Part 10

‘In poverty’s low barren vale, Thick mists obscure involv’d me round; Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye, No ray of fame was to be found: Thou found’st me, like the morning sun That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.

‘O why has worth so short a date While villains ripen grey with time? Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great, Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime? Why did I live to see that day, A day to me so full of woe? O had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low!

‘The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn, And a’ that thou hast done for me!’

A 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 formèd 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 loath 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 path 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, And 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 powers to be, To rule their torrent in th’ allowèd line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

A BARD’S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear, Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain’d his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know prudent cautious self-control Is wisdom’s root.

THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, But nature sickened on the e’e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel in beauty’s bloom the whyle, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, ‘Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle!

‘Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel, the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!’

AY WAUKIN, O

Simmer’s a pleasant time, Flow’rs of ev’ry colour; The water rins o’er the heugh, And I long for my true lover.

Ay waukin, O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I’m eerie; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

Lanely night comes on, A’ the lave are sleepin’, I think on my bonnie lad, And I bleer my een wi’ greetin’.

Ay waukin, O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

IN EVIL DAYS

(FROM A LETTER TO GRAHAM OF FINTRY, 1791)

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. Oh! 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!

THE POETIC DAYSPRING

(FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER)

I mind it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh, An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn,— When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon’d was, And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, Wearing the day awa,—

Ev’n then a wish (I mind its power!) A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast; That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake, Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, An’ spar’d the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e’er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o’ sang In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, Wild floated in my brain; Till on that hairst I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous’d the forming strain: I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een, That gart my heart-strings tingle; I firèd, inspirèd, At ev’ry kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I fearèd aye to speak....

SCOTS WHA HAE

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour! See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s King and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? Let him follow me!

By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do or die!

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that; The rank is but the guinea stamp; The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What tho’ on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a’ that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, and a’ that; The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is King o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a’ that: For a’ that, and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a’ that; That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, It’s coming yet, for a’ that, That man to man the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that.

HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa’!

It’s guid to be merry and wise, It’s guid to be honest and true, It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.

May liberty meet wi’ success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug o’ the law!

Here’s freedom to him that wad read, Here’s freedom to him that wad write! There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s Chieftain M’Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd, Tho’ bred among mountains o’ snaw!

DOES HAUGHTY GAUL

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir, There’s wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!

O let us not like snarling tykes In wrangling be divided, Till, slap! come in an unco loon And wi’ a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted!

The kettle o’ the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. Our father’s blude the kettle bought, An’ wha wad dare to spoil it? By heavens! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, Who’d set the mob aboon the throne,— May they be damned together! Who will not sing _God save the King_! Shall hang as high’s the steeple; But while we sing _God save the King_! We’ll not forget the people!

AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min’? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i’ the burn, From morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar’d Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie’s a hand o’ thine; And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp, And surely I’ll be mine; And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

Longer Poems

THE TWA DOGS

’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle, That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearin’ through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame, Forgather’d ance upon a time.

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for his Honour’s pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His lockèd, letter’d, braw brass collar, Shew’d him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent ane hour caressin’ E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messan: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie, But he wad stand as glad to see him, An’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.

The tither was a ploughman’s collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie; Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland sang, Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke; His honest, sonsie, bawsent face Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his tousie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack and thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit; Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, And worried ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords of the creation.

CAESAR

I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava. Our Laird gets in his rackèd rents, His coals, his kain, and a’ his stents; He rises when he likes himsel’; His flunkies answer at the bell: He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonny silken purse As lang’s my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow-letter’d Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; And though the gentry first are stechin’, Yet e’en the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner! Poor worthless elf! it eats a dinner Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a’ the lan’; An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension.

LUATH

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh; A cottar howkin’ in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddy weans, And nought but his han’-darg to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer And they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger; But how it comes I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CAESAR

But then, to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit, Lord, man! our gentry care sae little For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk As I wad by a stinking brock. I’ve noticed, on our Laird’s court-day, An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash, How they maun thole a factor’s snash; He’ll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear: While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

LUATH

They’re no’ sae wretched’s ane wad think, Though constantly on poortith’s brink: They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, The view o’t gi’es them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They’re aye in less or mair provided; An’ though fatigued wi’ close employment, A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o’ their lives, Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a’ their fireside. And whyles twalpenny-worth o’ nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests, Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation’s comin’, And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns They get the jovial rantin’ kirns, When rural life o’ every station Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth. That merry day the year begins They bar the door on frosty win’s; The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, And sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin’ pipe and sneeshin’-mill Are handed round wi’ right gude-will; The canty auld folk crackin’ crouse, The young anes ranting through the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them. Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play’d. There’s mony a creditable stock O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root and branch Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin’, For Britain’s gude his saul indentin—

CAESAR

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain’s gude!—guid faith! I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, And saying ay or no’s they bid him! At operas and plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading. Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais taks a waft, To make a tour, an’ tak a whirl, To learn _bon ton_ an’ see the worl’. There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father’s auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars and fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles; Then bouses drumly German water, To make himsel’ look fair and fatter, And clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain’s gude!—for her destruction! Wi’ dissipation, feud, and faction!

LUATH

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten and harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themselves wi’ country sports, It wad for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies, Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows: Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer, Or speaking lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin’ o’ a hare or moor-cock, The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me, Master Caesar? Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure; Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, The very thought o’t needna fear them.

CAESAR

Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em, It’s true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro’ winter’s cauld or simmer’s heat; They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a’ their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves to vex them, An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country lassie at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she’s unco weel; But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, Wi’ ev’ndown want o’ wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; Though de’il haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull and tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless. And e’en their sports, their balls, and races, Their galloping through public places— There’s sic parade, sic pomp and art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a’ in deep debauches: Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink and whoring, Neist day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters, As great and gracious a’ as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run de’ils and jads thegither. Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks, Pore owre the devil’s picture beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard, And cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard. There’s some exception, man and woman; But this is gentry’s life in common.