Chapter 20

Daughter of Chaos’ doting years, Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears, Whether thy airy, insubstantial shade (The rights of sepulture now duly paid) Spread abroad its hideous form On the roaring civil storm, Deafening din and warring rage Factions wild with factions wage; Or under-ground, deep-sunk, profound, Among the demons of the earth, With groans that make the mountains shake, Thou mourn thy ill-starr’d, blighted birth; Or in the uncreated Void, Where seeds of future being fight, With lessen’d step thou wander wide, To greet thy Mother—Ancient Night. And as each jarring, monster-mass is past, Fond recollect what once thou wast: In manner due, beneath this sacred oak, Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke! By a Monarch’s heaven-struck fate, By a disunited State, By a generous Prince’s wrongs. By a Senate’s strife of tongues, By a Premier’s sullen pride, Louring on the changing tide; By dread Thurlow’s powers to awe Rhetoric, blasphemy and law; By the turbulent ocean— A Nation’s commotion, By the harlot-caresses Of borough addresses, By days few and evil, (Thy portion, poor devil!) By Power, Wealth, and Show, (The Gods by men adored,) By nameless Poverty, (Their hell abhorred,) By all they hope, by all they fear, Hear! and appear!

Stare not on me, thou ghastly Power! Nor, grim with chained defiance, lour: No Babel-structure would I build Where, order exil’d from his native sway, Confusion may the regent-sceptre wield, While all would rule and none obey: Go, to the world of man relate The story of thy sad, eventful fate; And call presumptuous Hope to hear And bid him check his blind career; And tell the sore-prest sons of Care, Never, never to despair! Paint Charles’ speed on wings of fire, The object of his fond desire, Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand: Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band; Hark how they lift the joy-elated voice! And who are these that equally rejoice? Jews, Gentiles, what a motley crew! The iron tears their flinty cheeks bedew; See how unfurled the parchment ensigns fly, And Principal and Interest all the cry! And how their num’rous creditors rejoice; But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise, Cry Convalescence! and the vision flies. Then next pourtray a dark’ning twilight gloom, Eclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn, While proud Ambition to th’ untimely tomb By gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is borne: Paint ruin, in the shape of high D[undas] Gaping with giddy terror o’er the brow; In vain he struggles, the fates behind him press, And clam’rous hell yawns for her prey below: How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the skies! And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise! Again pronounce the powerful word; See Day, triumphant from the night, restored.

Then know this truth, ye Sons of Men! (Thus ends thy moral tale,) Your darkest terrors may be vain, Your brightest hopes may fail.

Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner? How do you this blae eastlin 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 Johnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling, An’ Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled, An’ meikle Greek an’ Latin mangled, Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d, And in the depth of science mir’d, To common sense they now appeal, What wives and wabsters see and feel. But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly, Peruse them, an’ return them quickly: For now I’m grown sae cursed douce I pray and ponder butt the house; My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’, Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an’ Boston, Till by an’ by, if I haud on, I’ll grunt a real gospel-groan: Already I begin to try it, To cast my e’en 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 an’ a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an’ wale of honest men: When bending down wi’ auld grey hairs Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An’ views beyond the grave comfort him; His worthy fam’ly far and near, God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, Preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason-billie, And Auchenbay, I wish him joy, If he’s a parent, lass or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-and-forty years thegither! And no forgetting wabster Charlie, I’m tauld he offers very fairly. An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock, Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock! And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy, An’ her kind stars hae airted till her gA 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 civil, But to grant a maidenhead’s the devil. An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, May guardian angels tak a spell, An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell: But first, before you see heaven’s glory, May ye get mony a merry story, Mony a laugh, and mony a drink, And aye eneugh 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, and quat my chanter, Your’s, saint or sinner, Rob the Ranter.

A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock

On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty’s Recovery.

O sing a new song to the Lord, Make, all and every one, A joyful noise, even for the King His restoration.

The sons of Belial in the land Did set their heads together; Come, let us sweep them off, said they, Like an o’erflowing river.

They set their heads together, I say, They set their heads together; On right, on left, on every hand, We saw none to deliver.

