To Miss Logan,With Beattie's Poems,For A New-Year's Gift,Jan.1,1787.
Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven,And you,tho'scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail;I send you more than India boasts,In Edwin's ****** tale.
Our *** with guile,and faithless love,Is charg'd,perhaps too true;But may,dear maid,each lover prove An Edwin still to you.
Mr.William Smellie-A Sketch Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came;The old cock'd hat,the grey surtout the same;His bristling beard just rising in its might,'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:
His uncomb'd grizzly locks,wild staring,thatch'd A head for thought profound and clear,unmatch'd;Yet tho'his caustic wit was biting-rude,His heart was warm,benevolent,and good.
Rattlin',Roarin'Willie^1
As I cam by Crochallan,I cannilie keekit ben;Rattlin',roarin'Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en';Sittin at yon boord-en,And amang gude companie;Rattlin',roarin'Willie,You're welcome hame to me!
song-Bonie Dundee My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie!
My blessin's upon thy e'e-brie!
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,Thou's aye the dearer,and dearer to me!
But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonie banks,Whare Tay rins wimplin'by sae clear;An'I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
Extempore In The Court Of Session tune-"Killiercrankie."Lord Advocate He clenched his pamphlet in his fist,He quoted and he hinted,Till,in a declamation-mist,His argument he tint it:
He gaped for't,he graped for't,He fand it was awa,man;But what his common sense came short,He eked out wi'law,man.
Mr.Erskine Collected,Harry stood awee,Then open'd out his arm,man;[Footnote 1:William Dunbar,W.S.,of the Crochallan Fencibles,a convivial club.]
His Lordship sat wi'ruefu'e'e,And ey'd the gathering storm,man:
Like wind-driven hail it did assail'
Or torrents owre a lin,man:
The Bench sae wise,lift up their eyes,Half-wauken'd wi'the din,man.
Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1No sculptured marble here,nor pompous lay,"No storied urn nor animated bust;"This ****** stone directs pale Scotia's way,To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust.
Additional Stanzas She mourns,sweet tuneful youth,thy hapless fate;Tho'all the powers of song thy fancy fired,Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,And,thankless,starv'd what they so much admired.
This tribute,with a tear,now gives A brother Bard-he can no more bestow:
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,A nobler monument than Art can shew.
Inscribed Under Fergusson's Portrait Curse on ungrateful man,that can be pleased,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?
[Footnote 1:The stone was erected at Burns'expenses in February-March,1789.]
Epistle To Mrs.Scott Gudewife of Wauchope-House,Roxburghshire.
Gudewife,I Mind it weel in early date,When I was bardless,young,and blate,An'first could thresh the barn,Or haud a yokin'at the pleugh;An,tho'forfoughten sair eneugh,Yet unco proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was,An'wi'the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass,Still shearing,and clearing The tither stooked raw,Wi'claivers,an'haivers,Wearing the day awa.
E'en then,a wish,(I mind its pow'r),A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast,That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu'plan or book could make,Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle,spreading wide Amang the bearded bear,I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,An'spar'd the symbol dear:
No nation,no station,My envy e'er could raise;A Scot still,but blot still,I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o'sang,In formless jumble,right an'wrang,Wild floated in my brain;'Till on that har'st I said before,May partner in the merry core,She rous'd the forming strain;I see her yet,the sonsie quean,That lighted up my jingle,Her witching smile,her pawky een That gart my heart-strings tingle;I fired,inspired,At every kindling keek,But bashing,and dashing,I feared aye to speak.
Health to the ***!ilk guid chiel says:
Wi'merry dance in winter days,An'we to share in common;The gust o'joy,the balm of woe,The saul o'life,the heaven below,Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs,who hate the name,Be mindfu'o'your mither;She,honest woman,may think shame That ye're connected with her:
Ye're wae men,ye're nae men That slight the lovely dears;To shame ye,disclaim ye,Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you,no bred to barn and byre,Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,By me should gratefully be ware;'Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o'my hap,Douce hingin owre my curple,Than ony ermine ever lap,Or proud imperial purple.
