,  did  find 

Farl,  a  cake  of  bread 

Fash,  trouble,  care,  te 
trouble,  care  for 

Fasht,  troubled 

Fatt 'rills,  plaits,  overlaps 

Fastern-e'en,eve  of  Shrove 
Tuesday 

Faugh t,  fight  I 

Fauld,  a  fold,  to  fold  I 

Faulding,  folding 

Faut,  fault ;  fautor,  culprit 

Fawsont,  decent,  seemly 

Feal,  loyal,  steadfast 

Fear't,  afi"righted 

Feat,  neat,  spruce,  clever 

Fecht,  to  fight 

Fech't,  strained 

Feck,  the  most ;  many 

Fecket,  waistcoat 

Feckfu',  large,  stout 

Feckless,  puny,  weak 

Feckly,  mostly 

Fee,  to  hire ;  penny-fee, 
wages 

Feg,  fig  ;  fegs  !  faith 

Feide,'feud,  enmity 

Feirie,  bustling,  active 

Fell,  keen,  biting;  the 
fiesh  immediately  under 
the  skin  ;  a  level  field  on 
the  side  or  top  of  a  hill 

Felly,  relentless 

Fend,  to  keep  off ;  to  make 
shift;  to  live  comfortably 

Perlie,or  ferly,  to  wonder; 
a  wonder;  a  term  of  con- 
tempt 

Fetch,  to  pull  by  fits; 
fetch't,  pulled  intermit- 
tently 

Fey,  strange;  doomed 

Fidge,  to  fidget;  fidgin' 
fain,  very  desirous  of ; 
fidge  fu'  fain, to  be  joyous 

Fiel,  soft,  smooth 

Fient,  fiend,  deuce ;  a 
petty  oath 

Fier,  sound,  healthy 


GLOSS.AKY. 


Fier,  a  brother,  a  friend 

Fissle,  to  make  a  rustling- 
noise,  to  fidget  ;  a  bustle 

Fit,  a  foot 

Fittie-lan,  the  nearer  horse 
of  the  hindmost  pair  in 
the  plough 

Fizz,  make  a  hissing  noise 

Flae,  a  flea 

Flannen,  flannel 

Fleech,  to  supplicate  in  a 
flattering  manner 

yieechin,  fawning 

Fleesh, a  fleece 

Fleg,  a  random  blow 

Flether,  to  decoy  by  fai* 
words 

Flewit,  a  smart  blow 

Fley,  to  scare,  to  frighten 

Flichter.to  flutter  as  young 
nestlings,  when  their 
dam  approaches 

Flie,  flee,  fly  :  pr.  as  flea 

Flinders,  shreds,  splinters 

Flingin'-tree,  a  piece  of 
timber  hung  by  way  of 
partition  between  two 
horses  in  a  stable  ;  a  flail 

Flisk,  to  fret  at  the  yoke 

Fliskit,  tretted 

Flit,  to  remove  household 
goods ;  change  residence 

Flitter,  to  flutter 

Fiunkie,aservant  in  livery 

Flyte,  scold 

Fog,  dry  moss ;  foggage, 
stray  vegetable  materials 
used  by  birds,  &c  in  con- 
structing nests. 

Foord, a  lord 

Forbears,  forefathers 

Forbye,  besides 

Forfairn,  worn  out,  jaded 

Forfoughten,  fatigued 

Forgather,  to  meet  with 

Forgi'e,  to  forgive 

Forjesket,  fatigued 

Forrit,  forward 

Fother,  fodder 

Foil,  tipsy,  drunk 

Foughten,  irked,  harassed 

Foul-thief,  the  arch-fiend 

For.mart,  weasel 

Fouth,  plenty,  enough,  or 
more  than  enough 

Fow,  a  bushel,  &c.;  also 
a  pitch-fork 

Frae,  from 

Freath,  froth 

Fu',  full 

Fud,  scut  of  the  hare,  &c. 

Fnff,to  blow  intermittently 

Fuff't,  did  blow 

Fur,  a  furrow 

Fur-ahin,  plough  horse 

Furder,  further ;  succeed 

Furm,  a  form,  bench 

Fusionless,  or  fizzenless, 
tasteless;  feeble;  useless 

Fyke,  fidget,  trifling  cares  ; 
to  piddle,  to  be  in  a  fuss 
about  trifles 

Fyle,  to  soil,  to  dirty 

Fyl't,  soiled,  dirtied 

Gab,  the  mouth  ;  to  speak 
boldly,  or  pertly 


Gaberlunzie,  a  wallet ;  ga- 
berlunzie  man,  one  who 
bears  a  wallet,  a  begaar 

Gadsraan,  ploughboy;  the 
boy  thatdri\esthe'horse.9 
in  the  plough 

Gae,  to  go  ;  gaed,  went ; 
gane,  gone  ;  gaun,  going 

Gaet,  or  gate, way ,manner, 
road 

Gairs,  showy  ornaments  ; 
gown  with  gairs,  dress 
of  brocade 

Gang,  to  go,  to  walk 

Gangrel,  tramper 

Gar,  to  inake,  to  force  to 

Gar't,  forced  to 

Garten,  a  garter 

Gash,wise,  sagacious,  talk- 
ative 

Gashin',  conversing 

Gat,  got 

Gaunt,  a  yawn;  gaunted, 
yawned 

Gawcey,gaucy,jolly,plump 

Gawky,  half-wilted,  fool- 
ish, romping 

Gear,  riches  of  anj'  kind 

Geek,  to  toss  the  head  in 
wantonness  or  scorn 

Ged,  a  pike 

Gentles,  great  folks 

Geniy,  slim,  elegant 

Geordie,  a  guinea 

Get,  a  child  ;  brat 

Ghaist,  aghost 

Gi'e,  to  give;  gied,  gave  ; 
gi  'en,  given 

Gif,  if 

Giglets,  mocking  children 

Gillie,  dimin.  ot  gill 

Gilpey,  a  half-grown,  half- 
informed',  boy  or  gi  rl ;  a 
romping  lad,  a  hoyden 

Gimmer,  a  fewe  from  one 
to  two  years  old 

Gin,  if;  before  ;  against 

Gipsy,  a  young  girl 

Girdin',  girthiuf.'  a  horse 

Girdle,griddle;  alsogirdei. 
or  rafter 

Girning,  grinning  ;  crying 
with  contortions  of  visage 

Girr,  a  hoop 

Gizz,  a  periwig 

Glaiket,inattentive, foolish 

Glaizie,  glittering,  smooth, 
like  glass 

Glamour,  witchery  ;  also 
an  enchanted  atmosphere 
in  which  objects  are  seen 
in  a  false  light 

Glaura'd,grasped,  snatched 

(Jled,  a  hawk 

Gleg,  sharp,  ready 

Gieib,  glieb,  glebe;  portion 
of  land;  grouni  attached 
to  a  manse  or  parsonnge 

Gley,  a  squint,  to  squint ; 
a  gley,o5ata  sidc.avvry 

Glib-gabbet,  that  speaks 
smoothly  and  readily 

Glint,  to  peep;  pass  quickly 

Gloamin,  the  twilight  ; 
gloamin-shot,  interval  of 
evening  recreation 

Glowr,  to  stare,  to  look 


GLOSSAIiV. 


379 


Goavan,  walking  aimleBsIy 

Gor-cocks,  Tod  game 

Gowan,  the  flower  of  the 
wild  daisy,  daodelioD, 
havvkwecd,  &c. 

GoH-any,  flowery  ;  ^oyr&ny 
glen!:,  daisied  vales 

Gowd,  gold 

Gowdie  (heels-o'er),  topsy- 
turvy ;  presto ! 

flowdspink,  goldfinch 

Gowff,  the  game  of  golf ; 
to  strike  as  the  bat  does 
the  ball  at  golf ;  a  foi>! 

GowflF'd,  struck 

Gowk,  the  cuckoo;  a  term 
of  contempt 

GouJ,  to  howl 

Grane,  or  grain,  a  groan, 
to  groan ;  grain'd  ;  grin- 
ned ;  groaned 

Graip,  a  pronged  instru- 
ment for  cleaning  stables 

Graith,  accoutrements,fur- 
niture,  dress,  horse  gear 

Grape,  to  grope;  grapit, 
or  graipit,  groped 

Grat,  wept,  shed  tears 

Great,  intimate,  familiar 

Gree,  to  agree  ;  to  bear  the 
gree,  to  be  the  victor 

Gree't,  agreed 

Greet,  to  shed  tears 

Greetin',  crying,  weeping 

Grew50me,prusome,  loath- 
some, grim 

Gfippet,  catched,  seized 

Groat,  to  get  the  whistle 
of  one's  groat,  to  play  a 
losing  game 

Grozet,  groset,  gooseberry 

Grumph,  a  grunt;  to  grunt 

Grumphie,  a  sow 

Grun",  ground 

Grunstane,  a  grindstone 

Gruntle,  the  phiz,  snout; 
grunting  noise 

Grunzie,  mouth  like  a  pig's 

Grushie,  thick,  of  thriving 
growth 

Gude,  the  Supreme  Being 

Guid,  gude,  good 

Guidman  and  Guidwife, 
the  master  and  mistress 
of  a  house  ;  young  guid- 
man, man  newly  married 

