Chapter 3

They flourish like the morning flow’r, In beauty’s pride array’d; But long ere night cut down it lies All wither’d and decay’d.

Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong; And list’ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do Thou, All-Good—for such Thou art— In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and Goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

Stanzas, On The Same Occasion

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between— Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms, Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms: I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul offence,” Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue’s way; Again in folly’s part might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan? Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me, Those headlong furious passions to confine, For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be, To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

1782

Fickle Fortune: A Fragment

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, She pormis’d fair and perform’d but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.

I’ll act with prudence as far ’s I’m able, But if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

Raging Fortune—Fragment Of Song

O raging Fortune’s withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O! O raging Fortune’s withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O!

My stem was fair, my bud was green, My blossom sweet did blow, O! The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, And made my branches grow, O!

But luckless Fortune’s northern storms Laid a’ my blossoms low, O! But luckless Fortune’s northern storms Laid a’ my blossoms low, O!

Impromptu—“I’ll Go And Be A Sodger”

O why the deuce should I repine, And be an ill foreboder? I’m twenty-three, and five feet nine, I’ll go and be a sodger!

I gat some gear wi’ mickle care, I held it weel thegither; But now it’s gane, and something mair— I’ll go and be a sodger!

Song—“No Churchman Am I”

Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.”

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business contriving a snare, For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.

The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you the Crown how it waves in the air? There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; for sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck; But the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

“Life’s cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down By the Bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown; And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair, For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.

A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge

Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May ev’ry true Brother of the Compass and Square Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.

My Father Was A Farmer

Tune—“The weaver and his shuttle, O.”

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O; For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O; Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O; My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O: Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O; Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O; The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O; To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O: No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O; I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O, Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O: I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O: But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O, Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O; Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O: But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O: Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

John Barleycorn: A Ballad

There was three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And show’rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter’d mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell’d him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turned him o’er and o’er.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear’d, They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller us’d him worst of all, For he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart’s blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, ’Twill make your courage rise.

’Twill make a man forget his woe; ’Twill heighten all his joy; ’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, Tho’ the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

1783

Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie, The Author’s Only Pet Yowe., The

An Unco Mournfu’ Tale

As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither, Was ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc he cam doytin by.

Wi’ glowrin een, and lifted han’s Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it! He gaped wide, but naething spak, At langth poor Mailie silence brak.

“O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu’ case! My dying words attentive hear, An’ bear them to my Master dear.

“Tell him, if e’er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep— O, bid him never tie them mair, Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair! But ca’ them out to park or hill, An’ let them wander at their will: So may his flock increase, an’ grow To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’!

“Tell him, he was a Master kin’, An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine; An’ now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.

“O, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butcher’s knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel’; An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.

“An’ may they never learn the gaets, Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ pets— To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail! So may they, like their great forbears, For mony a year come thro the shears: So wives will gie them bits o’ bread, An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.

“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir, O, bid him breed him up wi’ care! An’ if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast!

“An’ warn him—what I winna name— To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

“An’ neist, my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne’er forgather up, Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop; But aye keep mind to moop an’ mell, Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel’!

“And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath, I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith: An’ when you think upo’ your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither.

“Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, To tell my master a’ my tale; An’ bid him burn this cursed tether, An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.”

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, And clos’d her een amang the dead!

Poor Mailie’s Elegy

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie’s fate is at a close, Past a’ remead! The last, sad cape-stane o’ his woes; Poor Mailie’s dead!

It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He’s lost a friend an’ neebor dear In Mailie dead.

Thro’ a’ the town she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi’ speed: A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o’ sense, An’ could behave hersel’ wi’ mense: I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence, Thro’ thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin’ Mailie’s dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe, For bits o’ bread; An’ down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o’ moorland tips, Wi’ tauted ket, an’ hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships, Frae ’yont the Tweed. A bonier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips Than Mailie’s dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing—a raip! It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape, Wi’ chokin dread; An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape For Mailie dead.

O, a’ ye bards on bonie Doon! An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O’ Robin’s reed! His heart will never get aboon— His Mailie’s dead!

Song—The Rigs O’ Barley

Tune—“Corn Rigs are bonie.”

It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light, I held awa to Annie; The time flew by, wi’ tentless heed, Till, ’tween the late and early, Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed To see me thro’ the barley.

Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, An’ corn rigs are bonie: I’ll ne’er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.