Farewell then,lang hale then,An'plenty be your fa;May losses and crosses Ne'er at your hallan ca'!
R.Burns March,1787
Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl's Picture^1Whose is that noble,dauntless brow?
And whose that eye of fire?
And whose that generous princely mien,E'en rooted foes admire?
Stranger!to justly show that brow,And mark that eye of fire,Would take His hand,whose vernal tints His other works admire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun,With stately port he moves;His guardian Seraph eyes with awe The noble Ward he loves.
Among the illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern,Mark Scotia's fond-returning eye,-It dwells upon Glencairn.
Prologue Spoken by Mr.Woods on his benefit-night,Monday,16th April,1787.
When,by a generous Public's kind acclaim,That dearest meed is granted-honest fame;Waen 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 barb'rous throng,It needs no Siddons'powers in Southern'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 honour'd to appear?
[Footnote 1:The Nobleman is James,Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.]
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 Empire's fluctuating course;Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan,And Harley 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 us 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.
No 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.
The Bonie Moor-Hen The heather was blooming,the meadows were mawn,Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen.
Chorus.-I rede you,beware at the hunting,young men,I rede you,beware at the hunting,young men;Take some on the wing,and some as they spring,But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.
Sweet-brushing the dew from the brown heather bells Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells;Her plumage outlustr'd the pride o'the spring And O!as she wanton'd sae gay on the wing.
I rede you,&c.
Auld Phoebus himself,as he peep'd o'er the hill,In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae-His rays were outshone,and but mark'd where she lay.
I rede you,&c.
They hunted the valley,they hunted the hill,The best of our lads wi'the best o'their skill;But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,Then,whirr!she was over,a mile at a flight.
I rede you,&c.
song-My Lord A-Hunting Chorus.-My lady's gown,there's gairs upon't,And gowden flowers sae rare upon't;But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,My lord thinks meikle mair upon't.
My lord a-hunting he is gone,But hounds or hawks wi'him are nane;By Colin's cottage lies his game,If Colin's Jenny be at hame.
My lady's gown,&c.
My lady's white,my lady's red,And kith and kin o'Cassillis'blude;But her ten-pund lands o'tocher gude;
Were a'the charms his lordship lo'ed.
My lady's gown,&c.
Out o'er yon muir,out o'er yon moss,Whare gor-cocks thro'the heather pass,There wons auld Colin's bonie lass,A lily in a wilderness.
My lady's gown,&c.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,Like music notes o'lovers'hymns:
The diamond-dew in her een sae blue,Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady's gown,&c.
My lady's dink,my lady's drest,The flower and fancy o'the west;But the lassie than a man lo'es best,O that's the lass to mak him blest.
My lady's gown,&c.
Epigram At Roslin Inn My blessings on ye,honest wife!
I ne'er was here before;
Ye've wealth o'gear for spoon and knife-Heart could not wish for more.
Heav'n keep you clear o'sturt and strife,Till far ayont fourscore,And while I toddle on thro'life,I'll ne'er gae by your door!
Epigram Addressed To An Artist Dear _____,I'll gie ye some advice,You'll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel's kittle wark,Wi'Nick,there's little danger:
You'll easy draw a lang-kent face,But no sae weel a stranger.-R.B.
The Book-Worms Through and through th'inspir'd leaves,Ye maggots,make your windings;But O respect his lordship's taste,And spare his golden bindings.
On Elphinstone's Translation Of Martial's Epigrams O Thou whom Poetry abhors,Whom Prose has turned out of doors,Heard'st thou yon groan?-proceed no further,'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther.
song-A Bottle And Friend There's nane that's blest of human kind,But the cheerful and the gay,man,Fal,la,la,&c.
Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair,man?
Wha kens,before his life may end,What his share may be o'care,man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,And use them as ye ought,man:
Believe me,happiness is shy,And comes not aye when sought,man.
Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns Cease,ye prudes,your envious railing,Lovely Burns has charms-confess:
True it is,she had one failing,Had a woman ever less?
