Chapter 22

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? I ken’d it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you aye 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 tauld myself by word o’ mouth, He’d tak my letter; 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 this theologic care on, And holy study; And tired o’ sauls to waste his lear on, E’en tried the body.

But what d’ye think, my trusty fere, I’m turned a gauger—Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye’ll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies; They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— I need na vaunt But I’ll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! I’m weary sick o’t late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a’ men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whiles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme (I’m scant o’ verse and scant o’ time), To make a happy fireside 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 Lucky; I wat she is a daintie chuckie, As e’er tread clay; And gratefully, my gude auld cockie, I’m yours for aye. Robert Burns.

The Five Carlins

An Election Ballad.

Tune—“Chevy Chase.”

There was five Carlins in the South, They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame.

Nor only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands there, And aiblins gowd and honor baith Might be that laddie’s share.

There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith, A dame wi’ pride eneugh; And Marjory o’ the mony Lochs, A Carlin auld and teugh.

And blinkin Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-side; And whisky Jean, that took her gill, In Galloway sae wide.

And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel,^1 O’ gipsy kith an’ kin; Five wighter Carlins were na found The South countrie within.

To send a lad to London town, They met upon a day; And mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae.

O mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae; But nae ane could their fancy please, O ne’er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted Knight, Bred of a Border band;^2 And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weel, And meikle he wad say; And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him gude-day.

[Footnote 1: Sanquhar.]

[Footnote 2: Sir James Johnston of Westerhall.]

The neist cam in a Soger youth,^3 Who spak wi’ modest grace, And he wad gae to London town, If sae their pleasure was.

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, Nor meikle speech pretend; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne’er desert his friend.

Now, wham to chuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir Carlins fell; For some had Gentlefolks to please, And some wad please themsel’.

Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith, And she spak up wi’ pride, And she wad send the Soger youth, Whatever might betide.

For the auld Gudeman o’ London court^4 She didna care a pin; But she wad send the Soger youth, To greet his eldest son.^5

Then up sprang Bess o’ Annandale, And a deadly aith she’s ta’en, That she wad vote the Border Knight, Though she should vote her lane.

“For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, And fools o’ change are fain; But I hae tried the Border Knight, And I’ll try him yet again.”

Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, A Carlin stoor and grim. “The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman, For me may sink or swim;

[Footnote 3: Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton.]

[Footnote 4: The King.]

[Footnote 5: The Prince of Wales.]

For fools will prate o’ right or wrang, While knaves laugh them to scorn; But the Soger’s friends hae blawn the best, So he shall bear the horn.”

Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink, “Ye weel ken, kimmers a’, The auld gudeman o’ London court, His back’s been at the wa’;

“And mony a friend that kiss’d his caup Is now a fremit wight; But it’s ne’er be said o’ whisky Jean— We’ll send the Border Knight.”

Then slow raise Marjory o’ the Lochs, And wrinkled was her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scots bluid was true;

“There’s some great folk set light by me, I set as light by them; But I will send to London town Wham I like best at hame.”

Sae how this mighty plea may end, Nae mortal wight can tell; God grant the King and ilka man May look weel to himsel.

Election Ballad For Westerha’

Tune—“Up and waur them a’, Willie.”

The Laddies by the banks o’ Nith Wad trust his Grace^1 wi a’, Jamie; But he’ll sair them, as he sair’d the King— Turn tail and rin awa’, Jamie.

[Footnote 1: The fourth Duke of Queensberry, who supported the proposal that, during George III’s illness, the Prince of Wales should assume the Government with full prerogative.]

Chorus.—Up and waur them a’, Jamie, Up and waur them a’; The Johnstones hae the guidin o’t, Ye turncoat Whigs, awa’!

The day he stude his country’s friend, Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie, Or frae puir man a blessin wan, That day the Duke ne’er saw, Jamie. Up and waur them, &c.

But wha is he, his country’s boast? Like him there is na twa, Jamie; There’s no a callent tents the kye, But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie. Up and waur them, &c.

To end the wark, here’s Whistlebirk, Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; And Maxwell true, o’ sterling blue; And we’ll be Johnstones a’, Jamie. Up and waur them, &c.

Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries

On New Year’s Day Evening, 1790.

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity: Tho’ by the bye, 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 ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, Said—“Sutherland, in one word, bid them Think!”

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush 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 foreclock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care! To you old Bald-pate smoothes 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 truly feel it.

1790

Sketch—New Year’s Day [1790]

To Mrs. 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, Will you (the Major’s with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila’s fair Rachel’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 a-moralizing; This day’s propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver? “Another year has gone for ever.” And what is this day’s strong suggestion? “The passing moment’s all we rest on!” Rest on—for what? what do we here? Or why regard the passing year? Will Time, amus’d 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? 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 his frail, uncertain state, Hang matters 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 woeful 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 who 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.

Scots’ Prologue For Mr. Sutherland

On his Benefit-Night, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

What needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on, How this new play an’ that new sang is comin? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? For Comedy abroad he need to toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece, To gather matter for a serious piece; There’s themes enow in Caledonian story, Would shew the Tragic Muse in a’ her glory.—

Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the Muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce? How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword ’Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord; And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of Ruin! O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms ’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms: She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut that direst foe—a vengeful woman; A woman, (tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil,) As able and as wicked as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page, But Douglasses were heroes every age: And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife, Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land Would take the Muses’ servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where he justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best! Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caition, Ye’ll soon hae Poets o’ the Scottish nation Will gar Fame blaw 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 maks a’ this bustle here?” My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow— We have the honour to belong to you! We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like, But like good mithers shore before ye strike; And gratefu’ still, I trust ye’ll ever find us, For gen’rous 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.