Thou madest strong two chosen ones To quell the Wicked’s pride; That Young Man, great in Issachar, The burden-bearing tribe.

And him, among the Princes chief In our Jerusalem, The judge that’s mighty in thy law, The man that fears thy name.

Yet they, even they, with all their strength, Began to faint and fail: Even as two howling, ravenous wolves To dogs do turn their tail.

Th’ ungodly o’er the just prevail’d, For so thou hadst appointed; That thou might’st greater glory give Unto thine own anointed.

And now thou hast restored our State, Pity our Kirk also; For she by tribulations Is now brought very low.

Consume that high-place, Patronage, From off thy holy hill; And in thy fury burn the book— Even of that man M’Gill.^1

Now hear our prayer, accept our song, And fight thy chosen’s battle: We seek but little, Lord, from thee, Thou kens we get as little.

[Footnote 1: Dr. William M’Gill of Ayr, whose “Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ” led to a charge of heresy against him. Burns took up his cause in “The Kirk of Scotland’s Alarm” (p. 351).—Lang.]

Sketch In Verse

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 just lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, No man with the half of ’em e’er could go wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of ’em e’er could go right; A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, For using thy name, offers fifty excuses. Good Lord, 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, That, like th’ old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours: 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 called 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.

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse Whose rhymes you’ll perhaps, Sir, ne’er deign to peruse: Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels? My much-honour’d Patron, believe your poor poet, Your courage, much more than your prudence, you show it: In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle: He’ll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle: Not cabinets even of kings would conceal ’em, He’d up the back stairs, and by God, he would steal ’em, Then feats like Squire Billy’s you ne’er can achieve ’em; It is not, out-do him—the task is, out-thieve him!

The Wounded Hare

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 wand’rer of the wood and field! The bitter little that of life remains: No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee a 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 thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Perhaps a mother’s anguish adds its woe; The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide That life a mother only can bestow!

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 ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

Delia, An Ode

“To the Editor of The Star.—Mr. Printer—If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from—Yours, &c., R. Burns.

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.”

Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op’ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty shows.

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 streamlet’s limpid lapse To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip.

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; O let me steal one liquid kiss, For Oh! my soul is parch’d with love.

The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle

Tune—“The Gardener’s March.”

When rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours, The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

The crystal waters gently fa’, The merry bards are lovers a’, The scented breezes round him blaw— The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare; Then thro’ the dews he maun repair— The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, He flies to her arms he lo’es the best, The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

On A Bank Of Flowers

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the wood, Who for her favour oft had sued; He gaz’d, he wish’d He fear’d, he blush’d, And trembled where he stood.

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath’d, Were seal’d in soft repose; Her lip, still as she fragrant breath’d, It richer dyed the rose; The springing lilies, sweetly prest, Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast; He gaz’d, he wish’d, He mear’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 grace; Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; He gaz’d, 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.

Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad

Young Jockie was the blythest lad, In a’ our town or here awa; Fu’ blythe he whistled at the gaud, Fu’ lightly danc’d he in the ha’.

He roos’d my een sae bonie blue, He roos’d my waist sae genty sma’; An’ aye my heart cam to my mou’, When ne’er a body heard or saw.

My Jockie toils upon the plain, Thro’ wind and weet, thro’ frost and snaw: And o’er the lea I leuk fu’ fain, When Jockie’s owsen hameward ca’.

An’ aye the night comes round again, When in his arms he taks me a’; An’ aye he vows he’ll be my ain, As lang’s he has a breath to draw.

The Banks Of Nith

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith to me, Where Comyns 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 ever, ever keep me here!

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom; And sweetly spread thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton through the broom. Tho’ wandering now must be my doom, Far from thy bonie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days!

Jamie, Come Try Me

Chorus.—Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me, If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.

If thou should ask my love, Could I deny thee? If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me! Jamie, come try me, &c.

If thou should kiss me, love, Wha could espy thee? If thou wad be my love, Jamie, come try me! Jamie, come try me, &c.

I Love My Love In Secret

My Sandy gied to me a ring, Was a’ beset wi’ diamonds fine; But I gied him a far better thing, I gied my heart in pledge o’ his ring.