Epitaph For William Nicol,Of The High School,Edinburgh Ye maggots,feed on Nicol's brain,For few sic feasts you've gotten;And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,For deil a bit o't's rotten.
Epitaph For Mr.William Michie Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish,Fifeshire.
Here lie Willie Michie's banes;
O Satan,when ye tak him,Gie him the schulin o'your weans,For clever deils he'll mak them!
Boat song-Hey,Ca'Thro'
Up wi'the carls o'Dysart,And the lads o'Buckhaven,And the kimmers o'Largo,And the lasses o'Leven.
Chorus.-Hey,ca'thro',ca'thro',For we hae muckle ado.
Hey,ca'thro',ca'thro',For we hae muckle ado;We hae tales to tell,An'we hae sangs to sing;We hae pennies tae spend,An'we hae pints to bring.
Hey,ca'thro',&c.
We'll live a'our days,And them that comes behin',Let them do the like,An'spend the gear they win.
Hey,ca'thro',&c.
Address To Wm.Tytler,Esq.,Of Woodhouselee With an Impression of the Author's Portrait.
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,Of Stuart,a name once respected;A name,which to love was the mark of a true heart,But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.
Tho'something like moisture conglobes in my eye,Let no one misdeem me disloyal;A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,Still more if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne:
My fathers have fallen to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,The Queen,and the rest of the gentry:
Be they wise,be they foolish,is nothing of mine;Their title's avow'd by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss,That gave us th'Electoral stem?
If bringing them over was lucky for us,I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.
But,loyalty,truce!we're on dangerous ground;Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine,to-day,that is loyalty sound,To-morrow may bring us a halter!
I send you a trifle,a head of a bard,A trifle scarce worthy your care;But accept it,good Sir,as a mark of regard,Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,And ushers the long dreary night:
But you,like the star that athwart gilds the sky,Your course to the latest is bright.
Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church Who was looking up the text during sermon.
Fair maid,you need not take the hint,Nor idle texts pursue:
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,Not Angels such as you.
Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech,Publisher Auld chuckie Reekie's^1sair distrest,Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava,Her darling bird that she lo'es best-Willie's awa!
O Willie was a witty wight,And had o'things an unco'sleight,Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,And trig an'braw:
But now they'll busk her like a fright,-Willie's awa!
The stiffest o'them a'he bow'd,The bauldest o'them a'he cow'd;They durst nae mair than he allow'd,That was a law:
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd;
Willie's awa!
Now gawkies,tawpies,gowks and fools,Frae colleges and boarding schools,May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw;He wha could brush them down to mools-
Willie's awa!
[Footnote 1:Edinburgh.]
The brethren o'the Commerce-chaumer May mourn their loss wi'doolfu'clamour;He was a dictionar and grammar Among them a';I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer;
Willie's awa!
Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and poets pour,And toothy critics by the score,In bloody raw!
The adjutant o'a'the core-
Willie's awa!
Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;Mackenzie,Stewart,such a brace As Rome ne'er saw;They a'maun meet some ither place,Willie's awa!
Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken,He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin,By hoodie-craw;Grieg's gien his heart an unco kickin,Willie's awa!
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,And Calvin's folk,are fit to fell him;Ilk self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw;He wha could brawlie ward their bellum-
Willie's awa!
Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,And Ettrick banks,now roaring red,While tempests blaw;But every joy and pleasure's fled,Willie's awa!
May I be Slander's common speech;
A text for Infamy to preach;
And lastly,streekit out to bleach In winter snaw;When I forget thee,Willie Creech,Tho'far awa!
May never wicked Fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem He canty claw!
Then to the blessed new Jerusalem,Fleet wing awa!
Note To Mr.Renton Of Lamerton Your billet,Sir,I grant receipt;Wi'you I'll canter ony gate,Tho''twere a trip to yon blue warl',Whare birkies march on burning marl:
Then,Sir,God willing,I'll attend ye,And to his goodness I commend ye.
R.Burns Elegy On "Stella"
The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate.There is a great deal of "The voice of Cona"in his solitary,mournful notes;and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language,they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.-R.B.