The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down, wi’ right good will, Amang the rigs o’ barley: I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain; I lov’d her most sincerely;

I kiss’d her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o’ barley. Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.

I lock’d her in my fond embrace; Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o’ barley! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly! She aye shall bless that happy night Amang the rigs o’ barley. Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.

I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear; I hae been merry drinking; I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin gear; I hae been happy thinking: But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly, That happy night was worth them a’, Amang the rigs o’ barley. Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.

Song Composed In August

Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

Now westlin winds and slaught’ring guns Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells, The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, The soaring hern the fountains: Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine, Some solitary wander: Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man’s dominion; The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry, The flutt’ring, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow, The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of Nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And ev’ry happy creature.

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs, Not Autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!

Song

Tune—“My Nanie, O.”

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, ’Mang moors an’ mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos’d, And I’ll awa to Nanie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shill; The night’s baith mirk and rainy, O; But I’ll get my plaid an’ out I’ll steal, An’ owre the hill to Nanie, O.

My Nanie’s charming, sweet, an’ young; Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa’ the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nanie, O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true; As spotless as she’s bonie, O: The op’ning gowan, wat wi’ dew, Nae purer is than Nanie, O.

A country lad is my degree, An’ few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be, I’m welcome aye to Nanie, O.

My riches a’s my penny-fee, An’ I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me, My thoughts are a’ my Nanie, O.

Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an’ kye thrive bonie, O; But I’m as blythe that hands his pleugh, An’ has nae care but Nanie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by; I’ll tak what Heav’n will sen’ me, O: Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an’ love my Nanie, O.

Song—Green Grow The Rashes

A Fragment

Chor.—Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O.

There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’, In ev’ry hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, &c.

The war’ly race may riches chase, An’ riches still may fly them, O; An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O. Green grow, &c.

But gie me a cannie hour at e’en, My arms about my dearie, O; An’ war’ly cares, an’ war’ly men, May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O! Green grow, &c.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw, He dearly lov’d the lasses, O. Green grow, &c.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: Her prentice han’ she try’d on man, An’ then she made the lasses, O. Green grow, &c.

Song—Wha Is That At My Bower-Door

Tune—“Lass, an I come near thee.”

“Wha is that at my bower-door?” “O wha is it but Findlay!” “Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be here:” “Indeed maun I,” quo’ Findlay; “What mak’ ye, sae like a thief?” “O come and see,” quo’ Findlay; “Before the morn ye’ll work mischief:” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.

“Gif I rise and let you in”— “Let me in,” quo’ Findlay; “Ye’ll keep me waukin wi’ your din;” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay; “In my bower if ye should stay”— “Let me stay,” quo’ Findlay; “I fear ye’ll bide till break o’ day;” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.

“Here this night if ye remain”— “I’ll remain,” quo’ Findlay; “I dread ye’ll learn the gate again;” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay. “What may pass within this bower”— “Let it pass,” quo’ Findlay; “Ye maun conceal till your last hour:” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.

1784

Remorse: A Fragment

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish Beyond comparison the worst are those By our own folly, or our guilt brought on: In ev’ry other circumstance, the mind Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:” But, when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!” Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse, The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— Of guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involved others, The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us; Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin! O burning hell! in all thy store of torments There’s not a keener lash! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? O happy, happy, enviable man! O glorious magnanimity of soul!

Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton

Here Souter Hood in death does sleep; To hell if he’s gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep; He’ll haud it weel thegither.

Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton

Here lies Boghead amang the dead In hopes to get salvation; But if such as he in Heav’n may be, Then welcome, hail! damnation.

Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father’s Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill

An honest man here lies at rest As e’er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of truth, The friend of age, and guide of youth: Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d, Few heads with knowledge so informed: If there’s another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.

Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev’rence, and attend! Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains, The tender father, and the gen’rous friend; The pitying heart that felt for human woe, The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride; The friend of man—to vice alone a foe; For “ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.”^1

[Footnote 1: Goldsmith.—R.B.]

Ballad On The American War

Tune—“Killiecrankie.”

When Guilford good our pilot stood An’ did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man: Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An’ did nae less, in full congress, Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man; Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca’, man: But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa’, man, Wi’ sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en’mies a’, man.

Poor Tammy Gage within a cage Was kept at Boston—ha’, man; Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe For Philadelphia, man; Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin Guid Christian bluid to draw, man; But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork, Sir-Loin he hacked sma’, man.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip, Till Fraser brave did fa’, man; Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought, An’ did the Buckskins claw, man; But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa’, man.