Part 30
Our second Right--but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it--'tis decorum.-- There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough, rude man had haughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet.
Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men--and you are all well-bred-- Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration Most humbly own--'tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life--immortal love.-- Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares-- When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions, Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! the majesty of woman!
* * * * *
CXXXII.
MONODY,
ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.
[The heroine Of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park: a lady young and gay, much of a wit, and something of a poetess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some "epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes designated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the poet, written with great beauty and feeling.]
How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd!
If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd.
Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.
We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.
We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.
* * * * *
THE EPITAPH.
Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem
* * * * *
CXXXIII.
EPISTLE
FROM
ESOPUS TO MARIA.
[Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition: it is printed from the Poet's own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to contempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her
"Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;"
and has a passing hit at her
"Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."]
From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.
"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!" 'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear! Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make they hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled, By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms, In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria's prying eye. Blest Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress, Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,[110] And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; The crafty colonel[111] leaves the tartan'd lines, For other wars, where he a hero shines; The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head; Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display That veni, vidi, vici, is his way; The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; Though there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,-- And pours his vengeance in the burning line, Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine; The idiot strum of vanity bemused, And even th' abuse of poesy abused! Who call'd her verse, a parish workhouse made For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd?)
A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.
Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell? Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, The vices also, must they club their curse? Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?
Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls? Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit? Who says, that fool alone is not thy due, And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true? Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, And dare the war with all of woman born: For who can write and speak as thou and I? My periods that deciphering defy, And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 110: Captain Gillespie.]
[Footnote 111: Col. Macdouall.]
* * * * *
CXXXIV.
POEM
ON PASTORAL POETRY.
[Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Chambers declares that he "has scarcely a doubt that it is not by the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his, for I have no doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers of the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the fourth, and the concluding verses bear the Burns' stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting: they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers has compared them, as little as the cry of the eagle resembles the chirp of the wren.]
Hail Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd Mid a' thy favours!
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang, To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame.
But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters; I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share A rival place?
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan-- There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever!
Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell!
In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love; That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.
* * * * *
CXXXV.
SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.]
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain: See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away.
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.
* * * * *
CXXXVI.
SONNET,
ON THE
DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.
OF GLENRIDDEL,
APRIL, 1794.
[The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland, been his neighbor, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what the rustics of the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," is now scattered or neglected: I have heard a competent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland.]
No more, ye warblers of the wood--no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.
* * * * *
CXXXVII.
IMPROMPTU,
ON MRS. R----'S BIRTHDAY.
[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart which his verses "On a lady famed for her caprice" inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Riddel.]
Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,-- What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow: My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; 'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
* * * * *
CXXXVIII.
LIBERTY.
A FRAGMENT.
[Fragment of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode commemorating the achievement of liberty for America under the directing genius of Washington and Franklin.]
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, Nor give the coward secret breath. Is this the power in freedom's war, That wont to bid the battle rage? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!
* * * * *
CXXXIX.
VERSES
TO A YOUNG LADY.
[This young lady was the daughter of the poet's friend, Graham of Fintray; and the gift alluded to was a copy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs: a work which owes many attractions to the lyric genius of Burns.]
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift;--tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.
Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, As modest want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.
* * * * *
CXL.
THE VOWELS.
A TALE.
[Burns admired genius adorned by learning; but mere learning without genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him with writing obscure language in questionable grammar, he said, "Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker between vowels and consonants!"]
'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows; upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to account.--
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight! His twisted head look'd backward on the way, And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, _ai!_
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face! That name! that well-worn name, and all his own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne! The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; And next the title following close behind, He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply: The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!
In rueful apprehension enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art; So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him _eu_, and kick'd him from his sight.
* * * * *
CXLI.
VERSES
TO JOHN RANKINE.
[With the "rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adamhill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed, that those lines were suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged recruits:--
"I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat!"]
Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, "By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this d--d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, "L--d G--d!" quoth he, "I have it now, There's just the man I want, i' faith!" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.
* * * * *
CXLII.
ON SENSIBILITY.
TO
MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP,
OF DUNLOP.
[These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments contained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to,
"Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell!"
and so transferring the whole to another heroine.]
Sensibility how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell: But distress with horrors arming, Thou host also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray: Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the woodlark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys: Hapless bird! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feeling can bestow; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
* * * * *
CXLIII.
LINES,
SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD
OFFENDED.
[The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repentant strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary Wolstonecroft and her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously offended.]
The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send; (Not moony madness more astray;) Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah, why should I such scenes outlive Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive.
* * * * *
CXLIV.
ADDRESS,
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT
NIGHT.
[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.]
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted! "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, "I know your bent--these are no laughing times: Can you--but, Miss, I own I have my fears, Dissolve in pause--and sentimental tears; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"
I could no more--askance the creature eyeing, D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz--nay more, the world shall know it; And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet! Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief; I also think--so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-- To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face--the beldam witch! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, us the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought--a rope--thy neck-- Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at their follies--laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder--that's your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we're merry, may we still be wise.
* * * * *
CXLV.
ON
SEEING MISS FONTENELLE
IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER.
[The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of her personations he alludes: she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.]
Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to nature, Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning nature, torturing art; Loves and graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'dst act a part.
R. B.