Part 20

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie! Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say by ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right 'Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dross your droddum!

I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie! How daur ye do't?

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin'! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin'!

O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us An' foolish notion; What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion!

* * * * *

XLIX.

EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE,

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

[The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree "Brutes!--damned brutes." "I dreamed that I was dead," said the rustic satirist to his superior, "and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's friends gang, I chappit, and 'Wha are ye, and where d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. 'Awa wi' you,' cried Satan, ye canna come here: hell's fou o' his lordship's damned brutes already.'"]

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin'! There's monie godly folks are thinkin', Your dreams[54] an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin' Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, dru'ken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,[55] ye'll sen't wi cannie care, And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun', A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't; But, deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had taen a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L--d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, For my gowd guinea; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 54: A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.]

[Footnote 55: A song he had promised the author.]

* * * * *

L.

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

[Burns in this Poem, as well as in others, speaks openly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the confessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself to task. It was written when "Hungry ruin had him in the wind," and emigration to the West Indies was the only refuge which he could think of, or his friends suggest, from the persecutions of fortune.]

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin' core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea!

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea, But he was gleg as onie wumble, That's owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee; He was her laureate monie a year, That's owre the sea!

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea.

To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding: He dealt it free; The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel; Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, And fou o' glee; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea!

* * * * *

LI.

THE FAREWELL.

"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what does he regard his single woes? But when, alas! he multiplies himself, To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, The those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, To helpless children! then, O then! he feels The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. Such, such am I! undone."

THOMSON.

[In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the lines to the Scottish bard, are not permitted to mingle, Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any claim. He seems to have looked on the sea as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.]

I.

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains Where rich ananas blow! Farewell, a mother's blessing dear! A brother's sigh! a sister's tear! My Jean's heart-rending throe! Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft Of my parental care, A faithful brother I have left, My part in him thou'lt share! Adieu too, to you too, My Smith, my bosom frien'; When kindly you mind me, O then befriend my Jean!

II.

What bursting anguish tears my heart! From thee, my Jeany, must I part! Thou weeping answ'rest--"No!" Alas! misfortune stares my face, And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go! Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, A grateful, warm adieu; I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you! All-hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear shore! It rustles, and whistles I'll never see thee more!

* * * * *

LII.

WRITTEN

ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF MY POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.

[This is another of the poet's lamentations, at the prospect of "torrid climes" and the roars of the Atlantic. To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise; and the land of dread, Jamaica! I found these lines copied by the poet into a volume which he presented to Dr. Geddes: they were addressed, it is thought, to the "Dear E." of his earliest correspondence.]

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear; Sweet early object of my youthful vows! Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,-- Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him--he asks no more,-- Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

* * * * *

LIII.

A DEDICATION

TO

GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

[The gentleman to whom these manly lines are addressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous nature: he was one of the first of the gentry of the west to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive days; for having, without the fear of God's servant before him, profanely said damn it, in his presence, and far having gallopped on Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother of the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as well as of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edition, but not as an express dedication.]

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace; Perhaps related to the race; Then when I'm tir'd--and sae are ye, Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie, Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do--maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only--he's no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me,) On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, He's just--nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain, he winna tak it; What ance he says, he winna break it; Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 'Till aft his guidness is abus'd; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, E'en that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature: Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no thro' terror of damnation; It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice!

No--stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, But point the rake that taks the door; Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter--stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own; I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeal in quaking terror! When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him: While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression. I maist forgat my dedication; But when divinity comes cross me My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'.

Then patronize them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever-- I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a word I need na say: For prayin' I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o't; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you, Sir--

"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the ev'ning o' his days; 'Till his wee curlie John's-ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow."

I will not wind a lang conclusion, With complimentary effusion: But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which pow'rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor! But by a poor man's hope in Heav'n! While recollection's pow'r is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my Master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then Sir, your hand--my friend and brother.

* * * * *

LIV.

ELEGY

ON

THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.

[Cromek found these verses among the loose papers of Burns, and printed them in the Reliques. They contain a portion of the character of the poet, record his habitual carelessness in worldly affairs, and his desire to be distinguished.]

Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, Except the moment that they crush't him; For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, Tho' e'er sae short, Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em, And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, And counted was baith wight and stark. Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man; But tell him he was learned and clark, Ye roos'd him than!

* * * * *

LV.

LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT,

OF GLENCONNER.

[The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent was a social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: but as Ellisland was his choice, his skill may be questioned.]

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, How's a' the folk about Glenconner? How do you this blae eastlin wind, That's like to blaw a body blind? For me, my faculties are frozen, My dearest member nearly dozen'd, I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, An' Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled, An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled, Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, An' in the depth of science mir'd, To common sense they now appeal, What wives and wabsters see and feel. But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly Peruse them, an' return them quickly, For now I'm grown sae cursed douce I pray and ponder butt the house, My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston; Till by an' by, if I haud on, I'll grunt a real gospel groan: Already I begin to try it, To cast my e'en up like a pyet, When by the gun she tumbles o'er, Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore: Sae shortly you shall see me bright, A burning and a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men: When bending down wi' auld gray hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him, His worthy fam'ly far and near, God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he's a parent, lass or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-and-forty years thegither! An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, I'm tauld he offers very fairly. An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy; An' her kind stars hae airted till her A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen' it, To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet; Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious; To grant a heart is fairly civil, But to grant the maidenhead's the devil An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel', May guardian angels tak a spell, An' steer you seven miles south o' hell: But first, before you see heaven's glory, May ye get monie a merry story, Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, For my sake this I beg it o' you. Assist poor Simson a' ye can, Ye'll fin' him just an honest man; Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, Your's, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

* * * * *

LVI.

ON THE

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD.

[From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this "Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love," was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. The mother soon followed the father to the grave: she died in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.]

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a pray'r, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form; And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother-plant, And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the summer-morn: Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land!

* * * * *

LVII.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED

TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis.]