Gully,  or  guUie,  a  large 
pocket-knife 

Gulravage,  joyous  mischief 

Guidfather,  •  guidmother, 
father-in-law,  and  mo- 
ther-in-law 

Gumlie,  muddy 

Gusty,  tasteful 

Gutcher,  grandfather 

Ha',  hall 

Hae,  here!  take  this 

Haen,  had,  the  participle  of 

ha'e,  to  have 
Haet,   fient  haet,    a  petty 

oath  of  negation;  nothing 
Haffet,  the  temple,  the  side 

of  the  head 
Hafflins,  neatly  half,partly, 

almost;  not  fully  grown 
Haiu,  to  spare,  to  save 


Hag,  hagg,  a  scar,  or  f,ulf 
in  mosses  and  moors 

Haggis,  a  kind  of  pudding 
boiled  in  the  stomach  of 
a  cow  or  sheep 

Hairst,  harvest 

Haith!  a  petty  oath 

Haivers,  havers,  nonsense 

Ha',  hal',  or  hald,  an  abid- 
ing place;  ha'-bible,  fa- 
mily bible 

Hale, or  haill, entire,  whole; 
tight;  healthy 

Haly,  holy 

Kalian,  a  particular  parti- 
tion-wall in  a  cottage,  or, 
more  properly,  a  seat  of 
turf  at  the  outside 

Hallowe'en,  Allhallows- 
eve,  the  31st  of  October 

Hame,  home 

Hamely,  homely,  afTable 

Hammered,  clattered 

Han',  or  liaun',hand;  han'- 
breed,  hand's-breadth  ; 
fu'-han't,  full-handed 

Hanks,  skeins  ot  thread,&c. 

Hansel', luck-money,  a  pre- 
sent; hansel'-throne,  one 
newly  arrived  at 

Handsome,  well-shaped  in 
body — not  pretty  in  face 

Hap,  an  outer  garment, 
mantle,  plaid,  6cc  ;  to 
wrap,  to  cover 

Happer,  a  hopper 

Happing,  hopping 

Hap-step-an'-loup,hop  skip 
and  leap 

Harkit,  hearkened 

Ham,  very  coarse  linen, 
huckaback 

Hash,  a  fellow  that  neither 
knows  how  to  dress  nor 
act  with  propriety 

Hastit,  hastened 

Hand,  to  hold 

Hauf,  half;  hauf-lang, 
stunted 

Haughs,  low  lying  rich 
lands  ;  valleys 

Haurl,  or  hail,  to  drag,  to 
strip,  to  peel 

Haurlin,  drugging ;  peeling 

Haverel,  a  half-witted  per- 
son ;  half-witted 

Havins,  acquirements;  de- 
corous manners ;  good 
sense 

Hawkie,  familiar  name  for 
a  cow  ;  properly  one  with 
a  white  face 

Healsome,  or  hailsome, 
wholesome,  healthful 

Heapit,  heaped 

Hearse,  hoarse 

Heather,  heath 

Hech  !  oh  !  strange  ! 

Hecht,  promised,  to  foretell 
something  that  is  to  he 
got  or  given  ;  foretold  ; 
tiling  foretold ;  offered 

Heckle,  flax -dresser's  comb 

Heeze,  to  elevate 

Herd,  to  tend  flocks,  one 
who  tends  flocks  of  sheep 
or  droves  of  cattle 


Heft,  haft,  handle 
Herry,  to  plunder;  proper- 
ly to  plunder  birds'  nests 
Herryment,      plundeiing; 

devastation 
Het,  hot 

Heugh,  a  crag,  or  preci- 
pice ;  coal-pit ;  furnace 
Hie,  high 

Hilch,  a  hobble;  to  halt 
Highland  gill,  half-a-pint 
Hiltie-skiitie,  in  rapid  suc- 
cession 
Hind,  farmer's  labourer 
Hiney,  honey 
Hing,  to  hang 
Hirple,  to  walk  crazily  or 

lamely,  to  creep 
Histie,  dry,  chapt,  barren 
Hitcht  (a loop),  cast  a  knot 
Hizzie,  or  hizzy,  hussy;  a 

young  girl 
Hoast,  a  cough  ;   hoastin', 

coughing 
Hoddin,    jolting,   motion  ; 
humble  ;       hoddin-gray, 
coarse  woollen  stuff 
Hoggie,two  year  old  sheep 
Hog-shouther(to),  selfishly 
justling  with  the  should- 
er ;  to  justle  recklessly 
Hool,  outer   skin   or   case, 
husk  or  shell ;    heart's- 
hool,  pericardium 
Hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely 
Hoolie!  take  time 
Hoord,  a  hoard  ;  to  hoard 
Hoordit,  hoarded 
Horn.a  spoon  mnde  of  horn 
Hornie,  the  devil 
Hotch,  to  shake  the  sides 

with  joy  OF  laughter 
Houghmagandie,       trivial 

name  of  fornication 
Houp,  hope 

Housie,  dimin.  of  house 
Hove,  to  heave,  to  swell 
Howdie,  a  midwife 
Howe,  hollow a(/j.,ahollow 
Howe-back,  sunken  back 
Howff,  a  house  of  resort 
Howk,  to  dig  ;  howkit,  dug 
Howlet,  an  owl 
Hoy,  to  urge  ;  hoy't,  urged 
Hoyse,  a  pull  upwards 
Hoyte,  to  amble  crazily 
Hughoc,  dimin.  of  Hugh 
Hums  and  hankers,fumbles 
Hunkers,    the    hams,    the 

hinder  p.art  of  the  thigh 
Hurcheon,  a  hedgehog 
Hurdles,    the    loins ;     the 

crupper 
Hushion,  a  cushion;  also  a 
footless  stocking 

IcKER,  an  ear  of  co»n 
ler-oe,  a  great-grandchild 
Ilk,  or  ilka,  each,  every 
III,  unkind 

Ill-willie,  ill-natured,  ma- 
licious, niggardly 
Ingine,  genius,  ingenuity 
Ingle,  fire,  fire-place ;  ingl« 

cheek,  chimney-corner 
Ise,  I  shall  or  will 
Ither,  other,  one  another 


380 


GLOSSARY. 


Jad,  or  jaud,  jade ;  also  a 

giddy  young  girl 
Jag,  a  puncture ;  to  prick 
Jauk,  to  dally,  to  trifle 
Jaup,  a  splash,  a  jerk  of 

water;  jumlie  jaups,  dis- 
turbed fluids 
Jaw,    coarse   raillery ;    to 

pour  out  as  water 
Jee,  ajee,  ajar;  wrong  bias 
Jillet,  a  jilt;  a  giddy  girl 
Jimp,    to    jump;   slender, 

handsome  ;  scanty 
Jink,  to  dodge,  to  turn  a 

corner,  a  sudden  turning 
Jiaker,  that  turns  quickly; 

a  sprightly  girl ;  a  wag 
Jirk,  jirt,  a  jerk 
Jocteleg,  a  clasp-knife 
Jo,  joe  (joy),  a  lover 
Jouk,  to  stoop,  to  bow  the 

head ;  to  conceal 
Jow,  to  jow,  the  swinging 

motion  and  pealing  sound 

of  a  large  bell 
Jundie,  to  drive  against 

K*E,  a  daw 

Kail,  kale,  colewort;  broth 

Kail-runt,  the  stem  of  cole- 
wort 

Kaln,  kane,  fowls,  &c.  paid 
as  rent  by  a  farmer 

Kebars,  rafters 

Kebbuck,  a  cheese 

Keckle,  cackle ;  laugh 

Keek,apeep;  to  peep;  to  spy 

Kelpies,  mischievous  spi- 
rits, said  to  haunt  fords 
and  ferries  at  night 

Ken,toknow;  ken't,known 

Kennin,  a  small  matter 

Kenspeckle,  easily  known 

Ket,  fleece 

Kiily,  dim.  of  Kilmarnock 

Kilt,  to  truss  up  the  clothes 

Kimmer,  cummer,  a  girl, 
a  gossip  ;  common  woman 

Kin,  kindred  ;  kin',  kind 

King's-hood,  a  certain  part 
of  the  entrails  of  the  ox 

Kintra,  kintrie,  country 

Kintra-cooser,  a  stallion 

Kirk,  church,  chapel 

Kirn,  the  harvest  supper ; 
a  churn 

Kirsen,  to  christen 

Kist,  a  chest 

Kitchen,  seasoning,  sa- 
voury accompaniment 

Kith,  kindred 

Kittle,  to  tickle,  ticklish; 
slippery,  coquettish 

Kitlen,  a  young  cat 

Knaggy,  knotty,  showing 
the  bones 

Knappin'-hammer,  a  ham- 
mer for  breaking  stones 

Knowe,  a  round  hillock 

Knurl,  dwarf 

Knurled,  gnarled,  knotty 

Kuittle,  to  cuddle 

Kurtchie,  a  curtsey 

Kye,  cows ;  buckskin-kye, 
buffaloes 

Kyle,  a  district  in  Ayrshire 

Kyte,  the  belly 


Kythe,to  discover,  to  show 
one's  self 

Labour,  thrash,  beat ;  try 

Lade,  a  load 

Laddie,  lad,  boy 

Lads,  lovers 

Laggen,  the  angle  between 
the  side  and  bottom  of  a 
wooden  dish 

Laigh,  low 

Lair  (last),  biirial-place 

Laird,  landlord ;  chieftain, 
lord  of  the  manor 

Lairing,  sink  in  snow,  &c. 

