Chapter 14

Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor

What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch, Your bodkin’s bauld; I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse, I gie 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-flea!

King David, o’ poetic brief, Wrocht ’mang the lasses sic mischief As filled his after-life wi’ grief, An’ bluidy rants, An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief O’ lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants, My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants, I’ll gie auld cloven’s Clootie’s haunts An unco slip yet, An’ snugly sit amang the saunts, At Davie’s hip yet!

But, fegs! the session says I maun Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan Than garrin lasses coup the cran, Clean heels ower body, An’ sairly thole their mother’s ban Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport, How I did wi’ the Session sort; Auld Clinkum, at the inner port, Cried three times, “Robin! Come hither lad, and answer for’t, Ye’re blam’d for jobbin!”

Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on, An’ snoov’d awa before the Session: I made an open, fair confession— I scorn’t to lee, An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o’ me.

A fornicator-loun he call’d me, An’ said my faut frae bliss expell’d me; I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me, “But, what the matter? (Quo’ I) I fear unless ye geld me, I’ll ne’er be better!”

“Geld you! (quo’ he) an’ what for no? If that your right hand, leg or toe Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe, You should remember To cut it aff—an’ what for no Your dearest member?”

“Na, na, (quo’ I,) I’m no for that, Gelding’s nae better than ’tis ca’t; I’d rather suffer for my faut A hearty flewit, As sair owre hip as ye can draw’t, Tho’ I should rue it.

“Or, gin ye like to end the bother, To please us a’—I’ve just ae ither— When next wi’ yon lass I forgather, Whate’er betide it, I’ll frankly gie her ’t a’ thegither, An’ let her guide it.”

But, sir, this pleas’d them warst of a’, An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw, I said “Gude night,” an’ cam’ awa’, An’ left the Session; I saw they were resolved a’ On my oppression.

The Brigs Of Ayr

A Poem

Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton’d 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 panegyric 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 spirit 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 Ballantine befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heartfelt 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; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, Unnumber’d buds an’ 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, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs, Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee, Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays.

’Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, Unknown and poor—simplicity’s reward!— Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson’s^1 wheel’d the left about: (Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander’d out, he knew not where or why:) The drowsy Dungeon-clock^2 had number’d two, and Wallace Tower^2 had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swoln firth, with sullen-sounding roar, Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore. All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e; The silent moon shone high o’er tower 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 sugh of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air; Swift as the gos^3 drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The other flutters o’er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcried The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, And even the very deils they brawly ken them). Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.

[Footnote 1: A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.—R. B.]

[Footnote 2: The two steeples.—R. B.]

[Footnote 3: The Gos-hawk, or Falcon.—R. B.]

New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got; In ’s hand five taper staves as smooth ’s a bead, Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch; It chanc’d his new-come neibor took his e’e, And e’en a vexed and angry heart had he! Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-e’en:—

Auld Brig

“I doubt na, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheepshank, Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me— Tho’ faith, that date, I doubt, ye’ll never see— There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmaleeries in your 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 of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin’d, formless bulk o’ stane and lime, Compare wi’ bonie brigs o’ modern time? There’s men of taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream,^4 Tho’ they should cast the very sark and swim, E’er they would grate their feelings wi’ the view O’ sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.”

Auld Brig

“Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn, I’ll be a brig when ye’re a shapeless cairn! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa—three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains,

[Footnote 4: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.—R. B.]

Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil; Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, Aroused by blustering winds an’ spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; While crashing ice, borne on the rolling spate, Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; And from Glenbuck,^5 down to the Ratton-key,^6 Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea— Then down ye’ll hurl, (deil nor ye never rise!) And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies! A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture’s noble art is lost!”

New Brig

“Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t, The Lord be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices; O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, The craz’d creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free; Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea! Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird or beast: Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion: Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest wi’ resurrection!”

[Footnote 5: The source of the River Ayr.—R. B.]

[Footnote 6: A small landing place above the large quay.—R. B.]

