Chapter 26

But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on, And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on E'en tried the body.

But what dy'e think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a gauger--Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye'll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is-- I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms--thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care! I'm weary sick o't late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers: But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers?

Come, firm Resolve, take then the van, Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e'er tread clay! And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I'm yours for ay,

ROBERT BURNS.

* * * * *

CIII.

DELIA.

AN ODE.

[These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's song, by a Person of Quality. "These lines are beyond you," he added: "the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London." Burns mused a moment, then recited "Delia, an Ode."]

Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose, But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flow'r-enamoured busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;--

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O, let me steal one liquid kiss! For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

* * * * *

CIV.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

[John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig castle.

"Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! O may no son the father's honour stain, Nor ever daughter give the mother pain."

How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]

O, could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send! Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy-- An honest Bard's esteem.

* * * * *

CV.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES,

1 JAN. 1790.

[This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm!]

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste--the more's the pity: Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home: But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new year! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, "You're one year older this important day." If wiser too--he hinted some suggestion, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word--"think!"

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the first blow is ever half the battle: That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! To yon old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important NOW! To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours, And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

* * * * *

CVI.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.--Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin'? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame? For comedy abroad he need nae toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enough in Caledonian story, Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce; How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword, 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; A woman--tho' the phrase may seem uncivil-- As able and as cruel as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age: And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would take the muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time, on' lay him on his back! For us and for our stage should ony spier, "Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here!" My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, We have the honour to belong to you! We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, But like good withers, shore before ye strike.-- And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, For a' the patronage and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks: God help us! we're but poor--ye'se get but thanks.

* * * * *

CVII.

SKETCH.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again: I see the old, bald-pated follow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer; Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow-- That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-- And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver? "Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion? "The passing moment's all we rest on!" Rest on--for what? what do we here? Or why regard the passing year? Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more? A few days more--a few years must-- Repose us in the silent dust. Then is it wise to damp our bliss? Yes--all such reasonings are amiss! The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies: That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight: That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone; Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woeful night.--

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, On this poor being all depends, Let us th' important _now_ employ, And live as those who never die.--

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round, (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

* * * * *

CVIII.

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO

CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.]

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And, faith, to me 'twas really new! How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin'; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks: Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt: If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'; How libbet Italy was singin'; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss: Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game: How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin'; Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in: How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a--s yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser.-- A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair'd of. So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you!

_Ellisland, Monday morning_, 1790.

* * * * *

CIX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM;[76]

A SATIRE.

[FIRST VERSION.]

[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the Standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with reluctance.]

Orthodox, orthodox, Wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast Has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac,[77] Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John[78] is still deaf To the church's relief, And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.

D'rymple mild,[80] D'rymple mild, Thro' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must hav ye, For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Rumble John,[81] Rumble John, Mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle, And roar every note of the danm'd.

Simper James,[82] Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head That the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney,[83] Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evil await? Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Though yo can do little skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster,[85] Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits; Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose,[86] Jamy Goose, Ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the Doctor's your mark, For the L--d's haly ark; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie, Fie the Doctor a volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side Ye ne'er laid astride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he ----.

Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk, Ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; Ye are rich and look big, But lay by hat and wig, And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may ha'e some pretence To havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side,[90] Irvine side, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, Of manhood but sum' is your share, Ye've the figure 'tis true, Even your faes will allow, And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,[91] Muirland Jock, When the L--d makes a rock To crush Common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will,[92] Holy Will, There was wit i' your skull, When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye're ta'en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie, E'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 76: This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M'Gill's Essay.]

[Footnote 77: Dr. M'Gill.]

[Footnote 78: John Ballantyne.]

[Footnote 79: Robert Aiken.]

[Footnote 80: Dr. Dalrymple.]

[Footnote 81: Mr. Russell.]

[Footnote 82: Mr. M'Kinlay.]

[Footnote 83: Mr. Moody, of Riccarton.]

[Footnote 84: Mr. Auld of Mauchline.]

[Footnote 85: Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree.]

[Footnote 86: Mr. Young, of Cumnock.]

[Footnote 87: Mr. Peebles, Ayr.]

[Footnote 88: Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.]

[Footnote 89: Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.]

[Footnote 90: Mr. George Smith, of Galston.]

[Footnote 91: Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.]

[Footnote 92: Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.]

* * * * *

CX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

A BALLAD.

[SECOND VERSION.]

[This version is from the papers of Miss Logan, of Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself: "Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire Which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I confess too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too." The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, "A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire."]

I.

Orthodox, orthodox, Who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience-- There's a heretic blast, Has been blawn i' the wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense, Orthodox, That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II.

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, And strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense, Upon any pretence, Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error.

III.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was rash I declare, To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; Provost John is still deaf, To the church's relief, And orator Bob is its ruin, Town Of Ayr, And orator Bob is its ruin.

IV.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, Tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Old Satan must have ye For preaching that three's are an' twa, D'rymple mild, For preaching that three's are an' twa.

V.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin's sons, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead.

VI.

Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like aidle, And roar every note o' the damn'd, Rumble John, And roar every note o' the damn'd.

VII.

Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chase in your view; I'll lay on your head, That the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few, Simper James, For puppies like you there's but few.

VIII.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what danger awaits? With a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, For Hannibal's just at your gates, Singet Sawnie, For Hannibal's just at your gates.

IX.

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, Ye may slander the book, And the book nought the waur--let me tell you; Tho' ye're rich and look big, Yet lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value, Andrew Gowk, And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value.

X.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, Gie the doctor a volley, Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side, Ye ne'er laid a stride Ye only stood by when he ----, Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he ----.

XI.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, What mean ye? what mean ye? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence, man, To havins and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie, Wi' people that ken ye nae better.

XII.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, O' hunting the wicked lieutenant; But the doctor's your mark, For the L--d's holy ark, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't, Jamie Goose, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.

XIII.