Laith,  loath 

Laithfu',  bashful,  reserved 

Lallans,  Lowlands ;  Scot- 
tish dialect 

Lambie,  dimin.  of  lamb 

Lampit,  limpet,  a  kind  of 
shell-fish 

Lan',  land,  estate ;  lan'- 
afore,  foremost  plough- 
horse;  lan'-ahin',  the 
hindmost  one 

Lane,  lone  ;  my  lane,  thy 
lane,  myself,  &c.  alone 

Lanely,  lonejy 

Lang,  long,  to  weary 

Lap,  did  leap 

Lave,  the  rest,  remainder 

Laverock,  the  lark;  lave- 
rock-height, high  as  the 
clouds 

Law,  a  hill 

Lawin',  reckoning 

Lawlan',  lowland 

Lay,  or  ley,  lea;  pasture 
ground,  unplov^ghed 

Leal,  loyal,  true 

Lea-rig,  grassy  ridge 

Lear,  or  lair,  learning 

Leddy,  lady 

Lee,  a  lie 

Lee-lang,  live-long 

Leesome,  pleasant 

Leeze-me,  a  phrase  of  en- 
dearment, I  am  happy  or 
proud  of  thee 

Leister,  3  pronged  fish-dart 

Leugh,  did  laugh 

Leuk,  a  look  ;  to  look 

Libbet,  gelded 

Lick,  a  blow  ;  licket,  lick- 
ed ;  beaten 

Liein,  lying 

Lift,  skj',  firmament 

Lightly,  to  undervalue ; 
sneerinuiy 

Lilt,  ballad,  a  tune  ;  to  sing 

Limmer,  a  kept-mistress,  a 
strumpet 

Link,  to  trip  along;  fall  to 

Linn,  a  waterfall,  precipice 

Lint,  flax  ;  lint  i'  the  bell, 
flax  in  flower 

Lint  white,  linnet;  flaxen 

Lippened,  trusted  to 

Loan,  or  loaning,  the  place 
of  milking;  country  lane 

Loch,  lake;  inlet  of  the  sea 

Loof,  the  palm  of  the  hand 

Loot,  did  let ;  let  fly 

Looves,  plural  of  loof 

Loon,  a  tellow,  a  ragamuf- 
fin; woman  of  easy  virtue 


Loup,  jump,  leap 

Lowe,  a  flame  ;  lowan, 
blazing 

Lowrie,  Lawrence 

Lowse,  to  loose 

Lucky,  Mother  such  a  one 

Lug,  the  ear,  a  handle 

Lugget,  having  a  handle 

Luggie,small  hooped  wood- 
en dish  with  a  handle 

Lum,  the  chimney 

Lunardi,  a  kind  of  high- 
crowned  lady's  bonnet, 
so  termed  in  honour  of 
the  Italian  aeronaut  of 
that  name 

Lunt,  a  column  of  smoke  j 
to  smoke 

Luve,  love  ;  luver,  lover 

Lyart,  silvery,  light-co- 
loured ;  grey ;  sere 

Mab,  mair,  more 

Maist,  most;  'maist,almo8t 

iMaistly,  mostly 

Mailen,  farm  ;   estate 

Mallie,  Molly,  Mary 

'Mang,  among 

Manse,  the   parish   minii- 

ter's  house 
Manteele,  a  mantle 
Mark,   marks.    (This  and 
several       other       nouns 
which  in  English  require 
an  s,   to  form  the  plural, 
are  in  Scotch,  like  the 
words    sheep,  deer,   the 
same  in  both  numbers.) 
Marled,  party-coloured 
Mar's  year,  the  year  1715 
Mashlum,  mixed  corn 
Mask,  to  mash  ;  to  infuse 
Maskin-pot,  a  tea-pot 
Masons,  free-masons 
Maukin,  a  hare  [not 

Maun,  must;  maunna,may 
Maut,malt ;  groanin'raaut, 
liquor    provided     for     a 
lying-in  or  christening 
Mavis,  the  thrush 
Maw,  mow ;  mawn,mown 
Meere,  a  mare 
Meikle,  or   Mickle,  much 
Melancholious,  mournful 
Melder,  corn  or  grain  sent 

to  be  ground 
Mell,  to  meddle,  associate 

with;   also  a  malJet 
Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal 
Men',  to  mend,  amend 
Mense,  good  manners 
Menseless,  ill-bred,  rude 
Merle,  a  blackbird 
Messin,  a  small  dog 
Mess  John,   a  clergyman, 

the  parish  priest 
Midden,  a  dunghill 
Midden-creels.dungbaskets 
Midden-hole,  gutter  at  the 

bottom  of  a  dung-hill 
Mim,  prim,a£fectedly  meek 
Min',  mind,  resemblance 
Mind't,  mind  it,  resolved, 
intending;  remember  it. 
(To  mind,  in  the  Scotch 
dialect,  generally  means, 
to  recollect.) 


GLOSSARY. 


381 


Minnie,  mother,  dam 
Mirk,  murky,  murkiness; 

dark,  darkness 
Misi'a'.to  abuse,  call  names 
Wischauter,  evil;  cross  ac- 
cident 
Misloar'd,        mischievous, 

unmannerly  ;  led  astray 
Miss,  a  kept-ivoman 
Misteuk,  mistook 
iVIither,  mother 
Mixtie-maxtie,  jumbled 
Moil,  labour 
Mciistity,  to  moisten 
Mony,  or  Monie,  many 
Mool,  mould,  earth  ;  raked 

in  the  mools,  buried 
Moop,  to  nibble  as  a  sheep 
Moorlan',  of  or   belonging 

to  moors 
Morn,  next  day,  to-raorrow 
Wotty,  full  of  motes 
Mou",  the  mouth 
MoTidiewort,  a  mole 
Mousie,  dimin.  of  mouse 
Muckle,  great,  big,  much 
Muir,  a  moor 
Muses'-stank,  Helicon 
Musie,  dimin.  of  muse 
Muslin-kail,  thin  and  poor 

vegetable  broth 
Mutchkin,  liquid  measure 

of  nearly  an  English  pint 
Mystio-knot,    conclave    of 

gossips 

Na,  no,  not,  nor;  nae,  no, 
not  any  ;  naething,  nai- 
thing,  nothing 

Naig,  a  horse,  a  nag 

Nane,  none 

Nappy,  ale 

Near-hand,  nearly 

Neebor,  neighbour 

Negleckit,  neglected 

Neuk,  nook,  corner 

Nick,  to  cut 

Nicket,  cut  off 

Niest,  or  neist.next 

Nieve,  the  fist 

Niffer,  an  exchange 

Nines  (paint  to  the),  de- 
pict to  the  life 

Nit,  a  nut 

Nocht,  nothing 

Nowte,  black  catt-le 

Ocini,9,  name  of  motmtains 
O  haith!  O.faith!  an  oath 
Oe,     grandchild  ;      ier-oe, 

great-grand.hild 
O'erword,  phrase  or  senti- 
ment coQtiBuaUy  recur- 
ring 
Ony,  or  Onie,  any 
Or,  is  often  used  for  ere, 

before 
Ora,  or  orra,  superfluous; 
orra  things,9tray  articles 
Oughtlins,  in  least  degree 
Ourie,  shivering,  drooping 
Outlers,  outliers,  cattle  not 

housed 
Out-ower,  over,  acroM 
Ower,  owre,  over,   upon, 
too 


Owre-hip,  a  way  of  fetch- 
ing a  blow  with  the  ham- 
mer over  the  arm 

Owsen,  oxen 

Pack,    intimate,  familiar; 

twelve  stone  of  wool 
Paidl't,     waded,    splashed 

about;  crawling  walk 
Painchj  paunch 
PaitricK,  a  partridge 
Pang,  to  cram 
Parle,  speech 

Parritch,  oatmeal  pudding 
Pat,  did  put ;  a  pot 
Pattle,  or  pettle,  a  plough- 
scraper 
Paughty,  proud,  haughty 
Pawky,  pauky,  or  pavvkie, 

cunning,  sly 
Pay 't,  paid,  beat ;  pay  their 

skin,  beat  them 
Pech,  to  f«tch  the  breath 

short,  as  in  an  asthma 
Pechan,  the  stomach 
Pet,  a  domesticated  sheep 
Pettle,  to  -herish 
Philibeg,  ,:fie  kilt 
Phraise,  fair  speeches,   to 
flatter  ;  phraisin,flattery 
Pibroch,    Celtic    war-song 
adapted  to  the  bag-pipe 
Pickle,  a  small  quantity 
Pigmy-scraper,  bad  Kddler 
Piles,  grains,  particles 
Pin,  a  wooden  skewer 
Pine,  pain,  uneasiness 
Pint    (Scots),   nearly    two 

English  quarts 
Pit,  to  put 
Placad,  public  call 
Plack,  an  old  Scottish  coin, 

of  small  value 
Plackless,  pennyless 
Plaid,    plaidie,    an    outer 

loose  garment 
Platie,  dimin.  of  plate 
Plea,  quarrel,  lawsuit,  plot 
Plew,  or  pleugh,  a  plough 
Pliskie,  a  trick 
Pliver,  a  plover 
Plot,  oflFence,  trick 
Pock,  a  bag,  a  small  sack 
Poind,  to  seize  on  cattle ; 

take  goods  in  execution 
Poortith,  poverty 
Posie,  a  nosegay,  a  garland 
Pouk,  to  pluck  at 
Pousse,  pouse,  to  push,  to 

penetrate 
Poussie,  a  hare ;  a  cat 
Pout,  powt,  a  poult, a  chick 
Pow,  the  head,  the  skull 
Pownie,  pony,  a  little  horse 
Powther,  pouther,  powder; 

pouthery,  powdery 
Preen,  a  pin 
Prent,  print;  printing 
Prie,  to  taste ;  prie  't,  tasted 
Prief,  proof 

