Part 7

‘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’ butchers’ 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’ teats o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn. ‘An’ may they never learn the gates 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 tup-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 tup; But ay 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 blether.’

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, An’ closed her een amang the dead!

POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears tricklin’ down your nose; Our bardie’s fate is at a close, Past a’ remead; The last sad cape-stane of 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 and neibor dear In Mailie dead.

Thro’ a’ the toun 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 to him, owre the knowe, For bits o’ bread, An’ down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.

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

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile wanchancie thing—a rape! 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 bonnie 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 dead!

THE BARDS OF AYR

TO W. SIMPSON, 1785

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie; Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, An’ unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie, Your flatterin’ strain.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield, The braes o’ fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name.

Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they’re like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain, She’s gotten poets o’ her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur’d style; She lay like some unkenn’d-of isle, Beside New Holland, Or where wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an’ Tweed, to mony a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon, Naebody sings.

Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, Glide sweet in mony a tunefu’ line; But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An’ cock your crest, We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine Up wi’ the best.

We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells, Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells, Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Southron billies.

At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace’ side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious died.

O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro’ the braes the cushat croods Wi’ wailfu’ cry!

Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro’ the naked tree; Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark’ning the day!

O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi’ life an’ light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn’d to wander Adown some trottin’ burn’s meander, An’ no think lang; O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an’ drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive; Let me fair Nature’s face descrive, And I, wi’ pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, ‘my rhyme-composing brither!’ We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes; While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies; While Terra Firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice, In Robert Burns.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: I said there was naething I hated like men— The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.

He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow’d for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean: The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stockèd mailen, himsel’ for the laird, And marriage aff-hand were his proffers: I never loot on that I kend it, or car’d; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care, I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock. I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow’d I was his dear lassie.

I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet— But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’.

He beggèd for Gudesake I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow: So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

I’M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET

I am my mammie’s ae bairn, Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir; And lying in a man’s bed, I’m fley’d wad mak me eerie, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young, I’m owre young to marry yet; I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet.

My mammie coft me a new gown, The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, I’m fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing o’t.

Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir; And you an’ I in ae bed, In troth I dare na venture, Sir.

Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, Sir; But if ye come this gate again, I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young, I’m owre young to marry yet; I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ lan’!

He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang: He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a’ that I can; He’s peevish, and jealous of a’ the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man!

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I’ll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO

My heart was ance as blythe and free As simmer days were lang, But a bonnie westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne’er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.

My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o’t Has gart me sigh and sab.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi’ a net, In every knot and thrum.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And aye I ca’d it roun’; But every shot and every knock, My heart it gae a stoun.

The moon was sinking in the west Wi’ visage pale and wan As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy’d me through the glen.

But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa’ me gin I tell; But oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel’s mysel.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne’er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

_My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither: The rigid righteous is a fool, The rigid wise anither: The cleanest corn that e’er was dight, May hae some pyles o’ caff in; So ne’er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o’ daffin._ SOLOMON (Eccles. vii. 16).

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell Your neibour’s fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi’ store o’ water: The heaped happer’s ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter:

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door, For glaikit Folly’s portals; I, for their thoughtless careless sakes, Would here propone defences,— Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment’s fair regard— What maks the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) Your better art o’ hidin’.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, It maks an unco leeway.

See Social life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmogrified, they’re grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper i’ your lug, Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias. Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.

CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES

Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang, Sounding Clouden’s woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie.

We’ll gae down by Clouden side, Thro’ the hazels, spreading wide, O’er the waves that sweetly glide, To the moon sae clearly.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Yonder’s Clouden’s silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O’er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou’rt to love and Heav’n sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die—but canna part, My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie.

AYE SHE WROUGHT HER MAMMIE’S WARK

There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen; When a’ the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark, And aye she sang sae merrily: The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite’s nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad. The flower and pride of a’ the glen; And he had owsen, sheep and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst, He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o’ the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie’s wark, And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanie’s heart loup light, And didna joy blink in her e’e, As Robie tauld a tale o’ love, Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love:

‘O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me? Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot, And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?

‘At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi’ me.’

Now what could artless Jeanie do? She had nae will to say him na: At length she blush’d a sweet consent, And love was aye between them twa.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!

‘Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, Oh, open the door to me, oh! Tho’ thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, oh!

‘Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh!

‘The wan moon is setting ayont the white wave, And time is setting with me, oh! False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, oh!’

She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh! ‘My true love!’ she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, oh!

WANDERING WILLIE

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears to my e’e; Welcome now, Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, The Simmer to nature, my Willie to me!

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain!

OUT OVER THE FORTH

Out over the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its Highlands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I lo’e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow’d that death Only should us sever; Now thou’st left thy lass for aye— I maun see thee never, Jamie, I’ll see thee never!

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is breaking; Soon my weary e’en I’ll close— Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne’er mair to waken!

ROWTH O’ RHYMES THE POET’S RICHES

(EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH, 1786)

Dear Smith, the sleeest pawkie thief That e’er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For ne’er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, And ev’ry star that blinks aboon, Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon Just gaun to see you; And ev’ry ither pair that’s done, Mair taen I’m wi’ you.

That auld capricious carlin’, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She’s turn’d you aff, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature, She’s wrote ‘The Man.’

Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the country clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random shot O’ country wit.

This while my notion’s taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I’m that way bent, Something cries ‘Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye’ll shaw your folly.

‘There’s ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors A’ future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters Their unknown pages.’

Then fareweel hopes o’ laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes My rustic sang.

I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead, Forgot and gone!