rabbie_burns.txt

FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.


Chorus.My hearts in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My hearts in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My hearts in the Highlands, wherever I go.


Farewell to the mountains, high-coverd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
    My hearts in the Highlands, &c.
THE SUN had closd the winter day,
The curless quat their roarin play,
And hungerd maukin taen her way,
                To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray
                Whare she has been.


The threshers weary flingin-tree,
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And when the day had closd his ee,
                Far i the west,
Ben i the spence, right pensivelie,
                I gaed to rest.


There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and eyd the spewing reek,
That filld, wi hoast-provoking smeek,
                The auld clay biggin;
An heard the restless rattons squeak
                About the riggin.


All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward musd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu prime,
                An done nae thing,
But stringing blethers up in rhyme,
                For fools to sing.


Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit
                My cash-account;
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit.
                Is a th amount.


I started, muttring, blockhead! coof!
And heavd on high my waukit loof,
To swear by a yon starry roof,
                Or some rash aith,
That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof
                Till my last breath


When click! the string the snick did draw;
An jee! the door gaed to the wa;
An by my ingle-lowe I saw,
                Now bleezin bright,
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,
                Come full in sight.


Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;
The infant aith, half-formd, was crusht
I glowrd as eeries Id been dusht
                In some wild glen;
When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht,
                An steppd ben.


Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu, round her brows;
I took her for some Scottish Muse,
                By that same token;
And come to stop those reckless vows,
                Would soon been broken.


A hair-braind, sentimental trace
Was strongly markd in her face;
A wildly-witty, rustic grace
                Shone full upon her;
Her eye, evn turnd on empty space,
                Beamd keen with honour.


Down flowd her robe, a tartan sheen,
Till half a leg was scrimply seen;
An such a leg! my bonie Jean
                Could only peer it;
Sae straught, sae taper, tight an clean
                Nane else came near it.


Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew:
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw
                A lustre grand;
And seemd, to my astonishd view,
                A well-known land.


Here, rivers in the sea were lost;
There, mountains to the skies were tosst:
Here, tumbling billows markd the coast,
                With surging foam;
There, distant shone Arts lofty boast,
                The lordly dome.


Here, Doon pourd down his far-fetchd floods;
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro his woods,
                On to the shore;
And many a lesser torrent scuds,
                With seeming roar.


Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough reard her head;
Still, as in Scottish story read,
                She boasts a race
To evry nobler virtue bred,
                And polishd grace. 2


By stately towr, or palace fair,
Or ruins pendent in the air,
Bold stems of heroes, here and there,
                I could discern;
Some seemd to muse, some seemd to dare,
                With feature stern.


My heart did glowing transport feel,
To see a race heroic 3 wheel,
And brandish round the deep-dyed steel,
                In sturdy blows;
While, back-recoiling, seemd to reel
                Their Suthron foes.


His Countrys Saviour, 4 mark him well!
Bold Richardtons heroic swell,; 5
The chief, on Sark who glorious fell, 6
                In high command;
And he whom ruthless fates expel
His native land.


There, where a sceptrd Pictish shade
Stalkd round his ashes lowly laid, 7
I markd a martial race, pourtrayd
In colours strong:
Bold, soldier-featurd, undismayd,
They strode along.


Thro many a wild, romantic grove, 8
Near many a hermit-fancied cove
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,
In musing mood),
An aged Judge, I saw him rove,
Dispensing good.


With deep-struck, reverential awe,
The learned Sire and Son I saw: 9
To Natures God, and Natures law,
They gave their lore;
This, all its source and end to draw,
That, to adore.


Brydons brave ward 10 I well could spy,
Beneath old Scotias smiling eye:
Who calld on Fame, low standing by,
                To hand him on,
Where many a patriot-name on high,
                And hero shone.


DUAN SECONDWith musing-deep, astonishd stare,
I viewd the heavenly-seeming Fair;
A whispering throb did witness bear
                Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder sisters air
                She did me greet.


All hail! my own inspired bard!
In me thy native Muse regard;
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,
                Thus poorly low;
I come to give thee such reward,
                As we bestow!


Know, the great genius of this land
Has many a light aerial band,
Who, all beneath his high command,
                Harmoniously,
As arts or arms they understand,
                Their labours ply.


They Scotias race among them share:
Some fire the soldier on to dare;
Some rouse the patriot up to bare
                Corruptions heart:
Some teach the barda darling care
                The tuneful art.


Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;
Or, mid the venal senates roar,
                They, sightless, stand,
To mend the honest patriot-lore,
                And grace the hand.


