Chapter 11

His Country’s Saviour,^4 mark him well! Bold Richardton’s heroic swell;^5 The chief, on Sark who glorious fell,^6 In high command; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land.

There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,^7 I mark’d a martial race, pourtray’d In colours strong: Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d, They strode along.

Thro’ many a wild, romantic grove,^8 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:^9 To Nature’s God, and Nature’s law, They gave their lore; This, all its source and end to draw, That, to adore.

[Footnote 4: William Wallace.—R.B.]

[Footnote 5: Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.—R.B.]

[Footnote 6: 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, who died of his wounds after the action.—R.B.]

[Footnote 7: 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 Coilsfield, where his burial—place is still shown.—R.B.]

[Footnote 8: Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice— Clerk.—R.B.]

[Footnote 9: Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and present Professor Stewart.—R.B.]

Brydon’s brave ward^10 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.

Duan Second

With musing-deep, astonish’d stare, I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair; A whispering throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister’s air She did me greet.

“All hail! my own inspired bard! In me thy native Muse regard; Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low; I come to give thee such reward, As we bestow!

“Know, the great genius of this land Has many a light 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 gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;

[Footnote 10: Colonel Fullarton.—R.B. This gentleman had travelled under the care of Patrick Brydone, author of a well-known “Tour Through Sicily and Malta.”]

Or, ’mid the venal senate’s roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand.

“And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetric rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye.

“Hence, Fullarton, 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.

“To lower orders are assign’d The humbler ranks of human-kind, The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind, The artisan; All choose, as various they’re inclin’d, The various man.

“When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat’ning 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 district-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 power: I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, Thy natal hour.

“With future hope I oft would gaze Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely, caroll’d, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes; Fir’d at the simple, artless lays Of other times.

“I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the North his fleecy store Drove thro’ the sky, I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar Struck thy young eye.

“Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherish’d ev’ry floweret’s birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev’ry grove; I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love.

“When ripen’d fields and azure skies Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise, In pensive walk.

“When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along, Those accents grateful to thy tongue, Th’ 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 I can 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, T e lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade.

“Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And trust me, not Potosi’s mine, Nor king’s regard, Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, A rustic bard.

“To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan: Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect; And trust the Universal Plan Will all protect.

“And wear thou this”—she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head: The polish’d leaves and berries red Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away.

[To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]

Suppressed Stanza’s Of “The Vision”

After 18th stanza of the text (at “His native land”):—

With secret throes I marked that earth, That cottage, witness of my birth; And near I saw, bold issuing forth In youthful pride, A Lindsay race of noble worth, Famed far and wide.

Where, hid behind a spreading wood, An ancient Pict-built mansion stood, I spied, among an angel brood, A female pair; Sweet shone their high maternal blood, And father’s air.^1

An ancient tower^2 to memory brought How Dettingen’s bold hero fought; Still, far from sinking into nought, It owns a lord Who far in western climates fought, With trusty sword.

[Footnote 1: Sundrum.—R.B.]

[Footnote 2: Stair.—R.B.]

Among the rest I well could spy One gallant, graceful, martial boy, The soldier sparkled in his eye, A diamond water. I blest that noble badge with joy, That owned me frater.^3

After 20th stanza of the text (at “Dispensing good”):—

Near by arose a mansion fine^4 The seat of many a muse divine; Not rustic muses such as mine, With holly crown’d, But th’ ancient, tuneful, laurell’d Nine, From classic ground.

I mourn’d the card that Fortune dealt, To see where bonie Whitefoords dwelt;^5 But other prospects made me melt, That village near;^6 There Nature, Friendship, Love, I felt, Fond-mingling, dear!

Hail! Nature’s pang, more strong than death! Warm Friendship’s glow, like kindling wrath! Love, dearer than the parting breath Of dying friend! Not ev’n with life’s wild devious path, Your force shall end!

The Power that gave the soft alarms In blooming Whitefoord’s rosy charms, Still threats the tiny, feather’d arms, The barbed dart, While lovely Wilhelmina warms The coldest heart.^7

After 21st stanza of the text (at “That, to adore”):—

Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid,^8 Where lately Want was idly laid,

[Footnote 3: Captain James Montgomerie, Master of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton, to which the author has the honour to belong.—R.B.]

[Footnote 4: Auchinleck.—R.B.]

[Footnote 5: Ballochmyle.]

[Footnote 6: Mauchline.]

[Footnote 7: Miss Wilhelmina Alexander.]

[Footnote 8: Cumnock.—R.B.]

I marked busy, bustling Trade, In fervid flame, Beneath a Patroness’ aid, of noble name.

Wild, countless hills I could survey, And countless flocks as wild as they; But other scenes did charms display, That better please, Where polish’d manners dwell with Gray, In rural ease.^9

Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound;^10 And Irwine, marking out the bound, Enamour’d of the scenes around, Slow runs his race, A name I doubly honour’d found,^11 With knightly grace.

Brydon’s brave ward,^12 I saw him stand, Fame humbly offering her hand, And near, his kinsman’s rustic band,^13 With one accord, Lamenting their late blessed land Must change its lord.

The owner of a pleasant spot, Near and sandy wilds, I last did note;^14 A heart too warm, a pulse too hot At times, o’erran: But large in ev’ry feature wrote, Appear’d the Man.

The Rantin’ Dog, The Daddie O’t

Tune—“Whare’ll our guidman lie.”

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? O wha will tent me when I cry? Wha will kiss me where I lie? The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

[Footnote 9: Mr. Farquhar Gray.—R.B.]

[Footnote 10: Auchinskieth.—R.B.]

[Footnote 11: Caprington.—R.B.]