Prig,   to  cheapen,   to  dis- 
pute ;  priggin,  haggling 
Primsie,  d'emure,  precise 
Propone,   to  lay  down,  to 

propose     0) 
Provoses,    provosts,   chief 
magistrates  of  boroughs 


Pu',  to  pull ;  pu't,  did  pull 

Puir,  poor 

Pund,  pound 

Pyet,  magpie 

Pyke,  pick 

Pyle,  a  single  grain 

QuAK,  quake  ;  cry  of  a  duck 
Quat,  to  quit;  quitted 
Quey,  a  cow  from   one   to 

two  years  old 
Quo,  quoth,  said 

Ragweed,  herb  ragwort 
Raible,  to  rattle  nonsense 
Rair,  to  roar  ;  to  lament 
Raize,  to  madden,  inflame 
Ram-feezl'd,  oveipovvered, 

fatigued 
Ram-stam,  headlong,  for- 
ward, thoughtless 
Randy,  a  scold,  a    jade  ; 
brutal   fellow  ;  —  randie 
gangrels,Bturdy  trampera 
Rantin',    ranting;     romp- 
ing, frolicking 
Rape,  a  rope 

Raploch,  properly  a  coarse 
cloth,  but  used  as  an  ad- 
noun  for  coarse 
Rase,  raise,  did  rise 
Rash,   a   rush;    rash-btl8S( 

a  tuft  of  rushes 
Ratton,  a  rat 
Raucle,  stout,  fearlesa 
Raughi,  reached 
Kaw,  a  row 

Kax,  to  stretch  ;  puff  out 
Ream,  cream  ;    to  cream, 

to  foam 
Reamin,  brimful,  frothing 
Reave,  take  by  force 
Reck,  to  heed 
Red,  to  warn 
Red  peats,  burning  turf 
Rede,  counsel,  to  counsel 
Red-wat-shod,  walking  in 
blood  over  the  shoe-topa 
Red-wud,  stark  mad 
Ree,  half  drunk,  fuddled 
Reek,       smoke;      reekit, 

smoky 
Reestit, stood  restive;  also 
stunted, withered;  smoke 
dried 
Remead,  remedy 
Rest,  to  stand  restive 
Restricked,  restricted 
Rew,  relent,  repint 
Riddle,  a  sieve 
Rief,  reef,  plunder;  plenty 
Rief  randies,  sturdy  beg- 
gars; ruffians 
Rickles,  shocks  of  grain 
Rig,   a  ridge;  haind-rig, 

reserved  grassy  corner 
Riggin,  roof,  ratters 
Rigwoodie,  long,  gaunt 
Rin,  to  run,  to  melt 
Rink,   the    course   of   the 

stones  in  curling  on  ice 
Rip,  ripp,  a  handful  of  un- 

threshed  corn 
Ripple,  a  blow 
Riskit,  a  wrenching  noiM 
Rive,  to  tear,  pluck 
Hock,  or  roke,  distaff 


382 


GLOSSARY. 


Rockin,  spinning  on  the 
distaff;  also  a  friendly 
meetinf?,  for  work  and 
pleasure  combined 

Roose,  to  praise 

Roun',  round 

Roupet,  hoarse  from  thirst, 
or  a  cold 

Routhie,  plentiful 

Rowe,  TOW,  to  roll,  to  wrap 

Rowt,  to  low,  to  bellow 

Rowth,  or  routh,  plenty 

Rozet,  rosin 

Rung,  a  cudgel 

Runkled,  wrinkled 

Runt,  the  stem  of  colewort 
or  cabbage 

Ruth,  sorrow 

Ryke,  reach 

Sabbin,  sobbing;  also  com-  j 
mingling 

Sae,  so 

Saft,  soft 

Sair,  ser'e,  to  serve  ;  sair, 
a  sore  ;  unlucky;  sair- 
won,  hard-earned 

Sairly,  or  sairlie,  sorely 

Sair't,  served 

Sail,  shall 

Sark,  a  shirt  or  shift ;  half- 
sarkit,  poorly  clad 

Saugh,  the  willow 

Saul,  soul 

Saumont,  salmna 

Saunt,  a  saint 

Saut,  salt ;  sautit,  salted; 
saut-basket,  salt-box 

Saw,  to  sow ;  sawin,  sowing 

Sax,  six 

Scaith  or  skaithjto  damage, 
to  injure 

Scar,  to  scare  ;  a  scar,  or 
scaur,  foot  of  a  precipice 

Scaud,  to  scald 

Scaiild,  to  scold 

Scaur,  apt  to  be  scared 

Scavvl,  or  scaul ,  a  scold 

Scone,  a  kind  of  bread 

Soonner,  scunner,  a  loath- 
ing ;  10  loathe 

Scraich,  skreigh,  to  scream 
as  a  hen,  partridge,  &c. 

Screed,  to  tear;  a  rent ;  de- 
tached portion 

Scriechin,  shrieking,  grat- 
ing noise 

Scrieve,to  glide  swiftly  on; 
scrievin',  going  along 
briskly;  also,  to  write, 
or  inscribe 

Scrimp,  to  scant ;  scrimpet, 
scanty ;  scrimply,  scarcely 

Seam,  needlework 

Sel',  self ;  a  body's  sel', 
one's  self  alone 

Sell't,  did  sell 

Semple  Iblk,  common  peo- 
ple 

Session,  kirk  session,  petty 
spiritual  court 

Sets,  sets  otf,  goes  away 

Settlin, settling;  to  get  a 
settlin,    to    be    frighted 
into  quietness 
Shaird,  a  shred,  a  shard 
^hackl't,  mis-shapen 


Shame  (think),  be  ashamed 
Shangan,  a  stick  cleft  at 

one  end  for  putting  the 

tail  of  a  dog,  &c.  into 
Shaul,  shallow 
Shaver,  a  humorous  wag ; 

a  barber 
Shavie,  a  trick 
Shaw,   to    show ;    a  small 

wood  in  a  hollow  place 
Shearer,  a  reaper ;  shear- 
ing, reaping  corn 
Sheen,  bright,  shining 
Sheep-shank,  to  thinkone's 

self  nae  sheep-shank,  to 

be  conceited 
Sherra-Muir,      battle      of 

Sherriffniuir.fought  A.D, 

1715  {Mar't  year). 
Shengh,  a  ditch,  a  trench, 

a  sluice 
Shiel,  a  shepherd's  shed 
ShiU,  shrill 
Shog,  a  shock ;  a  push  off 

at  one  side 
Shool,  a  shovel 
Shoon,  shoes 
Shore,  to  grant,  deal  out ; 

to  offer ;  to  threaten 
Shouther,  shoulder 
Sic,  such 

Sicker,  sure,  steady,  finn 
Sidelins,  sidelong,  slanting 
Silken  snood,  virgin's  fillet 
Siller,  silver ;  money 
Silly,  weak,  frail,  helpless 
Simmer,  summer 
Sin, a  son 
Sin',  since,  sinsyne,  since 

that  time 
Skaith,  harm,  damage 
Skellum,  a  reckless  fellow 
Skelp,  a   slap ;  to  strike  ; 

to  walk  briskly 
Skelpie-limmer,    a    young 

jade  ;  term  of  reproach 
Skelpin'  on,  brisk  motion 
Skiegh,  skeigh,proud,nice, 

high-mettled;  skittish 
Skinklin,  thin,  tinselly 
Skinking  ware,trashy  slops 
Skirl,  shriek,  cry  shrilly 
Skirl't,  shrieked 
Sklent,  slant;  to  run  aslant, 

to  deviate  from  truth 
Skreigh,  a  scream,  also  to 

scream  ;  to  neigh 
Skyte,  a  blast 
Siae,  sloe 
Sfade,  did  slide 
Slap,    gate,    breach    in   a 

fence 
Slaps,  slops, dregs, remains 
Slaw,  slow 

Slee,  sly  ;  slee'st,  slyest 
Sleekit,  sleek,  sly 
Sliddery,  slippery 
Sloken,  to  slake  thirst,  &c. 
Slype,  to  fall  over 
Slypet  o'er,  slipped,  fell 
Smeddum, powder;  mettle; 

sense ;      red    smeddum, 
precipitate  of  mercury 
Smeelt,  smoke 
Smiddy,  a  smitjiy 
Smoor,  to  smother 
Smouiie,  sooty:   - -acene 


Smytri  e,a  numerous  collec- 
tion of  small  individuals 

Snapper,  stumble 

Snash,  reprimand ;  abuse 

Snaw,  snow  ;  to  snow 

Snaw  broo,  melting  snow 

Sneckjsnick, latch  of  a  door 

Sned,  to  lop,  to  cut  off; 
to  sned  besoms,  thraw 
saugh  vvoodies,  to  make 
brooms,  willow  baskets 

Sneeshin,  snuff 

Sneeshin-mill,  a  snuff-bos 

Snell,  bitter,  biting 

Snick-drawing,  tricky 

Snirtle,  sneer 

SnooJ,  one  whose  spirit  is 
broken  with  oppressive 
slavery  ;  to  submit  tame- 
ly ;  to  sneak 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothlv  and 
constantly  ;  to  sneak 