And when the bard, or hoary sage,
Charm or instruct the future age,
They bind the wild poetric rage
                In energy,
Or point the inconclusive page
                Full on the eye.


Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young;
Hence, Dempsters zeal-inspired tongue;
Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sung
                His Minstrel lays;
Or tore, with noble ardour stung,
                The sceptics bays.


To lower orders are assignd
The humbler ranks of human-kind,
The rustic bard, the labring hind,
                The artisan;
All choose, as various theyre inclind,
                The various man.


When yellow waves the heavy grain,
The threatning storm some strongly rein;
Some teach to meliorate the plain
                With tillage-skill;
And some instruct the shepherd-train,
                Blythe oer the hill.


Some hint the lovers harmless wile;
Some grace the maidens artless smile;
Some soothe the labrers weary toil
                For humble gains,
And make his cottage-scenes beguile
                His cares and pains.


Some, bounded to a district-space
Explore at large mans infant race,
To mark the embryotic trace
                Of rustic bard;
And careful note each opening grace,
                A guide and guard.


Of these am ICoila my name:
And this district as mine I claim,
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,
                Held ruling power:
I markd thy embryo-tuneful flame,
                Thy natal hour.


With future hope I oft would gaze
Fond, on thy little early ways,
Thy rudely, carolld, chiming phrase,
                In uncouth rhymes;
Fird at the simple, artless lays
                Of other times.


I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar;
                Or when the North his fleecy store
Drove thro the sky,
I saw grim Natures visage hoar
                Struck thy young eye.


Or when the deep green-mantled earth
Warm cherishd evry flowerets birth,
And joy and music pouring forth
                In evry grove;
I saw thee eye the general mirth
                With boundless love.


When ripend fields and azure skies
Calld forth the reapers rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their evning joys,
                And lonely stalk,
To vent thy bosoms swelling rise,
                In pensive walk.


When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,
Those accents grateful to thy tongue,
                Th adord Name,
I taught thee how to pour in song,
                To soothe thy flame.


I saw thy pulses maddening play,
Wild send thee Pleasures devious way,
Misled by Fancys meteor-ray,
                By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray
                Was light from Heaven.


I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, oer all my wide domains
                Thy fame extends;
And some, the pride of Coilas plains,
                Become thy friends.


Thou canst not learn, nor I can show,
To paint with Thomsons landscape glow;
Or wake the bosom-melting throe,
                With Shenstones art;
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
                Warm on the heart.


Yet, all beneath th unrivalld rose,
T e lowly daisy sweetly blows;
Tho large the forests monarch throws
                His army shade,
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,
                Adown the glade.


Then never murmur nor repine;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And trust me, not Potosis mine,
                Nor kings regard,
Can give a bliss oermatching thine,
                A rustic bard.


To give my counsels all in one,
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan:
Preserve the dignity of Man,
                With soul erect;
And trust the Universal Plan
                Will all protect.


And wear thou thisshe solemn said,
And bound the holly round my head:
The polishd leaves and berries red
                Did rustling play;
And, like a passing thought, she fled
                In light away.  [To Mrs. Stewart of Stair Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]


 Note 1. Duan, a term of Ossians for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. 2 of MPhersons translation.R. B. [back]
Note 2. The seven stanzas following this were first printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787. Other stanzas, never published by Burns himself, are given on p. 180. [back]
Note 3. The Wallaces.R. B. [back]
Note 4. William Wallace.R. B. [back]
Note 5. Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.R. B. [back]
Note 6. Wallace, laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.R. B. [back]
Note 7. Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown.R. B. [back]
Note 8. Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk.R. B. [back]
Note 9. Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and present Professor Stewart.R. B. [back]
THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare,
  Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
Th inconstant blast howld thro the darkning air,
  And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.


Lone as I wanderd by each cliff and dell,
  Once the lovd haunts of Scotias royal train; 1
Or musd where limpid streams, once hallowd well, 2
  Or mouldring ruins mark the sacred fane. 3


Th increasing blast roard round the beetling rocks,
  The clouds swift-wingd flew oer the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
  And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.


The paly moon rose in the livid east.
  And mong the cliffs disclosd a stately form
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
  And mixd her wailings with the raving storm


Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
  Twas Caledonias trophied shield I viewd:
Her form majestic droopd in pensive woe,
  The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.


Reversd that spear, redoubtable in war,
  Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurld,
That like a deathful meteor gleamd afar,
  And bravd the mighty monarchs of the world.


My patriot son fills an untimely grave!
  With accents wild and lifted armsshe cried;
Low lies the hand oft was stretchd to save,
  Low lies the heart that swelld with honest pride.