[Footnote 12: Colonel Fullerton.—R.B.]

[Footnote 13: Dr. Fullerton.—R.B.]

[Footnote 14: Orangefield.—R.B.]

O wha will own he did the faut? O wha will buy the groanin maut? O wha will tell me how to ca’t? The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

When I mount the creepie-chair, Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair, The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

Wha will crack to me my lane? Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain? Wha will kiss me o’er again? The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

Here’s His Health In Water

Tune—“The Job of Journey-work.”

Altho’ my back be at the wa’, And tho’ he be the fautor; Altho’ my back be at the wa’, Yet, here’s his health in water. O wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie’s he could flatter; Till for his sake I’m slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter: But tho’ my back be at the wa’, And tho’ he be the fautor; But tho’ my back be at the wa’, Yet here’s his health in water!

Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous

My Son, these maxims make a rule, An’ lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that ere was dight May hae some pyles o’ caff in; So ne’er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o’ daffin.

(Solomon.—Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.)

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell Your neibours’ fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi’ store o’ water; The heaped happer’s ebbing still, An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door For glaikit Folly’s portals: I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences— Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment’s fair regard, What maks the mighty differ; Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in; And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave), Your better art o’ hidin.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop! What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, It maks a unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug, A treach’rous inclination— But let me whisper i’ your lug, Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark,— The moving Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.

The Inventory^1

In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes

Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu’ list, O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith, To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o’ gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My hand-afore ’s a guid auld has-been, An’ wight an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been: My hand-ahin ’s a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.^2 An’ 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 fillie sic a shavie, She’s a’ bedevil’d wi’ the spavie. My furr-ahin ’s a wordy beast, As e’er in tug or tow was traced. The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastle, A damn’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie! Foreby a cowt, o’ cowts the wale, As ever ran afore a tail: Gin he be spar’d to be a beast, He’ll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel-carriages I ha’e but few, Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new; An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken; I made a poker o’ the spin’le, An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le.

[Footnote 1: The “Inventory” was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.]

[Footnote 2: Kilmarnock.—R. B.]

For men, I’ve three mischievous boys, Run-deils for ranting an’ for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’ other: Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An’ aften labour them completely; An’ aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith! wee Davock’s grown sae gleg, Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg, He’ll screed you aff Effectual Calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling.

I’ve nane in female servant station, (Lord keep me aye frae a’ temptation!) I hae nae wife—and thay my bliss is, An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses; An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the deevils darena touch me. Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented, Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted! My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady, I’ve paid enough for her already; An’ gin ye tax her or her mither, By the Lord, ye’se get them a’ thegither!

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence 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; My travel a’ on foot I’ll shank it, I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude the thankit! The kirk and you may tak you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your beuk, Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.

This list, wi’ my ain hand I wrote it, The day and date as under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic,

Robert Burns. Mossgiel, February 22, 1786.

To John Kennedy, Dumfries House

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E’er bring you in by Mauchlin corse, (Lord, man, there’s lasses there wad force A hermit’s fancy; An’ down the gate in faith they’re worse, An’ mair unchancy).

But as I’m sayin, please step to Dow’s, An’ taste sic gear as Johnie brews, Till some bit callan bring me news That ye are there; An’ if we dinna hae a bouze, I’se ne’er drink mair.

It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow, Then like a swine to puke an’ wallow; But gie me just a true good fallow, Wi’ right ingine, And spunkie ance to mak us mellow, An’ then we’ll shine.

Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, An’ sklent on poverty their joke, Wi’ bitter sneer, Wi’ you nae friendship I will troke, Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I’m informed weel, Ye hate as ill’s the very deil The flinty heart that canna feel— Come, sir, here’s to you! Hae, there’s my haun’, I wiss you weel, An’ gude be wi’ you.

Robt. Burness. Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786.

To Mr. M’Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan

In answer to an obliging 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 taks notice o’ the bard!” I lap and cried fu’ loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million; I’ll cock my nose abune them a’, I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan!

’Twas noble, sir; ’twas like yourself’, To grant your high protection: A great man’s smile ye ken fu’ well 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 gude, warm kail, Wi’ welcome canna bear me, A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, An’ barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O’ mony flow’ry simmers! An’ bless your bonie lasses baith, I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers!

An’ God bless young Dunaskin’s laird, The blossom of our gentry! An’ may he wear and auld man’s beard, A credit to his country.

To A Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church

Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? 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 an’ sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her— Sae fine a lady? 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, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight, Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right, Till ye’ve got on it— The verra tapmost, tow’rin height O’ Miss’ bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an’ grey as ony groset: O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t, Wad dress your droddum.

I wad na been surpris’d to spy You on an auld wife’s flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy, On’s wyliecoat; But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye! How daur ye do’t?

O Jeany, dinna toss your head, An’ set your beauties a’ abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie’s makin: Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An’ foolish notion: What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us, An’ ev’n devotion!

Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s

Presented to the Author by a Lady.

Thou flatt’ring mark of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part, Yet such a head, and more the heart Does both the sexes honour: She show’d her taste refin’d and just, When she selected thee; Yet deviating, own I must, For sae approving me: But kind still I’ll mind still The giver in the gift; I’ll bless her, an’ wiss her A Friend aboon the lift.

Song, Composed In Spring

Tune—“Jockey’s Grey Breeks.”

Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues: Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in morning dews.

Chorus.—And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, An’ it winna let a body be.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi’lets spring; In vain to me in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. And maun I still, &c.

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. And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And ev’ry thing is blest but I. And maun I still, &c.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And o’er the moorlands whistles shill: Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c.

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. And maun I still, &c.