Chorus.—My Sandy O, my Sandy O, My bonie, bonie Sandy O; Tho’ the love that I owe To thee I dare na show, Yet I love my love in secret, my Sandy O.

My Sandy brak a piece o’ gowd, While down his cheeks the saut tears row’d; He took a hauf, and gied it to me, And I’ll keep it till the hour I die. My Sand O, &c.

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar

O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? O 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, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money, I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly; But sae that thou’lt hae me for better for waur, And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar.

The Captain’s Lady

Chorus.—O mount and go, mount and make you ready, O mount and go, and be the Captain’s lady.

When the drums do beat, and the cannons rattle, Thou shalt sit in state, and see thy love in battle: When the drums do beat, and the cannons rattle, Thou shalt sit in state, and see thy love in battle. O mount and go, &c.

When the vanquish’d foe sues for peace and quiet, To the shades we’ll go, and in love enjoy it: When the vanquish’d foe sues for peace and quiet, To the shades we’ll go, and in love enjoy it. O mount and go, &c.

John Anderson, My Jo

John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a cantie day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we’ll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

My Love, She’s But A Lassie Yet

My love, she’s but a lassie yet, My love, she’s but a lassie yet; We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet; I rue the day I sought her, O! I rue the day I sought her, O! Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d, But he may say he’s bought her, O.

Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet, Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet, Gae seek for pleasure whare you will, But here I never miss’d it yet, We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t, We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t; The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife; He could na preach for thinkin o’t.

Song—Tam Glen

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len’, To anger them a’ is a pity, But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?

I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen!

There’s Lowrie the Laird o’ Dumeller— “Gude 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’d gie me gude hunder marks ten; But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen!

Yestreen at the Valentine’s dealing, My heart to my mou’ gied a sten’; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written “Tam Glen”!

The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, His likeness came up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen!

Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry; I’ll gie ye my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.

Carle, An The King Come

Chorus.—Carle, an the King come, Carle, an the King come, Thou shalt dance and I will sing, Carle, an the King come.

An somebody were come again, Then somebody maun cross the main, And every man shall hae his ain, Carle, an the King come. Carle, an the King come, &c.

I trow we swapped for the worse, We gae the boot and better horse; And that we’ll tell them at the cross, Carle, an the King come. Carle, an the King come, &c.

Coggie, an the King come, Coggie, an the King come, I’se be fou, and thou’se be toom Coggie, an the King come. Coggie, an the King come, &c.

The Laddie’s Dear Sel’

There’s a youth in this city, it were a great pity That he from our lassies should wander awa’; For he’s bonie and braw, weel-favor’d witha’, An’ his hair has a natural buckle an’ a’.

His coat is the hue o’ 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-featur’d, weel-tocher’d, weel-mounted an’ 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, wha’s daddie was laird o’ the Ha’; There’s lang-tocher’d Nancy maist fetters his fancy, —But the laddie’s dear sel’, he loes dearest of a’.

Whistle O’er The Lave O’t

First when Maggie was my care, Heav’n, I thought, was in her air, Now we’re married—speir nae mair, But whistle o’er the lave o’t!

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Sweet and harmless as a child— Wiser men than me’s beguil’d; Whistle o’er 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 o’er the lave o’t!

Wha I wish were maggot’s meat, Dish’d up in her winding-sheet, I could write—but Meg maun see’t— Whistle o’er the lave o’t!

My Eppie Adair

Chorus.—An’ O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie, Wha wad na be happy wi’ Eppie Adair?

By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty, I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair! By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty, I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair! And O my Eppie, &c.

A’ pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me, If e’er I beguile ye, my Eppie Adair! A’ pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me, If e’er I beguile thee, my Eppie Adair! And O my Eppie, &c.

On The Late Captain Grose’s Peregrinations Thro’ Scotland

Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom

Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;— If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, I rede you tent it: A chield’s amang you takin 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, mark weel; And wow! he has an unco sleight O’ cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-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, Lord save’s! colleaguin At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer, 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 bitches.