Part 12

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost: Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows; See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear. With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow, The powers you proudly own? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away, Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers! Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast! Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hailed the morning with a cheer-- A cottage-rousing craw!

But deep this truth impressed my mind-- Through all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles GOD.

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XIII.

REMORSE.

A FRAGMENT.

["I entirely agree," says Burns, "with the author of the _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom; an ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up admirably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our follies or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command."]

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 That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every 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, where 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!

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XIV.

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.

A CANTATA.

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigen-gillan; the song of "For a' that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with his name, in the _Musical Museum_ of February, 1790. Cromek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in the _Reliques_, for which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in the _Quarterly Review._ The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nancy had her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been given.]

RECITATIVO.

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core O' randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies: Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted an' they sang; Wi' jumping and thumping, The vera girdle rang.

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm-- She blinket on her sodger: An' ay he gies the tozie drab The tither skelpin' kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an aumous dish. Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up--

AIR.

Tune--"_Soldiers' Joy._"

I am a son of Mars, Who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars Wherever I come; This here was for a wench, And that other in a trench, When welcoming the French At the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

My 'prenticeship I past Where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast On the heights of Abram; I served out my trade When the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid At the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

I lastly was with Curtis, Among the floating batt'ries, And there I left for witness An arm and a limb; Yet let my country need me, With Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps At the sound of a drum. Lal de dandle, &c.

And now tho' I must beg, With a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag Hanging over my bum I'm as happy with my wallet, My bottle and my callet, As when I used in scarlet To follow a drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks Oftentimes for a home, When the tother bag I sell, And the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, At the sound of a drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

RECITATIVO.

He ended; and kebars sheuk Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl'd out--encore! But up arose the martial Chuck, And laid the loud uproar.

AIR.

Tune--"_Soldier laddie._"

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church; He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair; His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart is rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

And now I have liv'd--I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

RECITATIVO.

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk, Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, Between themselves they were sae busy: At length wi' drink and courting dizzy He stoitered up an' made a face; Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzie, Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace.

AIR.

Tune--"_Auld Sir Symon._"

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, Sir Knave is a fool in a session; He's there but a 'prentice I trow, But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk, And I held awa to the school; I fear I my talent misteuk, But what will ye hae of a fool?

For drink I would venture my neck, A hizzie's the half o' my craft, But what could ye other expect, Of ane that's avowedly daft?

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, For civilly swearing and quaffing; I ance was abused in the kirk, Fer touzling a lass i' my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer; There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court A tumbler ca'd the premier.

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad Maks faces to tickle the mob; He rails at our mountebank squad, Its rivalship just i' the job.

And now my conclusion I'll tell, For faith I'm confoundedly dry; The chiel that's a fool for himsel', Gude L--d! he's far dafter than I.

RECITATIVO.

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' woodie! Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman.

AIR.

Tune--"_O an ye were dead, guidman._"

A Highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman.

CHORUS.

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman! Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman! There's not a lad in a' the lan' Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies' hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

They banished him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

But, och! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast; My curse upon them every one, They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

And now a widow, I must mourn, The pleasures that will ne'er return: No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

RECITATIVO.

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappan limb and gausy middle He reach'd na higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, An' blawn't on fire.

Wi' hand on hainch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key, The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo.

AIR.

Tune--"_Whistle o'er the lave o't._"

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, And go wi' me and be my dear, And then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o't.

CHORUS.

I am a fiddler to my trade, An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to wife or maid, Was whistle owre the lave o't.

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, And O! sae nicely's we will fare; We'll house about till Daddie Care Sings whistle owre the lave o't I am, &c.

Sae merrily the banes we'll byke, And sun oursells about the dyke, And at our leisure, when ye like, We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c.

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, And while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, May whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c.

RECITATIVO.

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, As weel as poor gut-scraper; He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a roosty rapier-- He swoor by a' was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver, Unless he wad from that time forth Relinquish her for ever.

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, And sae the quarrel ended. But tho' his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the caird address'd her:

AIR.

Tune--"_Clout the Caudron._"

My bonny lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station: I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation: I've taen the gold, an' been enrolled In many a noble sqadron: But vain they search'd, when off I march'd To go and clout the caudron. I've taen the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise and caprin, And tak a share wi' those that bear The budget and the apron. And by that stoup, my faith and houp, An' by that dear Kilbaigie,[5] If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by that stoup, &c.

RECITATIVO.

The caird prevail'd--th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night.

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie, A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, Tho' limping wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up and lap like daft, And shor'd them Dainty Davie O boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed, Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever miss'd it. He had nae wish but--to be glad, Nor want but--when he thirsted; He hated nought but--to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night.

AIR

Tune--"_For a' that, an' a' that._"

I am a bard of no regard Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that: But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS

For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife enough for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that; But there it streams, and richly reams, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c.

Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, an' a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love, an a' that: But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft. They've ta'en me in, and a' that; But clear your decks, and here's the sex! I like the jads for a' that

CHORUS

For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't for a' that

RECITATIVO

So sung the bard--and Nansie's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo'd from each mouth: They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request, To loose his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best; He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus.

AIR

Tune--"_Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses._"

See! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS.

A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest.

What is title? what is treasure? What is reputation's care? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where! A fig, &c.

With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love? A fig, &c.

Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c.

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! Here's to all the wandering train! Here's our ragged brats and wallets! One and all cry out--Amen!

A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: A peculiar sort of whiskey.]

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XV.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his knowledge in medicine--so vain, that he advertised his merits, and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is just as true's the Deil's in h--ll Or Dublin-city; That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty; I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: To count her horns with a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff with a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-taed leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava: And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks.

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?" It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe,--"My name is Death, But be na fley'd."--Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie; I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad nae mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news! This while ye hae been mony a gate At mony a house.

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan[6] An' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin And pouk my hips.