A weeping country joins a widows tear;
  The helpless poor mix with the orphans cry;
The drooping arts surround their patrons bier;
  And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!


I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
  I saw fair Freedoms 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 mothers tender cares,
  Thro future times to make his virtues last;
That distant years may boast of other Blairs!
  She said, and vanishd with the sweeping blast.


 Note 1. The Kings Park at Holyrood House.R. B. [back]
Note 2. St. Anthonys well.R. B. [back]
Note 3. St. Anthonys Chapel.R. B. [back]
FINTRY, my stay in wordly strife,
Friend o my muse, friend o my life,
            Are ye as idles I am?
Come then, wi uncouth kintra fleg,
Oer Pegasus Ill fling my leg,
            And ye shall see me try him.


But where shall I go rin a ride,
That I may splatter nane beside?
            I wad na be uncivil:
In manhoods various paths and ways
Theres aye some doytin body strays,
            And I ride like the devil.


Thus I break aff wi a my birr,
And down yon dark, deep alley spur,
            Where Theologics daunder:
Alas! curst wi eternal fogs,
And damnd in everlasting bogs,
            As sures the creed Ill blunder!


Ill stain a band, or jaup a gown,
Or rin my reckless, guilty crown
            Against the haly door:
Sair do I rue my luckless fate,
When, as the Muse an Deil wad haet,
            I rade that road before.


Suppose I take a spurt, and mix
Amang the wilds o Politics
            Electors and elected,
Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)
Septennially a madness touches,
            Till all the lands infected.


All hail! Drumlanrigs haughty Grace,
Discarded remnant of a race
            Once godlike-great in story;
Thy forbears virtues all contrasted,
The very name of Douglas blasted,
            Thine that inverted glory!


Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore,
But thou hast superadded more,
            And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have staind the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
            From aught thats good exempt!


Ill sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important cares
            Of princes, and their darlings:
And, bent on winning borough touns,
Came shaking hands wi wabster-loons,
            And kissing barefit carlins.


Combustion thro our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad
            Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry blue and buff unfurld,
And Westerha and Hopetoun hurled
            To every Whig defiance.


But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th unmannerd dust might soil his star,
            Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in C&sarean fight,
            Or Ciceronian pleading.


O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,
To muster oer each ardent Whig
            Beneath Drumlanrigs banners;
Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,
            To win immortal honours.


MMurdo and his lovely spouse,
(Th enamourd laurels kiss her brows!)
            Led on the Loves and Graces:
She won each gaping burgess heart,
While he, sub rosa, played his part
            Amang their wives and lasses.


Craigdarroch led a light-armd core,
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,
            Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel, skilld in rusty coins,
Blew up each Torys dark designs,
            And bared the treason under.


In either wing two champions fought;
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought
            The wildest savage Tory;
And Welsh who neer yet flinchd his ground,
High-wavd his magnum-bonum round
            With Cyclopeian fury.


Miller brought up th artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
            Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
Mid Lawsons port entrenchd his hold,
            And threatend worse damnation.


To these what Tory hosts opposd
With these what Tory warriors closd
            Surpasses my descriving;
Squadrons, extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
            Like furious devils driving.


What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody Fate,
            Amid this mighty tulyie!
Grim Horror girnd, pale Terror roard,
As Murder at his thrapple shord,
            And Hell mixd in the brulyie.


As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,
            Hurl down with crashing rattle;
As flames among a hundred woods,
As headlong foam from a hundred floods,
            Such is the rage of Battle.


The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly
            Before th approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Oceans roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
            Against the Buchan Bullers.


Lo, from the shades of Deaths deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,
            And think on former daring:
The muffled murtherer of Charles
The Magna Charter flag unfurls,
            All deadly gules its bearing.


Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham;
            Auld Covenanters shiver
Forgive! forgive! much-wrongd Montrose!
Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,
            Thou livst on high for ever.


Still oer the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
            But Fate the word has spoken:
For womans wit and strength oman,
Alas! can do but what they can;
            The Tory ranks are broken.


O that my een were flowing burns!
My voice, a lioness that mourns
            Her darling cubs undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,
            And furious Whigs pursuing!


What Whig but melts for good Sir James,
Dear to his country, by the names,
            Friend, Patron, Benefactor!
Not Pulteneys wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave;
            And Stewart, bold as Hector.


Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,
            And Melville melt in wailing:
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise!
            Thy power is all-prevailing!


For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,
            A cool spectator purely!
So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
            And sober chirps securely.


