Part 23
AULD BRIG.
Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!-- This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide; And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal[64] draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; While crashing ice born on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; And from Glenbuck,[65] down to the Ratton-key,[66] Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea-- Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture's noble art is lost!
NEW BRIG.
Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L--d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird or beast; Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection! And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!
AULD BRIG.
O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners: Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'rate race! Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story! Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d--d new Brigs and Harbours!
NEW BRIG.
Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through; As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle: But under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth 'a citizen,' a term o' scandal; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them
* * * * *
What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright: Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.-- O had M'Lauchlan,[67] thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard, Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.
The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc'd in years; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn; Then Winter's time-bleach'd looks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 60: A noted tavern at the auld Brig end.]
[Footnote 61: The two steeples.]
[Footnote 62: The gos-hawk or falcon.]
[Footnote 63: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.]
[Footnote 64: The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.]
[Footnote 65: The source of the river Ayr.]
[Footnote 66: A small landing-place above the large key.]
[Footnote 67: A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.]
* * * * *
LXXII.
ON
THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.,
OF ARNISTON,
LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION.
[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by the following surly note:--"The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 1834.]
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! A loss these evil days can ne'er repair! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod; Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of men: See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on poverty his cruel eyes; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, To you I sing my grief-inspired strains: Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.
* * * * *
LXXIII.
ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER
THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.
BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND
OF THE AUTHOR'S.
[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]
Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung: So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was wrung.
Were it in the poet's power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella's heart, To give that heart relief!
Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound He gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.
* * * * *
LXXIV.
TO MISS LOGAN,
WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.
JAN. 1, 1787.
[Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the "sentimental sister Susie," of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet's correspondence.]
Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail: I send you more than India boasts In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, perhaps, too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you!
* * * * *
LXXV.
THE AMERICAN WAR.
A FRAGMENT.
[Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were unstatesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration of "Chatham's Boy," called down on him the dusty indignation of the republican Ritson.]
I.
When Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man: Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An' did nae less in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man.
II.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man; Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man; But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en'mies a', man.
III.
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, Was kept at Boston ha', man; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man; Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to draw, man: But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.
IV.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man, Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man.
V.
Then Montague, an' Guilford, too, Began to fear a fa', man; And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, The German Chief to thraw, man; For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
VI.
Then Rockingham took up the game, Till death did on him ca', man; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man; Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks, An' bore him to the wa', man.
VII.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair _faux pas_, man; The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man; An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, "Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"
VIII.
Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, A secret word or twa, man; While slee Dundas arous'd the class, Be-north the Roman wa', man: An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired Bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd "Willie, rise! Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"
IX.
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co., Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man; An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood To make it guid in law, man.
* * * * *
LXXVI.
THE DEAN OF FACULTY.
A NEW BALLAD.
[The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Erskine, and Robert Dundas: and their contention was, as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Faculty of Advocates: Erskine was successful. It is supposed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remembered "the incurable wound which his pride had got" in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Reliques of Burns.]
I.
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry; And dire the discord Langside saw, For beauteous, hapless Mary: But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, Or were more in fury seen, Sir, Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job-- Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.--
II.
This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, Among the first was number'd; But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, Commandment tenth remember'd.-- Yet simple Bob the victory got, And won his heart's desire; Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, Though the devil p--s in the fire.--
III.
Squire Hal besides had in this case Pretensions rather brassy, For talents to deserve a place Are qualifications saucy; So, their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit's rudeness, Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness.--
IV.
As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight Of a son of Circumcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob's purblind, mental vision: Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet Till for eloquence you hail him, And swear he has the angel met That met the Ass of Balaam.
* * * * *
LXXVII.
TO A LADY,
WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES.
[To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the drinking-glasses alluded to in the verses: they are, it seems, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high festival, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a draught from them of "The blood of Shiraz' scorched vine."]
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses.
And fill them high with generous juice, As generous as your mind; And pledge me in the generous toast-- "The whole of human kind!"
"To those who love us!"--second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us!-- A third--"to thee and me, love!"
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
TO CLARINDA.
[This is the lady of the drinking-glasses; the Mrs. Mac of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the poet's death, appeared in print without her permission: she obtained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the case of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.]
Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy.
We part--but, by these precious drops That fill thy lovely eyes! No other light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise.
She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?
* * * * *
LXXIX.
VERSES
WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY.
[Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the portrait and Poems of the ill-fated Fergusson, we have not been told. The verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787.]
Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! O thou my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! Why is the bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?
* * * * *
LXXX.
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT,
MONDAY, 16 April, 1787.
[The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had other claims on Burns: he had been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 1802.]
When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted--honest fame; When _here_ your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the _man_ in _private life_ forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow, But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war-- Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear! Where every science--every nobler art-- That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam; Here History paints, with elegance and force, The tide of Empires' fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, And Harley[68] rouses all the god in man. When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, Can only charm as in the second place,) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge--you're candid to forgive. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet: Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.
O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire: May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 68: The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie.]
* * * * *
LXXXI.
SKETCH.
[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call "The Poet's Progress." He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. "The Fragment forms," said he, "the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching." It is probable that the professor's response was not favourable for we hear no more of the Poem.]