Sonnet,  a  song 

Snowk,  to  scent  or  snuff  as 
a  dog 

Sonsie, having- sweet  engag- 
ing looks,  comely,  plump 

Soom,  to  swim 

Sot,  a  fool 

Sooth,  truth  !  a  petty  oath 

Sough,  or  sugh,  a  sigh,  a 
sound  dying  on  the  ear 

Souk,  suck,  draught 

Souple,  flexible,  swift 

Souter,  a  cobbler,  a  shoe- 
maker 

Southron,  English 

Sowens,  a  dish  made  of  the 
seeds  of  oatmeal  soured 

Sowp,  a  spoonful,  a  small 
quantity  of  any  thing 
liquid 

Sowth,  to  try  over  a  tune 
with  a  low  whistle 

Sowther,  souther,  solder ; 
to  sclder,  to  cement;  to 
reconcile;  to  compensate 

Spae,to  prophesy,  to  divine 

Spak',  spoke 

Spaul,  a  limb 

Spat,  spot 

Spairge,  to  sprinkle,  to 
asfferse,  to  dash  ;  to  soil 

Spaviet,  having  the  spavin 

Spean,  to  wean  ,  to  disgust 

Speat,  or  spate,  a  sweeping 
torrent  after  rain  or  thaw 

Speel,  to  climb 

Spence,  inner  room  of  a  cot 

Spier,  to  ask,  to  inquire 

Spier't,  inquired 

Splatter,  a  splutter ;  to 
splutter 

Spleuchan,a  tobacco-pouch 

Splore,  a  frolic,  noise,  riot 

Spouts,  leaps 

SprachJe,  to  scramble 

Spreckled,  speckled 

feprmg,  a  quick  air  in 
music,  a  Stotch  reel  ; 
play'd  mysel'  a  bonny 
spring,  done  myself  o 
great  injury 

Sprit,  a  rush-like  plant 
Sprush,  spruce,  smar* 
Spunk,  brimstone  ma'ch ; 
fire,  mt-ttle.  wit 


GLOSSAK\, 


383 


Spunkie,(nett>e«jiDe,  fiery; 

wiIl-o"-wisp,  ifinisfatuus 
Spurtle,   a  stick    used    in 

making  hasty-pudding 
Squad,  a  crew,  a  party 
Squatter,  to   flutter    as    a 

wild  duck,  &c. 
Squattle,  to  squat,  sprawl 
Squeel.a  scream,  a  screech; 

to  scream 
Stacher,  to  stagger 
Stack.rick  of  corn, hay ,&c. 
Sta^gie,  dimin.  ot  stag 
Stajwart,  strong,  stout 
Stan',  to  stand ;  stan't,  did 

stand 
Stane,  a  stone 
Stang,  stiiifj,  stung 
Stank,  a  pool  of  standing 

water  ;  a  wet  ditch 
Stap,  stop 

Stark,  stout,  potent 
Starns, starnies,  stars 
Startle,  to  run    as    cattle 

stung  by  the  gadfly 
Staumrel,    a    blockhead ; 

half-witted  creature 
Staw,  did  steal ;  a  surfeit 
Stech,  to  cram  the  belly 
Steek,  to  shut ;  a  stitch 
Steer,    to  molest ;  to  stir 
Steeve,  Arm,  compact 
Stell,  a  still 
Sten,  to  rear  as  a  horse 
Stents,     tribute,    dues    of 

any  kind 
Stey, steep 
Stibble,  stubble;    stlbble- 

rig,  the  leading  reaper 
Stick  au"  stowe,  totally 
Stile,  a   crutcli;    to   halt, 

to  limp 
Stimpart,  the  eighth  part 

of  a  Winchester  bushel 
Stipend,  clergyman's  pay 
Btirk,  a  cow  or  bullock  a 

year  old 
Stock,  a  plant  or  sprout  of 

colewtirt,  cabbage.  Sec. 
Stoitered,  staggered,   tot- 
tered 
Stook,  a  sheaf;    stooked, 

made  up  in  shocks  as  corn 
Stoor,     sounding     hollow, 

strong  and  hoarse 
Stound,  a  numbing  blow 
Stot,  an  ox 
Stoup,  or  stowp,  a  kind  of 

jug  with  a  handle 
Stoure,  or  stour,  dust 
Stowlins,  by  stealth 
Stown,  stolen 
Stoyte,  stumbling  walk 
Strack,  did  strike 
Strae,  stiaw 

Straik,  stroke  ;  did  strike 
Straikit,  stroked 
Strathspey,    lively    High- 
land tune  or  dance 
Straught,  straight 
Streek, to  stretch;  streekit, 

stretched 
Striddle,  straddle 
Stroan,  to  spout ;  to  urine 
Studdie,  an  anvil 
Strunt,  spirituous  liquor; 

walk  sturdily;  be  piqued 


Sturt,  to  trouble  ;  unquiet- 
ness;  sturtin,  frighted 

Sucker,  sugar 

Sud,  should 

Sumph,afool.  stupid  fellow 

Swaird,  sward 

Swall'd,  swelled 

Swank,  stately,  well  built 

Swankie,  or  swanker,  a 
strapping  fellow  or  girl 

Swarf,  swoon 

Swat,  did  sweat 

Swatch,  a  sample 

Swats,  drink,  ale 

Swear,  lazy,  averse ;  dead- 
sweer,  extremely  averse 

Svvoor,  swore,  did  swear 

Swinge,  to  beat,  to  whip 

Swirl,  a  curve,  an  eddying 
blast  or  pool;knot  inwood 

Swirlie,  gnarled,  knotty 

Swith,  get  away  ! 

Swither,  hesitate  in  choice 

Sybow,  thick-necked  onion 

Syne,  since,  ago,  then,  af- 
terwards; auld  langsyne, 
the  dear  olden  time 

TACKETs.kind  of  shoe-nails 

Tack,  a  lease 

Tae,  a  toe  ;  three-tae'd, 
having  three  prongs 

Thief  (the  foul),  Satan 

Tairge,  target ;  to  examine 

Tamtallan,  an  old  feudal 
castle  on  the  south-east 
coast  of  Scotland 

Tangle,  kind  of  sea-weed 

Tap,  the  top 

Tapetless,  heedless,  foolish 

Tapsalteerie,  topsy-turvy 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at 
one's  allowance 

Tarrow't,  murmured 

Tarry-breeks,  a  sailor 

Tassie  (Fr.  tasse),  drinlr- 
ing-cup,  beaker 

Tauld,  or  tald,  told 

Taupie,  a  foolish  thought- 
less young  woman 

Tauted,  tawted,  or  tautie 
hair,&c.  matted  together 

Tawie,  that  allows  itself 
peaceably  to  be  handled 

Teat,  a  small  quantity  ;  a 
handful 

Tedding,  spreading  after 
the  mower 

Temper-pin,  part  of  a  spin- 
ning-wheel 

Ten-hour's-bite,  early  bait 

Tent,  a  field  pulpit ;  heed, 
caution;  take  lieed 

Tentie,  heedful,  cautious 

Tentless,  regardless,  heed- 
less 

Teugh,  tough 

Thack,  thatch ;  thack-an'- 
rape  (figuratively),cloth- 
ingand  necessaries 

Thae,  tliir,  these 

Thaim,  them 

Thairms,  fiddle-strings 

Theekit,  thatched 

Thegither,  together 

Themsel',  themselves 

Thick,  intimate,  familiar 


Thieveless,  cold,  dry;  said 
of  a  person's  demearkotir 

Thirl,  to  thrill 

Thirled,  thrilled,  vibrated 

Thole,  to  sulfer,  to  endure 

Thowe,  a  thaw  ;  to  thaw 

ThowU'ss,  thewless,  slack 

Tlirang,  throng,  a  crowd; 
thickly;  much  occupied 

Thrapple,  throat,  windpipe 

Thraw,  to  turn,  to  sprain, 
to  twist ;  to  counterwork 
obstinatelyor  maliciously 

Thrawin,  twisting,  &c. 

Thrawn, sprained,  twisted; 
cross-grained  (in  temper) 

Threap,  to  maintain  by  dint 
of  obstinate  assertion 

Threshin,  thrashing 

Threteen,  thirteen 

Thristle,  thistle 

Through,  to  go  on  with, 
to  make  out 

Throuther.thro'ither,  pell- 
mell,  confusedly 

Thud,  a  blow  producing  a 
dull  heavy  sound 

Thumpit,  thumped 

Tightly,  completely  ;  se- 
verely 

Till,  to  ;  till't,  to  it 

Timmer,  timbex;  aJsotre<>3 

Tine,tyne,to  lose ;  tint,lost 

Tinkler,  a  tinker 

Tint  the  gate,  lost  the  way 

Tip,  tuip,  toop,  a  ram 

Tippence,  two-pence;  tip- 
penny,  country  ale 

Tirl,  to  make  aslight  noise; 
to  uncover 

Tirlin,  uncovering 

Tither,  the  other 

Tittic,  female  cousin 

Tittle,  to  whisper 

Tittlin',  whispering 

Tocher,  marriage  port'onj 
tocher  band  (bond),  mar- 
riage settlement 

Tod,  a  fox 

Toddle,  to  totter,  like  a 
child;  toddlin',  tottering 

Toom.  empty  ;  to  empty 

Toss,  toast 

Toun, a  hamlet;  also  a  farm- 
house 

Tout,  the  blast  of  a  horn 
or  trumpet;  to  blow  a 
horn,  &c. 