Lines To A Gentleman,

Who had sent the Poet a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense.

Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper through, And faith, to me, ’twas really new! How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin; 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 kept up the game; How royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him! Was managing St. Stephen’s quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hasting’s neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d. Or if bare arses yet were tax’d; The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshing still at hizzies’ tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser: A’ this and mair I never heard of; And, but for you, I might despair’d of. So, gratefu’, back your news I send you, And pray a’ gude things may attend you.

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

Elegy On Willie Nicol’s Mare

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trod on airn; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o’ Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An’ rode thro’ thick and thin; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest; But now she’s floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An’ the priest he rode her sair; And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was, As priest-rid cattle are,—&c. &c.

The Gowden Locks Of Anna

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 naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, take the East and West Frae Indus to Savannah; Gie me, within my straining grasp, The melting form of Anna:

There I’ll despise Imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take wi’ Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting God of Day! Awa, thou pale Diana! Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I’m to meet my Anna!

Come, in thy raven plumage, Night, (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a’;) And bring an angel-pen to write My transports with my Anna!

Postscript

The Kirk an’ State may join an’ tell, To do sic things I maunna: The Kirk an’ State may gae to hell, And I’ll gae to my Anna.

She is the sunshine o’ my e’e, To live but her I canna; Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna.

Song—I Murder Hate

I murder hate by flood or field, Tho’ glory’s name may screen us; In wars at home I’ll spend my blood— Life-giving wars of Venus. The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty; I’m better pleas’d to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.

I would not die like Socrates, For all the fuss of Plato; Nor would I with Leonidas, Nor yet would I with Cato: The zealots of the Church and State Shall ne’er my mortal foes be; But let me have bold Zimri’s fate, Within the arms of Cozbi!

Gudewife, Count The Lawin

Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night, But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light; Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon, And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun.

Chorus.—Then 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 simple 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 it a’, ye’ll find him out. Then gudewife, &c.

Election Ballad

At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790.

Addressed to R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry.

Fintry, my stay in wordly strife, Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, Are ye as idle’s I am? Come then, wi’ uncouth kintra fleg, O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him.

But where shall I go rin a ride, That I may splatter nane beside? I wad na be uncivil: In manhood’s various paths and ways There’s aye some doytin’ body strays, And I ride like the devil.

Thus I break aff wi’ a’ my birr, And down yon dark, deep alley spur, Where Theologics daunder: Alas! curst wi’ eternal fogs, And damn’d in everlasting bogs, As sure’s the creed I’ll blunder!

I’ll stain a band, or jaup a gown, Or rin my reckless, guilty crown Against the haly door: Sair do I rue my luckless fate, When, as the Muse an’ Deil wad hae’t, I rade that road before.

Suppose I take a spurt, and mix Amang the wilds o’ Politics— Electors and elected, Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!) Septennially a madness touches, Till all the land’s infected.

All hail! Drumlanrig’s haughty Grace, Discarded remnant of a race Once godlike—great in story; Thy forbears’ virtues all contrasted, The very name of Douglas blasted, Thine that inverted glory!

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore, But thou hast superadded more, And sunk them in contempt; Follies and crimes have stain’d the name, But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, From aught that’s good exempt!

I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes, and their darlings: And, bent on winning borough touns, Came shaking hands wi’ wabster-loons, And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode, Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions; As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl’d, And Westerha’ and Hopetoun hurled To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star, Besides, he hated bleeding: But left behind him heroes bright, Heroes in Caesarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading.

O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, To muster o’er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig’s banners; Heroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics, To win immortal honours.

M’Murdo and his lovely spouse, (Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the Loves and Graces: She won each gaping burgess’ heart, While he, sub rosa, played his part Amang their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch led a light-arm’d core, Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder: Glenriddel, skill’d in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory’s dark designs, And bared the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought; Redoubted Staig, who set at nought The wildest savage Tory; And Welsh who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground, High-wav’d his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation! While Maxwelton, that baron bold, ’Mid Lawson’s port entrench’d his hold, And threaten’d worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos’d With these what Tory warriors clos’d Surpasses my descriving; Squadrons, extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like furious devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody Fate, Amid this mighty tulyie! Grim Horror girn’d, pale Terror roar’d, As Murder at his thrapple shor’d, And Hell mix’d in the brulyie.

As Highland craigs by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle; As flames among a hundred woods, As headlong foam from a hundred floods, Such is the rage of Battle.

The stubborn Tories dare to die; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before th’ approaching fellers: The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring: The muffled murtherer of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls, All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame; Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham; Auld Covenanters shiver— Forgive! forgive! much-wrong’d Montrose! Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes, Thou liv’st on high for ever.

Still o’er the field the combat burns, The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But Fate the word has spoken: For woman’s wit and strength o’man, Alas! can do but what they can; The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns! My voice, a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs’ undoing! That I might greet, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James, Dear to his country, by the names, Friend, Patron, Benefactor! Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save; And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave; And Stewart, bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow, And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, And Melville melt in wailing: Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice, And Burke shall sing, “O Prince, arise! Thy power is all-prevailing!”

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar He only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely! So, when the storm the forest rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely.