Chapter 25

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow; There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Address To The Shade Of Thomson

On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays.

While virgin Spring by Eden’s flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between.

While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade.

While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed.

While maniac Winter rages o’er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows.

So long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

Nithsdale’s Welcome Hame

The noble Maxwells and their powers Are coming o’er the border, And they’ll gae big Terreagles’ towers And set them a’ in order. And they declare Terreagles fair, For their abode they choose it; There’s no a heart in a’ the land But’s lighter at the news o’t.

Tho’ stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather: The weary night o’ care and grief May hae a joyfu’ morrow; so dawning day has brought relief, Fareweel our night o’ sorrow.

Frae The Friends And Land I Love

Tune—“Carron Side.”

Frae the friends and land I love, Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite; Frae my best belov’d I rove, Never mair to taste delight: Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care; When Remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair.

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore, Till Revenge, wi’ laurel’d head, Bring our banished hame again; And ilk loyal, bonie lad Cross the seas, and win his ain.

Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation

Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name, Sae fam’d in martial story. Now Sark rins over Solway sands, An’ Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England’s province stands— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue, Thro’ many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitor’s wages. The English stell we could disdain, Secure in valour’s station; But English gold has been our bane— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O would, or I had seen the day That Treason thus could sell us, My auld grey head had lien in clay, Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour, I’ll mak this declaration; We’re bought and sold for English gold— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

Ye Jacobites By Name

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.

What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right and what is Wrang by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang? A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? What makes heroic strife famed afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th’ assassin’s knife, Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war?

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state, Then let your schemes alone in the state. Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone, to his fate.

I Hae Been At Crookieden

I Hae been at Crookieden, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Viewing Willie and his men, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. There our foes that burnt and slew, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, There, at last, they gat their due, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

Satan sits in his black neuk, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, The bloody monster gae a yell, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. And loud the laugh gied round a’ hell My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie

O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, O Kenmure’s on and awa: An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! Success to Kenmure’s band! There’s no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by kenmure’s hand.

Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie! Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! There’s ne’er a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line.

O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie, O Kenmure’s lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their foes shall ken.

They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie; They’ll live or die wi’ fame; But sune, wi’ sounding victorie, May Kenmure’s lord come hame!

Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! Here’s him that’s far awa! And here’s the flower that I loe best, The rose that’s like the snaw.

Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty

On His Birthday.

Health to the Maxwell’s veteran Chief! Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief: Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf, This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o’ prief, Scarce quite half-worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second-sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o’ seven times seven Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow, May Desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stour.

But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men, and lassies bonie, May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi’ mornings blythe, and e’enings funny, Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, And then the deil, he daurna steer ye: Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye; For me, shame fa’ me, If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, While Burns they ca’ me.

Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of Fintry

5th October 1791.

Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest (Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest); Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail? (It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale) And hear him curse the light he first survey’d, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain; The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground; Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell; Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell; Thy minions kings defend, control, devour, In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power; Foxes and statesmen subtile wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug; Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes—her dreaded spear and darts.

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—the Bard! A thing unteachable in world’s skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still: No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not, Amalthea’s horn: No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur, Clad in rich Dulness’ comfortable fur; In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th’ unbroken blast from ev’ry side: Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics—appall’d, I venture on the name; Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads’ daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear; Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounders on thro’ life: Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d, And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injur’d page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen’rous steed deceas’d, For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch’s son.

O Dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder “some folks” do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointments snaps the clue of hope, And thro’ disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that “fools are fortune’s care.” So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav’n, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost— Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust (Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears); O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown, And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

The Song Of Death

Tune—“Oran an aoig.”

Scene—A Field of Battle. Time of the day—evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song.

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the broad setting sun; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run! Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life’s gloomy foe! Go, frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik’st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name; Thou strik’st the young hero—a glorious mark; He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the field of proud honour—our swords in our hands, Our King and our country to save; While victory shines on Life’s last ebbing sands,— O! who would not die with the brave!

Poem On Sensibility

Sensibility, how charming, Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell; But distress, with horrors arming, Thou alas! hast known too well!

Fairest flower, behold the lily Blooming in the sunny ray: Let the blast sweep o’er the valley, See it prostrate in the clay.

Hear the wood lark charm the forest, Telling o’er his little joys; But alas! a prey the surest To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure Finer feelings can bestow: Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

The Toadeater

Of Lordly acquaintance you boast, And the Dukes that you dined wi’ yestreen, Yet an insect’s an insect at most, Tho’ it crawl on the curl of a Queen!

Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington

As cauld a wind as ever blew, A cauld kirk, an in’t but few: As cauld a minister’s e’er spak; Ye’se a’ be het e’er I come back.

The Keekin’-Glass

How daur ye ca’ me howlet-face, Ye blear-e’ed, withered spectre? Ye only spied the keekin’-glass, An’ there ye saw your picture.

A Grace Before Dinner, Extempore

O thou who kindly dost provide For every creature’s want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, For all Thy goodness lent: And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But, whether granted, or denied, Lord, bless us with content. Amen!