Tow,  a  rope ;  wallop  in  a 
tow,  dangle  in  a  halter 

Towmond,  a  twelvemonth 

Towzie,  rough,  shagpfy 

Toy,  a  very  old  fashion  «f 
female  head-dress 

Toyte,to  totter  like  old  age 

Traced,  put  in  traces 

Trams,  shafts  of  a  vehicle 

Transmogrified,  trans- 

formed 

Trashtrie,  trash,  rubbish 

Trews,  trowsers 

Trig,  spruce,  neat 

Trimly,  excellently 

Trowth,  truth  ;  by  my 
truth  ! 

Tryste, country  wake,fair' 
rendezvoaa 


384 

Trysted,  appointed ;  to 
ti-yste,  to  make  an  ap- 
pointment 

Try't,  tried 

Tug,  raw  hide,  of  which,  in 
old  times,  plough-traces 
were  frequently  made 

Tug  or  tow,  leather  or  rope 

Tulzie,  a  quarrel ;  to  quar- 
rel, to  fight 

Twa,two;  twa-three,  afew 

'Twad,  it  would 

Twal,  twelve;  the  twalt, 
twelfth  part;  twal  pennie 
worth,  a  email  quantity, 
one  English  pennyworth 

Twin,  to  part 

Tyke,  a  dog 

Unco,    strange,    uncouth ; 
very,  very  great,  prodi- 
gious ;  unco  folks,  stran- 
gers;   uncos,  uncommon 
events  ;  news 
Unfauld,  to  unfold 
Unkenn'd,  unknown 
Unsicker,  unsure 
Unskaith'd,  undamaged 
Unweeting,  unknowingly 
Urchin,  a  hedgehog 

Vapoub,  vap'rin,  vapour- 
ing, bullying,  bragging 

\7auntie,  vain,  proud 

Vera,  very 

Virl,  a  ring  round  a  cane, 
column,  &c. 

Wa',  wall 

Wab,  web 

Wabster,  a  weaver 

Wad,  would  ;  to  bet,  a  bet, 

a  pledge  ;  to  wed 
Wadna,  would  not 
Wae,  wae,  sorrowful ;  wae 

worth  !  woe  to 
Waefu'woodie,  halter 
Waesucks!    or  wae's   me  ! 

alas!  O  the  pity 
Waft,  woof 

Waifu",  waefu',  wailing 
Wair,  ware,  to  lay  out,  to 

expend 
Wale,  choice ;  to  choose 
Waled,  chose,  chosen 
Walie,ample,large,  plump; 

also    an  exclamation    of 

distress 
Wallop   (in   a   tether)  be 

hanged 
Wame  (womb),  the  bel^y 
Wamefu',  a  belly-full 
Wanchancie,  unlucky 
Wanner,  wander 
Wanrestfu",  restless 
Wark,  work 
Wark-loom    (best),   mem- 

brum  virile 
War!',  or  warld,  world 
Warlock,   a  wizard;  war- 
lock-brief, a  spell 
Warlock-knowes,  knolls  of 

haunted  repute 
Warl'y,  worldly,  eager  in 

amassing  wealth 
Warran',    a    warrant;    to 

warrant 


GLOSS.\RY. 


Warst,  worst 

Warstled,  or  warsled, 
wrestled ;  rolled  over 

Was  (often  stands  for)  wast 

Wa's,  walls 

Wastrie,  prodigality 

Wat,  wet ;  I  wat,  1  wot,  1 
know;  red-wat-.shod,over 
the  shoes  in  blood 

Water-brose,  brose  made 
of  oatmeal  and  water 

Wattle,  a  twig,  a  wand 

Wauble,  to  swing,  to  reel; 
to  waddle 

Waught,  draught;  willie- 
vvaught,  hearty  pull 

Wauk,  wake 

Wauken,  waking,  awake 

Waukit,  thickened  as  ful- 
lers do  cloth ;  callous 

Waukrife,  wakeful 

Waur,  worse,  to  worst 

Waur;t,  worsted,  overcome 

Ways'  (come  thy),  come 
away 

Wean  (wee  ane,  i.e.  little 
one)  or  weanie,  a  child 

Weason,  weasand 

Weave  stockings,  to  knit 
hose 

Wee,  little  ;  wee  things, 
little  ones  ;  wee  bit,  a 
small  matter 

Weel,  well ;  weel-fa'rd, 
well-favour'd,  handsome 

Weeltare,  welfare 

Weet,  rain,  wetness 

Weird,  fate 

We'se,  we  shaL' 

Wha,  who 

Whaizle,  to  wheeze 

Whalpit,  whelped 

Whang,  a  leathern  thong; 
a  piece  of  cheese,  bread, 
&c. ;  give  the  strappado 

Whare,  whaur,  where ; 
whare'er,  wherever 

Whase,  whose 

What-reck,  nevertheless 

Whaup,  the  curlew 

Wheep,  fly  nimbly, to  jerk; 
penny-wheep,  small  beer 

VVhid,the  motion  of  a  hare, 
running  but  not  fright- 
ed ;  a  lie 

Whiddin,  running  as  a 
hare  or  coney 

Whigmeleeries,  whims, 
fancies,  crotchets 

Whingein,  crying,  com- 
plaining, fretting 

Whins,  furze  bushes 

Whirligigums,  useless  or- 
naments 

Whisht,  silence ! 

Whisk,  to  sweep,  to  lash 

Whisking  (beard),  cat-like 

Whitler,  whet ;  a  hearty 
draught  of  liquor 

Whittle,  a  knite 

Whunstane,  a  whinstone 

Whup,  whip 

Whyles,  whiles,  sometimes 

AVick,  to  strike  a  stone  in 
an  oblique  direction;  a 
terrain  the  winter  diver- 
sion of  curling 


Wicker,    willow,  (t.  e.  the 

smaller  sort) 
Widdieful,    twisted  like  a 
withy;  contemptible;  one 
deserving  the  gallows 
"S^'iel,  a  small  whirlpool 
Wifie,   a  dimin.  or  endear- 
ing term  for  wife 
Wiilyart,bewildered 
Wimple,  10  meander 
Win,  to  win,  to  get,  to  earn 
Win',  wind  ;  win's,  winds  ; 

also  to  winnow 
Win'i,  winded,  as  a  bottom 
of  yarn  ;  winnin',  wind- 
ing 
Winna,  will  not 
\Vinnock,  a  window 
Winsome,  comely,  vaunted 
Wintle,  a  staggering  mo- 
tion ;  to  stagger,  to  reel ; 
to  quiver 
Winze,  an  oath 
Wiss,  to  wish ;  to  have  » 

strong  desire 
Wit,  to  know 
Withouten,  without 
Witless,  simple,  easily  im- 
posed on 
Wizen'd,  dried,  shrunk 
Wonner,  an  intruder 
Wons,  dwells 
Woo',  wool 
Woodie,  a  rope,  properly 

one  made  of  withies 
Wooer-bal),  lover's  rosettei 
the     garter      fancifully 
knotted  outwardly  below 
the  knee 
Wordy,  worthy 
Worset,  worsted 
Wow,    an  exclamation  of 

pleasure  or  wonder 
Wrack,  to  teaze,  to  vex 
Wraith,  wrath;  also  a  spi- 
rit, a  ghost ;  an  appari- 
tion exactly  like  a  living 
person,  boding  his  death 
Wraiig,  wrong,  to  wrong 
Wreath,  drifted  snow 
Writers,attorneys,  lawyers 
Wud,  enraged 
Wud-mad,  distracted 
Wummle,  a  wimble 
Wyle,  beguile,  wheedle 
Wylie-coat,  a  flannel  vest 
Wyte,  blame ;  to  blame 

Yard,  a  kitchen  garden 
Ye;    this  pronoun  is  fre- 
quently used  for  thou 
Yearlings,  yealings,    bom 
in  the  same  year,  coevals 
Yell,  barren,  milkless 
Yeric,  to  lash,  to  jerk 
Yerkit,  jerked,  lashed 
Yestreen,  yesternight,  the 

night  before 
Yett,  a  gate,  such  as  leads 

to  a  farm-yard  or  field 
Yeuking,  itching 
Yili,  ale 
Yird,  earth 

Yokin',  yoking,  a  bout 
Yont,  aj'ont,  beyond 
Yowe,  yowie,  a  ewe 
Yule,  Christinas 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


POEMS. 

A  Gude  New- Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie ! 

A*  ye  wha  live  by  sowps  o'  drink 

Admiring  Nature,  in  her  mldest  grace 

Ae  day,  as  Death,  that  grusome  carl 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 

All  hail,  inexorable  lord ! 

Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower 

As  Mailie  and  her  lambs  thegither 

Auld  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner    . 


Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay 


Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul 

Corse  on  imgratef ul  man,  that  can  be  pleased 


Dear  Smith,  the  slee'st  pawkie  thief 
Dire  was  the  hate  at  old  Harlaw 
Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark 


Edina !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 
Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration 

Fair  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face 
Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul 
Fair  the  face  of  orient  day 
Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped 
For  lords  or  kings  I  dinna  mourn 
Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal 

Go,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a  filly 
Gude  morning  to  your  Majesty 
Guid  speed  an'  furder  to  you,  Johuie 


FAOB 

.    12 

.  124 


67 
169 
215 
2 
130 

132 

159 
167 

64 
157 

178 

148 
126 

15 

167 
182 
174 
176 
210 

105 
137 
80 


Ha !  wh'are  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin'  ferlie ! 
Hail,  Poeaie !  thou  nymph  reserved  I    . 
c  c 


lil 

2l)i 


386 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


Has  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  de'il? 
He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist 
Health  to  the  Maxwells'  vet'ran  chief ! 
Hear,  Land  o'  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots 
Here  Holy  Willie's  sair-wom  clay 
Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives 
How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fired 
How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  tmite 

I  call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains 

I  gat  your  letter,  winsome  Willie 

I  hold  it,  Sir,  my  hounden  duty 

I'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor 

I  lang  ha'e  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend 

I  mind  it  weel  in  early  date 

I  sing  of  a  Wliistle,  a  Whistle  of  worth 

Inhuman  man !  curse  on  thy  barb'roiis  art 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool 


Ken  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 
Kilmarnock  wabsters,  fidge  and  claw 
Kind  Sir,  I've  read  your  paper  through 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose 
Late  crippled  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg 
Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas 
Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize 


My  curse  upon  thy  vennm'd  stang 

My  honom-'d  Colonel,  deep  I  feel 

My  Lord,  I  know  your  noble  ear 

My  loved,  my  honour'd,  much-respected  friend 


No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more  ! 
No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great  city 
Now  Natm-e  hangs  her  mantle  green 
Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair 


O  a'  ye  pious,  godly  flocks 

O  Death !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody ! 

O  Goudie  I  terror  o'  the  Whigs 

O  rough,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine 

O  Thou  dread  Pow'r,  who  reign'st  above 

O  Thou  Great  Being !  what  Thou  art 

O  thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines 

O  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 

O  Thou  imknown,  Almighty  Cause 

O  Thou,  wha  in  the  heav'ns  dost  dwell 

O  Thou,  whatever  title  suit  thee     . 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  gude  yoursel'     . 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


3H7 


Old  Winter  with  his  frosty  beard 
Once  fondly  loved,  and  still  remember'd  dear 
Oppress'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  care 
Orthodox,  Orthodox,  wha  believe  in  John  Knox 


»AGB 

221 
,  158 
,  109 
.    35 


Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Hiuart 
Right,  Sir  !  your  text  I'll  prove  it  true 


Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page 

Sensibility,  how  charming 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough 

Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request 

Sir,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card 

Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour 

Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  melkle  love    . 

The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom's  way 

The  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare     . 

The  man,  in  life  Avherever  placed 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough 

The  sun  had  closed  the  winter  day 

The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among      . 

There  were  Five  Carlines  in  the  south 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair 

This  day,  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns 

Those  of  an  independent  mind 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st 

•Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young  fair  friend 

•Twas  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle 

•Twas  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thong  are 


Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  mom 
Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light 


Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowerin',  tim'rous  beastie 

What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousy  b— h 

What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o'  Lon'on 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

When  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood 

When  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird 

When  Nature  her  great  masterpiece  designed 

While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cower 


plied 


169 
53 

158 
226 
220 
194 
135 
30 
224 
131 

228 
175 
133 
151 
58 
207 

222 
191 
225 
185 
147 
216 
170 
209 
204 
141 
221 

44 
93 

117 

84 

136 

179 

,  18 

.  196 


21 
172 


388 


INDEX    OP    FIRST   LINES. 


While  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green 

While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty  things  .         .         .217 

While  new-ca"d  kye  rowte  at  the  stake 72 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden's  flood 211 

While  winds  frae  aff  Ben-Lomond  blaw     ' . 

Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake  ?      .         .         . 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie  .         .         .         .184 

Ye  Scottish  lords,  ye  knights  and  squires 88 

Your  news  and  review.  Sir,  I've  read  through  and  through.  Sir   174 


EPITAPHS,  EPIGRAMS,  &c. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest       • 229 

As  father  Adam  first  was  fool'd 231 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small 235 

Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  banes  ...  •    .  230 

Bless  Jesus  Christ,  O  Cardoness 232 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  O  Galloway 234 

Cursed  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in  life  .         .         .237 

Grant  me,  indulgent  Heav'n,  that  I  may  live       .        .        .    .  235 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pigeon .  230 

Here  lies  John  Bushby,  honest  man  231 

Here  lie  Willie  Michie's  banes         .         .         .         .         .         .   ib. 

Here  Souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep 230 

In  politics  if  thou  would'st  mix 235 

Insteadof  a  song,  boys,  m  give  you  a  toast  .         .         .     .237 

Kemble,  thou  cur'st  my  unbelief  233 

Know  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame  229 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a' 232 


No  sculptured  marble  here,  no  pompous  lay 
No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not 
No  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway 

O  Death !  hadst  thou  but  spared  his  life 

O,  had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind 

O  thou,  whom  poesy  abhors 

O  th(Su,  who  kindly  dost  provide 

O  ye,  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains 


.  231 
.  233 
.  234 

.  231 

.  233 

ib 

.  236 


INDEX    OB    FIRST    LINES.  389 

PACES 

Oh  !  had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times 234 

One  Queen  Artemisia,  as  old  storiea  tell 231 

Searching  old  wives'  barrels 236 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  Galloway 234 

Such  a  reptile  was  Wat .    .  232 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 233 

The  devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was  a-dying  .         .         .    .  232 

The  greybeard,  Old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of  his  treasures     .        .  234 
The  King's  most  humble  servant,  I  ...  .    .  237 

The  poor  man  weeps — here  Gavin  sleeps  ....  230 

We  came  na  here  to  view  your  warks  .         .         ...  236 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair  ....  234 

When  death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er  .         .         .         .    .  235 

Whoe'er  he  be  that  sojourns  here     .  .         .         .         .         .  ib. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  O  reader,  know        .  .         .         .         .    .  230 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  all  this  sneering      .         .         .  236 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  bom 

A  rose-bud  by  my  early  walk 

Adieu  !  a  heart- warm,  fond  adieu 

Ado^vn  winding  Nith  I  did  wander 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 

Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir 

Altho*  thou  maun  never  be  mine 

Amang  the  trees  where  liimiming  bees 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December 

Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water  side 

As  I  was  a-wand'ring  ae  midsummer  e'enin' 

Awa'  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's  alarms 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive     . 

Blithe  ha'e  I  been  on  yon  hill 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green 

But  warily  tent,  when  ye  come  to  court  me 

By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove 

By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik 

By  yon  castle  wa',  at  the  close  of  the  day 


24 
270 
261 
336 
294 
259 
244 
370 
315 
314 
313 
279 


.  371 

.  250 
.337 
.  330 


390  INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 

PAGE 

Can  I  cease  to  care  ? •         .  365 

Cauld  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west 267 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast 337 

Coming  through  the  rye,  poor  body 370 

Contented  \vi'  little,  and  cantie  wi'  mair  ....  354 

Could  aught  of  soug  declare  my  pains  .         .         .         .    .  346 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure  ....  .         .  339 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat? 366 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo 319 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 351 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and  ye  skies  .        .  298 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong 266 

First  when  Maggie  was  my  care      .....  278 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes        .         .    .  304 
Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near  .....  251 

From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go        .         .         .         .         .         .    .  262 

Full  well  thou  know'st  I  love  thee  dear 372 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk's  the  night 287 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine 274 

Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore 334 

Hark,  the  mavis'  evening  sang 345 

Her  flowing  locks  the  raven's  wing 251 

Here  awa',  there  awa',  wandering  Willie        ....  324 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower 347 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa' 356 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad  ....  .    .  343 

How  cruel  ai-e  the  parents      ......  363 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night 270 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding  Devon         .         .  269 
Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife 342 

I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard  .......    28 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars  .         .    .    21 

I  am  my  mammie's  ae  bairn  ....".  263 

I  do  confess  thou  art  sae  fair       .......  292 

I  dream'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing    ....  241 

I  gaed  a  waefu'  gate,  yestreen 284 

1  ha'e  a  wife  o'  my  ain 293 

I  once  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  cannot  tell  when  .        .        .    .    22 

I  see  a  form,  I  see  a  face 364 

Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near 254 

In  simmer,  when  the  hay  was  mawn       .....  300 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 361 

Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard     ......  354 

It  isna,  Jean,  thy  bonnieface  .  ...    .347 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May 350 

It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night 245 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


391 


Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss 
John  Anderson  my  jo,  John 


Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam'  down  the  lang  gien 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain      .         .         .         ■ 

Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes 

Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee       .... 


301 
280 

367 
26 
349 
265 
313 


Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion     . 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean 

My  bonnie  lass,  I  work  in  brass 

My  Father  was  a  Farmer 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves 

My  Harry  was  a  gallant  gay  .         .         .         , 

My  heart  is  sair,  I  darena  tell 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittle 

My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane 

My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form 


Nae  gentle  dames,  though  e'er  sae  fair  . 
No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write 
Now  bank  and  brae  are  claith'd  in  green 
Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  Nature  arrays 
Now  Nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea 
Kow  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  floAvers 
Now  spring  has  clad  the  groves  in  green 
Now  simmer  blinks  on  flow'ry  braes 
Now  westlin'  winds,  and  slaught'ring  guns 

O  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier        ... 
O  cam'  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun  ?  .         . 

O  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose 
O  how  shall  I,  unskilfu',  try    .... 
^O  how  can  I  be  blithe  and  glad    .... 
*0  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten 
O  lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet      .... 
O  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass       .         .         ;        , 
O  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles    . 
O  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel     .         .  .       . 

O  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide 
O  luve  will  venture  in  where  it  daurna  weol  be  seen 
O  May,  thy  mom  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 
O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be         ...         . 
O  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty   . 
O  mirk,  muk  is  this  midnight  horn- 
O,  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
O,  once  I  loved  a  boimie  lass         .... 
OPhilly,  happy  be  that  day     .... 
O  poortith  cauld,  and  restless  love 


.  364 
.  273 
.  27 
.  246 
.  294 
.  274 
.  309 
.  277 
.  285 
.  317 
.  316 


242 


.  315 
.  355 
.  a50 
.  338 
.  362 
.  265 
.  248 


283 
330 
348 
290 
327 
359 
357 
249 
296 
331 
299 
311 
326 
288 
326 
a)8 
238 
352 
325 


392  INDEX  OF    FIRST    LINES. 

PAGE 

O  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 241 

O,  sad  and  heavy  should  I  part 349 

O  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ?        .         .        .  .  .         ,  360 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley         .         .        .         .  ...  239 

O  saw  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M«Nab  ?    .        .         .  ,         ,  293 

O  stay,  sweet  warbling  woodlark,  stay 363 

O  tell  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain  .         .         •         i         .         .  360 

O  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town        ; 312 

O  were  I  on  Parnassus'  hill •   .  .271 

O  wha  is  she  that  lo'es  me  .         ...  ...  353 

O  wha  my  babie-clouts  will  buy 249 

O  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar        .        .         .    .  272 

O  Willie  brew'd  a  pack  o'  maut 281 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 276 

Oh,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show      .  ...  323 

On  a  bank  of  flowers,  in  a  summer  day  ,         .         .     .  276 

On  Cessnock  banks  there  lives  a  lass        .        .         .         .         .256 
One  night  as  I  did  wander  .         .        .         .         .         .    .  373 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent 346 

Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north 305 

Powers  celestial,  whose  protection 257 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing        .         .         .        .        .    .  269 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets    .         .  ....  325 

Scots,  wha  ha'e  wi'  Wallace  bled 341 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us 29 

She's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart 306 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing 316 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 334 

Sir  Wisdom's  a  fool  when  he's  fou  ......    23 

Sleep'st  thou,  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest  creature?    .         .         .    .344 

Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 268 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains 272 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigie-bum  .  .        \        ,        ,  287 

The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout 306 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen 286 

The  de'il  cam'  fiddling  thro-iigh  the  to\vn      •        .         .         ,    .  307 
The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns  .....  276 

The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades,  it  fa's      .         .         .         .         .    .  308 

The  gloomy  night  Is  gath'ring  fast  ...  .         »  264 

The  lazy  mist  bangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill       .         .         .    .  277 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness    . 307 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  returning    .         .    ,  301 
The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing     ...  .         .  304 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea  .         •         .         .        .    .  288 

The  tither  morn 368 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands  reckon  .         .    .  357 
There  was  a  bonnie  lass  .         .  ...  369 

There  was  a  lad  was  born  at  Kylo       .         ,  ...  253 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 

^lere  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair 
There  was  once  a  day,  but  old  Time  then  was  young 
There  were  three  kings  into  the  east 
Tliere's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen 

There's  a  youth  in  this  city 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes 

There's  nane  sail  ken,  there's  nana  sail  guess   . 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han' 

They  snool  me  sair,  and  baud  me  down  . 

Thickest  night,  o'erhang  my  dwelling 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair  .... 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  thou  hast  left  me  ever 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray    . 

Though  cruel  Fate  should  bid  us  part 

To  thee,  loved  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains 

True-hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o'  the  Yarrow 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza    ..... 

'Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  een  was  my  ruin 

'Twas  even — the  dewy  fields  were  green 


393 

puna 

.  3;J2 

.  Sod 

.  243 

.  32(.' 

.  2M() 

.  .•J24 

.  309 

.  a52 

.  295 

.  267 

.  339 

,  338 

,  282 

.  254 

.  313 

.  329 

.  303 

.  372 


Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear 's  in  my  e*e    . 

^Vba  is  that  at  my  bower  door  ?       .         .         . 

AVTiat  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a  young  lassie 

Wlien  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle 

When  Januar'  wind  was  blawing  cauld 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 

^V^len  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn 

Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the  morning  . 

Where,  braving  angry  winter's  storms     . 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin'  to  the  sea 

"While  larks  with  little  wing  .... 

Wliy,  why  tell  thy  lover   ..... 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary 

Willie  Wastle  dwelt  on  Tweed    .... 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ?         .         .         .         . 


314 
291 
289 
239 
310 
321 
328 
340 
273 
305 
333 
373 
322 
297 
340 


Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 

Ye  banks  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

Ye  flowering  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon 

Ye  gallants  bright,  I  rede  you  right 

Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine 

Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor 

Yoimg  Jockey  was  the  blythcst  lad 

Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass  . 

You're  welcome  to  despots,  Dumourier 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide 


.nn2 

318 
?A)2 
278 
32u 
240 
286 
25.1 
355 
290 


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INDEX. 


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PAGE 

Agriculture,  Works  on 12 

Aguilar's  (Grace)  Works 1 

Aquarium,  Works  on 13 

Beattie's  Minstrel   G 

Bacon's  Essays G 

Bee-keeper's  Manual , 13 

Books  for  the  Young 17 

Bigg's  Night  and  the  Soul 2 

British  Museum 18 

Byron,  Gems  from  16 

Byrne's  Poems  2 

Botanical  Works  11 

Burns' s  Poetical  Works 16 

Coleridge's  (S,  T.)  Letters 2 

Poems 6 

Cabinet  (the)  Classics 3 

Channiug's  Essays 6 

Catechisms 26 

Colosseum,  Flora  of. 11 

Cowper's  Poetical  Works 3 

Chapone's  fMrs.)  Letters 6 

Copley's  (Esther)  Cookery 29 

City  Men  and  City  Manners 8 

Crisis,  History  of 9 

Crosland's  Lydia 5 

Deakin's  (Dr.)  Botanical  Works  11 

Dawes'  (Dean)  Works   21 

Drawing,  Works  on 25 

Doyle  (Martin),  Works  by    28 

Domestic  Economy 29 

Emigration,  Works  on    10 

Educational  Works 23 

Essays  and  Sketches 5 

EHzabetn;  or,  the  Exiles 3 

Evans's  Facts,  Failures,  etc 8 

Commercial  Crisis 9 

Floriculture,  "Works  on 4 

Fruit  Culture,  Works  on  4 

Fmancial  Works  8 

Falconer's  Shipwreck 6 

Farm  and  Garden 12 

Fern.s,  Cultivation  of 11 

Funds  (the),  Worksou 9 

Floral  (the)  World 4 

Garden  Favourites 13 

Gardener's  Dictionary 12 

Goldsmith's  Poems  and  Essays    S 

: Vicar  of  Wakefield. . .    3 

Graj-'s  Elegy,  Illustrated 16 

Gems  from  the  Poets,  Illustrated  16 
Government  (the)  School  Books  30 


PAGrE 

Geographical  Works  25 

Hibberd's  (Shirley)  Works    13 

Hemans  (Mrs.),  Gems  Irorn 16 

Irish  (the)  School  Books 30 

Irving's  (Washington)  Essays  ...     6 
Johnstone's  Woman's  Preachings    5 

A  Few  ovit  of  Thousands    5 

Johnson's  Easselas  6 

Lamb  (Charles), Tales  by   G 

Lewis's  Eomautic  Tales 3 

Lisle's  Self  and  Self-sacrifice  ...     5 

Almost    5 

Quicksands    5 

Lowe's  Ferus 11 

Longfellow,  Gems  from 16 

McEwen's  Fruit  Culture 4 

Matson's  Poems 2 

Mason  on  Self  luiowledge  6 

Milton's  Poetical  Works   3 

Microscope '.....  18 

Mayo's  Model  Lessons :  27 

Miniature  Classics 6 

Morris's  (Eev.  F.  O.)  Works...  15 

Moore  (Thomas),  Gems  from 16 

Natural  History 15 

Natural  Philosophy 24 

O'Keeii'e's  Broken  Sword  5 

Outline  Maps 25 

Paul  and  Virginia 3 

Poetry , 2 

Eeligious  Works 7 

Eeid  on  the  Steam  Engine 18 

Eogers  (Sanitiel),  Gems  from 16 

Rustic  Adornments 13 

Scott's  (Sir  W.)  Poetical  Works    3 

Scripture  Text  Book 7 

Shakspeare,  Philosophy  of 2 

Souvestre's  FamilyJournal   5 

Steam  Engine 18 

Stories  for  Children 20 

School  Books 22 

Thomson's  Seasons 3 

Thomson  (Dr.)  on  the;Eye  14 

Telescope 18 

Town  (the)  Garden 13 

Watts's  Poems 2 

Walton  and  Cotton's  Angler 0 

Wordsworth,  Gems  from 16 

Young's  ]Sijiht  Thoughts 6 

Young  NaturaUst's  Library 19 


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Ireland   4  4  ...  5 

Australia   5 


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8. ..12 
8. ..12 
8. ..12 
4.. .12 


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Canada    5 

ScriptureWorld  5 

Palestine    4 

India    4 

British  Isles  ...  7 
British  Isles  ...  4 


ft.  in. 
5    8 


in. 
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4. ..12 
4.. .12 

■4.. .12 
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8. ..22 
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