Chapter 10

By this, the sun was out of sight, An’ darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer

To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons.^1

Dearest of distillation! last and best—

—How art thou lost!—

Parody on Milton.

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, Wha represent our brughs an’ shires, An’ doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple poet’s pray’rs Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce, To see her sittin on her arse Low i’ the dust, And scriechinhout prosaic verse, An like to brust!

[Footnote 1: This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R.B.]

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction On aqua-vitae; An’ rouse them up to strong conviction, An’ move their pity.

Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth The honest, open, naked truth: Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, His servants humble: The muckle deevil blaw you south If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom Wi’ them wha grant them; If honestly they canna come, Far better want them.

In gath’rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack: Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, An’ hum an’ haw; But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack Before them a’.

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel, Or limpet shell!

Then, on the tither hand present her— A blackguard smuggler right behint her, An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a’ kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither’s pot Thus dung in staves, An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat By gallows knaves?

Alas! I’m but a nameless wight, Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight? But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell,^2 There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An’ tie some hose well.

God bless your Honours! can ye see’t— The kind, auld cantie carlin greet, 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’ with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues; Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Auld Scotland’s wrangs.

Dempster,^3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;^4 An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron, The Laird o’ Graham;^5 An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’, Dundas his name:^6

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;^7 True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8

[Footnote 2: James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.]

[Footnote 3: George Dempster of Dunnichen.]

[Footnote 4: Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.]

[Footnote 5: The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose.]

[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.]

[Footnote 7: Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.]

[Footnote 8: Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session.]

An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;^9 An’ mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers.

See sodger Hugh,^10 my watchman stented, If poets e’er are represented; I ken if that your sword were wanted, Ye’d lend a hand; But when there’s ought to say anent it, Ye’re at a stand.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye’ll see’t or lang, She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, Anither sang.

This while she’s been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play’d her that pliskie!) An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud About her whisky.

An’ Lord! 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’ the first she meets!

For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, An’ to the muckle house repair, Wi’ instant speed, An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear, To get remead.

[Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.]

[Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.]

Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks; But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! E’en cowe the cadie! An’ send him to his dicing box An’ sportin’ lady.

Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, ^11 I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s ^12 Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, Was kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach, I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He needna fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; An’ if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, She’ll no desert.

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still you mither’s heart support ye; Then, tho’a minister grow dorty, An’ kick your place, Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty, Before his face.

God bless your Honours, a’ your days, Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,

[Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]

[Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R.B.]

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 half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies, But, blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky.

What tho’ 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 hank’ring swither To stan’ or rin, Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther, To save their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George’s will, An’ there’s the foe! He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An’ when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek, In clime an’ season; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek I’ll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather, Ye tine your dam; Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! Take aff your dram!

The Ordination

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n— To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n.

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an’ claw, An’ pour your creeshie nations; An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, Of a’ denominations; Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’ An’ there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw, An’ pour divine libations For joy this day.

Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell, Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;^1 But Oliphant^2 aft made her yell, An’ Russell^3 sair misca’d her: This day Mackinlay^4 taks the flail, An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, An’ set the bairns to daud her Wi’ dirt this day.

[Footnote 1: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the “Laigh Kirk.”—R.B.]

[Footnote 2: Rev. James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. James Mackinlay.]

Mak haste an’ turn King David owre, And lilt wi’ holy clangor; O’ double verse come gie us four, An’ skirl up the Bangor: This day the kirk kicks up a stoure; Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow’r, And gloriously she’ll whang her Wi’ pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read, An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, How graceless Ham^5 leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a nigger; Or Phineas^6 drove the murdering blade, Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,^7 the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I’ th’ inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed, An’ bind him down wi’ caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion; And gie him o’er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin; Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, No gi’en by way o’ dainty, But ilka day.

[Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.—R. B.]

[Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.—R. B.]

[Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.—R. B]

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 tryin; Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a’ like lamb-tails flyin Fu’ fast this day.

Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin:^8 Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin; An’ like a godly, elect bairn, He’s waled us out a true ane, And sound, this day.

Now Robertson^9 harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton^10 repair, An’ turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day.

Mu’trie^11 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 brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day.

[Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.]

[Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.]

[Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.]

[Footnote 11: The Rev. John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay succeeded.]

See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes She’s swingein thro’ the city! Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! I vow it’s unco pretty: There, Learning, with 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 himsel’, Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions! See, how she peels the skin an’ fell, As ane were peelin onions! Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, An’ banish’d our dominions, Henceforth this day.

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality’s demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys That heresy can torture; They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th’ head some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here’s—for a conclusion— To ev’ry New Light^12 mother’s son, From this time forth, 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.

[Footnote 12: “New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.—R. B.]

Epistle To James Smith

Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society! I owe thee much—Blair.

Dear Smith, the slee’st, pawkie thief, That e’er attempted stealth or rief! Ye surely hae some warlock-brief Owre human hearts; For ne’er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon, Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon, Just gaun to see you; An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done, Mair taen I’m wi’ you.

That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She’s turn’d you off, a human creature 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’ rhyme, My barmie noddle’s working prime. My fancy yerkit up sublime, Wi’ hasty summon; Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time To hear what’s comin?

Some rhyme a neibor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random-shot O’countra wit.

This while my notion’s taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I’m that way bent, Something cries “Hooklie!” I red you, honest man, tak tent? Ye’ll shaw your folly;

“There’s ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, A’ future ages; Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages.”

Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs Are whistlin’ thrang, An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes My rustic sang.

I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead Forgot and gone!

But why o’ death being a tale? Just now we’re living sound and hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave Care o’er-side! And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, Let’s tak the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand, Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, Where Pleasure is the magic-wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu’ light.

The magic-wand then let us wield; For ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi’ wrinkl’d face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, We’ creepin pace.

When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin, Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin, An’ social noise: An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman, The Joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning, Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning, To joy an’ play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho’ the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot, For which they never toil’d nor swat; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain; And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, An’ seize the prey: Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan’, Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin, To right or left eternal swervin, They zig-zag on; Till, curst with age, obscure an’ starvin, They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— But truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning? E’n let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let’s sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, ye Pow’rs! and warm implore, “Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o’ rhymes.

“Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour; An’ yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner.

“A title, Dempster^1 merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, In cent. per cent.; But give me real, sterling wit, And I’m content.

[Footnote 1: George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P.]

“While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale, I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail, Wi’ cheerfu’ face, As lang’s the Muses dinna fail To say the grace.”

An anxious e’e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows As weel’s I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an’cool, Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces In your unletter’d, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray; But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad: I see ye upward cast your eyes— Ye ken the road!

Whilst I—but I shall haud me there, Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi’ you to mak a pair. Whare’er I gang.

The Vision

Duan First^1

The sun had clos’d the winter day, The curless quat their roarin play, And hunger’d maukin taen 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 when the day had clos’d his e’e, Far i’ the west, Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest.

There, lanely by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey’d the spewing reek, That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin; An’ heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus’d on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu’ prime, An’ done nae thing, But stringing blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash-account; While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. Is a’ th’ amount.

[Footnote 1: Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. 2 of M’Pherson’s translation.—R. B.]

I started, mutt’ring, “blockhead! coof!” And heav’d on high my waukit loof, To swear by a’ yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof Till my last breath—

When click! the string the snick did draw; An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’; An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht, An’ 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, Would soon been broken.

A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace” Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space, Beam’d keen with honour.

Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen; An’ such a leg! my bonie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight an’ clean— Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew: Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand; And seem’d, to my astonish’d view, A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were toss’t: Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast, The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient borough rear’d her head; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race To ev’ry nobler virtue bred, And polish’d grace.^2

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, With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race heroic^3 wheel,

[Footnote 2: The seven stanzas following this were first printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787. Other stanzas, never published by Burns himself, are given on p. 180.]

[Footnote 3: The Wallaces.—R. B.]

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel, In sturdy blows; While, back-recoiling, seem’d to reel Their Suthron foes.