A Grace After Dinner, Extempore

O thou, in whom we live and move— Who made the sea and shore; Thy goodness constantly we prove, And grateful would adore; And, if it please Thee, Power above! Still grant us, with such store, The friend we trust, the fair we love— And we desire no more. Amen!

O May, Thy Morn

O may, thy morn was ne’er so sweet As the mirk night o’ December! For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber: And dear was she I dare na name, But I will aye remember: And dear was she I dare na name, But I will aye remember.

And here’s to them that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum! And here’s to them that wish us weel, May a’ that’s guid watch o’er ’em! And here’s to them, we dare na tell, The dearest o’ the quorum! And here’s to them, we dare na tell, The dearest o’ the quorum.

Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever

Tune—“Rory Dall’s Port.”

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweeli alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.

Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive

Behold the hour, the boat, arrive! My dearest Nancy, O fareweel! Severed frae thee, can I survive, Frae thee whom I hae lov’d sae weel?

Endless and deep shall be my grief; LNae ray of comfort shall I see, But this most precious, dear belief, That thou wilt still remember me!

Alang the solitary shore Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I’ll westward turn my wishful eye.

“Happy thou Indian grove,” I’ll say, “Where now my Nancy’s path shall be! While thro’ your sweets she holds her way, O tell me, does she muse on me?”

Thou Gloomy December

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember— Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair!

Fond lovers’ parting is sweet, painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure!

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown; Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Till my last hope and last comfort is gone.

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair.

My Native Land Sae Far Awa

O sad and heavy, should I part, But for her sake, sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa.

Thou that of a’ things Maker art, That formed this Fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start At this my way sae far awa.

How true is love to pure desert! Like mine for her sae far awa; And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart, While, oh, she is sae far awa!

Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but her’s sae far awa; But fairer never touch’d a heart Than her’s, the Fair, sae far awa.

1792

I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair

Alteration of an Old Poem.

I Do confess thou art sae fair, I was been o’er the lugs in luve, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art so thriftless o’ thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue, When pu’d and worn a common toy.

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile; And sune thou shalt be thrown aside, Like ony common weed and vile.

Lines On Fergusson, The Poet

Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson! What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun To shed its influence on thy bright career.

O why should truest Worth and Genius pine Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe, While titled knaves and idiot—Greatness shine In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

The Weary Pund O’ Tow

Chorus.—The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o’ tow; I think my wife will end her life, Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o’ lint, As gude as e’er did grow, And a’ that she has made o’ that Is ae puir pund o’ tow. The weary pund, &c.

There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low; And aye she took the tither souk, To drouk the stourie tow. The weary pund, &c.

Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o’ tow! She took the rock, and wi’ a knock, She brak it o’er my pow. The weary pund, &c.

At last her feet—I sang to see’t! Gaed foremost o’er the knowe, And or I wad anither jad, I’ll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, &c.

When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed

O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, And when she cam’ ben, she kiss’d Cockpen, And syne denied she did it at a’.

And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? In leaving the daughter of a lord, And kissin’ a collier lassie an’ a’!

O never look down, my lassie, at a’, O never look down, my lassie, at a’, Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, As the finest dame in castle or ha’.

Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark, And lady Jean was never sae braw.

Scroggam, My Dearie

There was a wife wonn’d in Cockpen, Scroggam; She brew’d gude ale for gentlemen; Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

The gudewife’s dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam; The priest o’ the parish he fell in anither; Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

They laid the twa i’ the bed thegither, Scroggam; That the heat o’ the tane might cool the tither; Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

My Collier Laddie

“Whare live ye, my bonie lass? And tell me what they ca’ ye;” “My name,” she says, “is mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier laddie.” “My name, she says, &c.

“See you not yon hills and dales The sun shines on sae brawlie; They a’ are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye’ll leave your Collier laddie.” “They a’ are mine, &c.

“Ye shall gang in gay attire, Weel buskit up sae gaudy; And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye’ll leave your Collier laddie.” “And ane to wait, &c.

“Tho’ ye had a’ the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly, I wad turn my back on you and it a’, And embrace my Collier laddie.” “I wad turn my back, &c.

“I can win my five pennies in a day, An’ spen’t at night fu’ brawlie: And make my bed in the collier’s neuk, And lie down wi’ my Collier laddie.” “And make my bed, &c.

“Love for love is the bargain for me, Tho’ the wee cot-house should haud me; and the warld before me to win my bread, And fair fa’ my Collier laddie!” “And the warld before me, &c.

Sic A Wife As Willie Had

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie; Willie was a wabster gude, Could stown a clue wi’ ony body: He had a wife was dour and din, O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e’e, she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller: A whiskin beard about her mou’, Her nose and chin they threaten ither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shin’d, Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: She has a lump upon her breast, The twin o’ that upon her shouther; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin; But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her!

Lady Mary Ann

O lady Mary Ann looks o’er the Castle wa’, She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba’, The youngest he was the flower amang them a’, My bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet.

O father, O father, an ye think it fit, We’ll send him a year to the college yet, We’ll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, And that will let them ken he’s to marry yet.