Auld Brig

“O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye; Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers; A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And, agonising, curse the time and place When ye begat the base degen’rate race! Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story; Nae langer thrifty citizens, an’ douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on damn’d new brigs and harbours!”

New Brig

“Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle: But, under favour o’ your langer beard, Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d; To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth ’a Citizen,’ a term o’ scandal; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins, Or gather’d lib’ral views in Bonds and Seisins: If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor’d them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.”

What farther clish-ma-claver aight been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but, all before their sight, A fairy train appear’d in order bright; Adown the glittering stream they featly danc’d; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc’d: They footed o’er the wat’ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.

O had M’Lauchlan,^7 thairm-inspiring sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage; Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, The lover’s raptured joys or bleeding cares; How would his Highland lug been nobler fir’d, And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d! No guess could tell what instrument appear’d, But all the soul of Music’s self was heard; Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. The Genius of the Stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc’d 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;

[Footnote 7: A well-known performer of Scottish music on the violin.—R. B.]

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath’d with nodding corn; Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow: Next followed Courage with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide;^8 Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair;^9 Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:^10 Last, white-rob’d 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.

Fragment Of Song

The night was still, and o’er the hill The moon shone on the castle wa’; The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang Around her on the castle wa’; Sae merrily they danced the ring Frae eenin’ till the cock did craw; And aye the o’erword o’ the spring Was “Irvine’s bairns are bonie a’.”

Epigram On Rough Roads

I’m now arrived—thanks to the gods!— Thro’ pathways rough and muddy, A certain sign that makin roads Is no this people’s study: Altho’ Im not wi’ Scripture cram’d, I’m sure the Bible says That heedless sinners shall be damn’d, Unless they mend their ways.

[Footnote 8: A compliment to the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, on the Feal or Faile, a tributary of the Ayr.]

[Footnote 9: Mrs. Stewart of Stair, an early patroness of the poet.]

[Footnote 10: The house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

Prayer—O Thou Dread Power

Lying at a reverend friend’s house one night, the author left the following verses in the room where he slept:—

O Thou dread Power, who reign’st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love, I make this prayer sincere.

The hoary Sire—the mortal stroke, Long, long be pleas’d to spare; To bless this little filial 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 wish.

The beauteous, seraph sister-band— With earnest tears I pray— Thou know’st the snares on ev’ry 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!

Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr

Tune—“Roslin Castle.”

“I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.”—R. B.

The gloomy night is gath’ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatt’red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns 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 bonie banks of Ayr.

’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc’d with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those: The bursting tears my heart declare— Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

Address To The Toothache

My curse upon your venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang, An’ thro’ my lug gies mony a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases— Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup!

In a’ the numerous human dools, Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy frien’s rak’d 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, Where a’ the tones o’ misery yell, An’ ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell, Amang them a’!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o’ discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore, a shoe-thick, Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal A townmond’s toothache!

Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1

This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third,

[Footnote 1: At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprackl’d 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 An’ sic a Lord!—lang Scoth ells twa, Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’, As I look o’er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r! To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r, An’ how he star’d and stammer’d, When, goavin, as if led wi’ branks, An’ stumpin on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer’d.

I sidying 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 surpris’d me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon.

I watch’d the symptoms o’ 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.

Masonic Song

Tune—“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I’ve little to say, but only to pray, As praying’s the ton of your fashion; A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse ’Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide, Who marked each element’s border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order:— Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention Or withered Envy ne’er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly Love be the centre!

Tam Samson’s Elegy

An honest man’s the noblest work of God—Pope.

When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl 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 this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.—R.B., 1787.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2 again grown weel, To preach an’ read? “Na’ waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel, “Tam Samson’s dead!”

[Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide “The Ordination.” stanza ii.—R. B.]

[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,” stanza ix.—R.B.]

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean, In mourning weed; To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane— Tam Samson’s dead!

The Brethren, o’ the mystic level May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel; Tam Samson’s dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the curlers flock, Wi’ gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? Tam Samson’s dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, He was the king o’ a’ the core, 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 sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail Tam Samson’s dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’; Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa; Tam Samson’s dead!