Part 8

But why o’ death begin a tale? Just now we’re living sound and hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave Care o’er side! And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, Let’s tak the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand, Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu’ light.

The magic wand then let us wield: For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, Wi’ wrinkled face, Comes hoastin’, hirplin’ owre the field, Wi’ creepin’ pace.

When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’ Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’; An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’, An’ social noise; An’ fareweel dear deluding woman, The joy of joys!

O life, how pleasant is thy morning, Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like schoolboys, at th’ expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves: And tho’ the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot, For which they never toil’d nor swat; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey; Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan’, Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’, To right or left, eternal swervin’, They zig-zag on; Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’, They often groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— But truce wi’ peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune’s fickle Luna waning? E’en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let’s sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel ‘Ye Pow’rs!’ and warm implore, ‘Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o’ rhymes.

‘Gie dreeping roasts to country lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour; And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner.

‘A title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, In cent per cent; But gie me real, sterling wit, And I’m content.

‘While ye are pleased to keep me hale, I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, Be’t water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi’ cheerfu’ face, As lang’s the Muses dinna fail To say the grace.’

An anxious e’e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath misfortune’s blows As weel’s I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke!

Nae hare-brain’d sentimental traces, In your unletter’d, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses, Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin’ squad: I see you upward cast your eyes— Ye ken the road.

Whilst I—but I shall haud me there— Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content with You to mak a pair, Where’er I gang.

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON

As cauld a wind as ever blew, A cauld kirk, and in’t but few; As cauld a minister’s ever spak— Ye’se a’ be het or I come back!

YE BANKS AND BRAES

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care?

Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o’ its love, And fondly sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause lover stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

NOW WESTLIN WINDS

Now westlin winds and slaughtering 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 murdering cry, The fluttering, 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 every 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!

AULD ROB MORRIS

There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.

But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me; O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!

POORTITH CAULD

O poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An’ ’twerena for my Jeanie.

O why should fate sic pleasure have Life’s dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune’s shining?

This warld’s wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,— O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o’t.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o’erword aye, She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am?

How blest the simple cotter’s fate! He woos his artless dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make him eerie.

O why should fate, etc.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day Ye would na been sae shy; For laik o’ gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure: Ye geck at me because I’m poor, But fient a hair care I.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o’ clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene’er ye like to try.

But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean, Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high.

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye’ll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu’ dry.

But if he hae the name o’ gear, Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier, Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark, For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark; Ye need na look sae high.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie, Clos’d under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An’ let poor damnèd bodies be; I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, Ev’n to a deil, To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me, An’ hear us squeal!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame; Far kenn’d an’ noted is thy name; An’, tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame, Thou travels far; An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles rangin’ like a roarin’ lion For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin’; Whyles on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’, Tirlin’ the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin’, Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my reverend grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, Wi’ eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin’, Wi’ eerie drone; Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortrees comin’, Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary windy winter night The stars shot down wi’ sklentin’ light, Wi’ you mysel I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight Wi’ waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi’ an eldritch stoor ‘quaick, quaick,’ Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter’d like a drake On whistlin’ wings.

Let warlocks grim an’ wither’d hags Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags They skim the muirs, an’ dizzy crags Wi’ wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence country wives, wi’ toil an’ pain, May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen By witchin’ skill; An’ dawtit twal-pint Hawkie’s gane As yell’s the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse; When the best wark-lume i’ the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An’ float the jinglin’ icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An’ ’nighted travelers are allur’d To their destruction.

An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne’er mair to rise.

When masons’ mystic word an’ grip In storms an’ tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard, When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d, And all the soul of love they shar’d, The raptur’d hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird, In shady bow’r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog! Ye cam to Paradise incog. An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue, (Black be you fa!) An’ gied the infant warld a shog, ’Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz ’Mang better folk, An’ sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall, An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’, While scabs an’ blotches did him gall Wi’ bitter claw, An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an’ fechtin’ fierce, Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin’, A certain Bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’, Some luckless hour will send him linkin’, To your black pit; But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’, An’ cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’! Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— Still hae a stake: I’m wae to think upo’ yon den, Ev’n for your sake!

O MAY, THY MORN

O May, thy morn was ne’er sae 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 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 them! And here’s to them we dare na tell, The dearest o’ the quorum!

PEG-A-RAMSEY

Cauld is the e’enin’ blast O’ Boreas o’er the pool, And dawin’ it is dreary When birks are bare at Yule.

O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast When bitter bites the frost, And in the mirk and dreary drift The hills and glens are lost.

Ne’er sae murky blew the night That drifted o’er the hill, But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey Gat grist to her mill.

WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O’T

First when Maggy was my care, Heaven, I thought, was in her air; Now we’re married—spier nae mair— Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature’s child— Wiser men than me’s beguil’d; Whistle owre the lave o’t.

How we live, my Meg and me, How we love and how we ’gree, I care na by how few may see— Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Wha I wish were maggots’ meat, Dish’d up in her winding sheet, I could write—but Meg may see’t; Whistle owre the lave o’t.

HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE

Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir; Tho’ I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir.

‘One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it man or woman, say, My spouse Nancy?’

If ’tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, And so good-bye allegiance!

‘Sad shall I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy! Yet I’ll try to make a shift, My spouse Nancy.’

My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I’m near it: When you lay me in the dust, Think how you will bear it.

‘I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancy.’

Well, sir, from the silent dead Still I’ll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you.

‘I’ll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse Nancy.’

HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER

Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms, O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms.

Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher—the nice yellow guineas for me!

Your beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows; But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes! Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes.

And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o’ beauty may cloy, when possest; But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest— The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re carest.

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie; Willie was a wabster guid, 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 wad na gie a button for her!

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shinn’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 hump upon her breast, The twin o’ that upon her shouther; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na 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 wad na gie a button for her!

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET?

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet? Or art thou wakin’, I would wit? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo.

O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity’s sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo.

Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet, Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet; Tak pity on my weary feet, And shield me frae the rain, jo.

The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s; The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause Of a’ my grief and pain, jo.

HER ANSWER

O tell na me o’ wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain! Gae back the gait ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo.

I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; And ance for a’ this ae night, I winna let you in, jo.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand’rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures, That’s trusted faithless man, jo.

The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed; Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo.

The bird that charm’d his summer-day Is now the cruel fowler’s prey; Let witless, trusting woman say How aft her fate’s the same, jo.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE

My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As poet Burns came by, That to a bard I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir: The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs; Or find a sheltering safe retreat From prone-descending show’rs.