Strait is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow;And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below.
Pardon my transport,gentle shade,While o'er the turf I bow;Thy earthy house is circumscrib'd,And solitary now.
Not one poor stone to tell thy name,Or make thy virtues known:
But what avails to me-to thee,The sculpture of a stone?
I'll sit me down upon this turf,And wipe the rising tear:
The chill blast passes swiftly by,And flits around thy bier.
Dark is the dwelling of the Dead,And sad their house of rest:
Low lies the head,by Death's cold arms In awful fold embrac'd.
I saw the grim Avenger stand Incessant by thy side;Unseen by thee,his deadly breath Thy lingering frame destroy'd.
Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,And wither'd was thy bloom,Till the slow poison brought thy youth Untimely to the tomb.
Thus wasted are the ranks of men-
Youth,Health,and Beauty fall;
The ruthless ruin spreads around,And overwhelms us all.
Behold where,round thy narrow house,The graves unnumber'd lie;The multitude that sleep below Existed but to die.
Some,with the tottering steps of Age,Trod down the darksome way;And some,in youth's lamented prime,Like thee were torn away:
Yet these,however hard their fate,Their native earth receives;Amid their weeping friends they died,And fill their fathers'graves.
From thy lov'd friends,when first thy heart Was taught by Heav'n to glow,Far,far remov'd,the ruthless stroke Surpris'd and laid thee low.
At the last limits of our isle,Wash'd by the western wave,Touch'd by thy face,a thoughtful bard Sits lonely by thy grave.
Pensive he eyes,before him spread The deep,outstretch'd and vast;His mourning notes are borne away Along the rapid blast.
And while,amid the silent Dead Thy hapless fate he mourns,His own long sorrows freshly bleed,And all his grief returns:
Like thee,cut off in early youth,And flower of beauty's pride,His friend,his first and only joy,His much lov'd Stella,died.
Him,too,the stern impulse of Fate Resistless bears along;And the same rapid tide shall whelm The Poet and the Song.
The tear of pity which he sheds,He asks not to receive;Let but his poor remains be laid Obscurely in the grave.
His grief-worn heart,with truest joy,Shall meet he welcome shock:
His airy harp shall lie unstrung,And silent on the rock.
O,my dear maid,my Stella,when Shall this sick period close,And lead the solitary bard To his belov'd repose?
The Bard At Inverary Whoe'er he be that sojourns here,I pity much his case,Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God,His Grace.
There's naething here but Highland pride,And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,'Twas surely in his anger.
Epigram To Miss Jean Scott O had each Scot of ancient times Been,Jeanie Scott,as thou art;The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward.
On The Death Of John M'Leod,Esq,Brother to a young Lady,a particular friend of the Author's.
Sad thy tale,thou idle page,And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deckt 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.
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.
Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair The lamp of day,with-ill presaging glare,Dim,cloudy,sank beneath the western wave;Th'inconstant blast howl'd thro'the dark'ning air,And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;^1Or mus'd where limpid streams,once hallow'd well,^2Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.^3Th'increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky,The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
[Footnote 1:The King's Park at Holyrood House.-R.B.]
[Footnote 2:St.Anthony's well.-R.B.]
[Footnote 3:St.Anthony's Chapel.-R.B.]
The paly moon rose in the livid east.
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form In weeds of woe,that frantic beat her breast,And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd:
Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers'd that spear,redoubtable in war,Reclined that banner,erst in fields unfurl'd,That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"With accents wild and lifted arms she cried;"Low lies the hand oft was stretch'd to save,Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear;
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;The drooping arts surround their patron's bier;And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow:
But ah!how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
"My patriot falls:but shall he lie unsung,While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No;every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother's tender cares,Thro'future times to make his virtues last;That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"-She said,and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
Impromptu On Carron Iron Works We cam na here to view your warks,In hopes to be mair wise,But only,lest we gang to hell,It may be nae surprise:
But when we tirl'd at your door Your porter dought na hear us;Sae may,shou'd we to Hell's yetts come,Your billy Satan sair us!
