Chapter 22

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a' the lan'; An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented: An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CAESAR.

But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L--d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash: He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

LUATH.

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're ay in less or mair provided; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side; An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak' the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests; Wi' kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, o' ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' thro' the house,-- My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin', For Britain's guid his saul indentin'--

CAESAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it! For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' saying, aye or no's they bid him, At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl, To learn _bon ton_, an' see the worl'.

There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh--re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles Then bouses drumly German water, To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras. For Britain's guid!--for her destruction Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.

LUATH.

Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last!

O, would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' countra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin' o' their timmer, Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CAESAR.

L--d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro' winters cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsels to vex them; An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless; An' even their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping thro' public places, There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches; Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.

There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o' sight, An' darker gloaming brought the night: The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 59: Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.]

* * * * *

LXVIII.

LINES

ON

MEETING WITH LORD DAER.

["The first time I saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, "was on the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his work was known to the public." Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary's Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.]

This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at druken writers' feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests, Wi' rev'rence be it spoken: I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty squireships of the quorum Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord--stand out, my shin! A Lord--a Peer--an Earl's son!-- Up higher yet, my bonnet! And sic a Lord!--lang Scotch ells twa, Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', As I look o'er my sonnet.

But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, And how he star'd and stammer'd, When goavan, as if led wi' branks, An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidling shelter'd in a nook, An' at his lordship steal't a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee, An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, The gentle pride, the lordly state, The arrogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another; Nae honest worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother.

* * * * *

LXIX.

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

["I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend Chalmers, "which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, 'Fair B----,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The "Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.]

I.

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labour plies; There Architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine!

V.

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar, Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply, my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!

VIII.

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the hanks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

* * * * *

LXX.

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.

[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.]

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But tak' it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, Some black bog-hole, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O' this wild warl', Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day Nae "lente largo" in the play, But "allegretto forte" gay Harmonious flow: A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-- Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang Wha dearly like a jig or sang, An' never think o' right an' wrang By square an' rule, But as the clegs o' feeling stang Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace-- Their tuneless hearts! May fireside discords jar a base To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither, I' th' ither warl', if there's anither, An' that there is I've little swither About the matter; We check for chow shall jog thegither, I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings--granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly For our grand fa'; But stilt, but still, I like them dearly-- God bless them a'!

Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers, When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, The witching curs'd delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnan spite.

But by yon moon!--and that's high swearin'-- An' every star within my hearin'! An' by her een wha was a dear ane! I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, Ance to the Indies I were wonted, Some cantraip hour, By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, Then, _vive l'amour_!

_Faites mes baisemains respectueuse_, To sentimental sister Susie, An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, Be't light, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park.

ROBERT BURNS.

_Mossgiel, 30th October_, 1786.

* * * * *

LXXI.

THE BRIGS OF AYR,

A POEM,

INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR.

[Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causeway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr: he wrote it for the second edition of his poems, and in compliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. Ballantyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: others of his friends figure in the scene: Montgomery's courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.]

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush: The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field-- Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose? No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward! Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace; When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

* * * * *

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds, an' flow'rs delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, And down by Simpson's[60] wheel'd the left about: (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock,[61] had number'd two, And Wallace Tow'r[61] had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swol'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e: The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.--

When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the gos[62] drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles gothic in his face: He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;-- It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he! Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en:--

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see; There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

NEW BRIG.

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense; Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet-- Your ruin'd formless bulk o' stane en' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream,[63] Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.