Now, for my friends and brethrens sakes,
And for my dear-lovd Land o Cakes,
            I pray with holy fire:
Lord, send a rough-shod troop o Hell
Oer a wad Scotland buy or sell,
            To grind them in the mire!
WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.


  This truth fand honest TAM O SHANTER,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham neer a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).


  O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kates advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That evry naig was cad a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin fou on;
That at the Lds house, evn on Sunday,
Thou drank wi Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drownd in Doon,
Or catchd wi warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloways auld, haunted kirk.


  Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthend, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!


  But to our tale:Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam loed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi sangs an clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlords laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.


  Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
Een drownd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi lades o treasure,
The minutes wingd their way wi pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
Oer a the ills o life victorious!


  But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flowr, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment whitethen melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbows lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o nights black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As neer poor sinner was abroad in.


  The wind blew as twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.


  Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning oer some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glowrin round wi prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.


  By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoord;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie braks neck-bane;
And thro the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murderd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungos mither hangd hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seemd in a bleeze,
Thro ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.


  Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi usquabae, well face the devil!
The swats sae reamd in Tammies noddle,
Fair play, he card na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonishd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonishd,
She venturd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!


  Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screwd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a did dirl.
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shawd the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderers banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a fathers throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi mair of horrible and awfu,
Which even to name wad be unlawfu.


  As Tammie glowrd, amazd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
The reeld, they set, they crossd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!


  Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o the bonie burdies!
But witherd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an flinging on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.


  But Tam kent what was what fu brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after kend on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perishd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots (twas a her riches),
Wad ever gracd a dance of witches!


  But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithcd,
And thought his very een enrichd:
Even Satan glowrd, and fidgd fu fain,
And hotchd and blew wi might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, Weel done, Cutty-sark!
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.


  As bees bizz out wi angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussies mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When Catch the thief! resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.


  Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thoull get thy fairin!
In hell, theyll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o the brig;
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggies mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.


  Now, wha this tale o truth shall read,
Ilk man and mothers son, take heed:
Wheneer to Drink you are inclind,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys oer dear;
Remember Tam o Shanters mare.
O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
  Draw near with pious revrence, and attend!
Here lie the loving husbands dear remains,
  The tender father, and the genrous friend;
The pitying heart that felt for human woe,
  The dauntless heart that feard no human pride;
The friend of man-to vice alone a foe;
  For evn his failings leand to virtues side. 1


 Note 1. Goldsmith.R. B. [back]
A Tale

"Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke."
                              Gawin Douglas.

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak' the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o'Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon;
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment whitethen melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he tak's the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The De'il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst mak' us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonished,
Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shawed the Dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip sleight
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The Piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But withered beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie:
`There was ae winsome wench and waulie',
That night enlisted in the core
(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perished mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched,
And thought his very een enriched;
Even Satan glowered, and fidged fu' fain,
And hotched and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclined,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o'Shanter's mare.
GANE is the day, and mirks the night,
But well neer stray for faut o light;
Gude ale and bratdys stars and moon,
And blue-red wines the risin sun.


Chorus.Then gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then gudewife, count the lawin,
    And bring a coggie mair.


Theres wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun fecht and fen;
But here were a in ae accord,
For ilka man thats drunks a lord.
            Then gudewife, &c.


My coggie is a haly pool
That heals the wounds o care and dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton trout,
An ye drink it a, yell find him out.
            Then gudewife, &c.
A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
    All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o dawn are fled,
In a its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
    It scents the early morning.


Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
    Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewd,
    Awake the early morning.


So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
    That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parents evening ray
    That watchd thy early morning.
WHEN dear Clarinda, 1 matchless fair,
  First struck Sylvanders rapturd view,
He gazd, he listened to despair,
  Alas! twas all he dared to do.


Love, from Clarindas heavenly eyes,
  Transfixed his bosom thro and thro;
But still in Friendships guarded guise,
  For more the demon feard to do.


That heart, already more than lost,
  The imp beleaguerd all perdue;
For frowning Honour kept his post
  To meet that frown, he shrunk to do.


His pangs the Bard refused to own,
  Tho half he wishd Clarinda knew;
But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan
  Who blames what frantic Pain must do?


That heart, where motley follies blend,
  Was sternly still to Honour true:
To prove Clarindas fondest friend,
  Was what a lover sure might do.


The Muse his ready quill employed,
  No nearer bliss he could pursue;
That bliss Clarinda cold denyd
  Send word by Charles how you do!


The chill behest disarmd his muse,
  Till passion all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
  Twas, cause hed nothing else to do.


But by those hopes I have above!
  And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
  For thee that deed I dare uo do!


O could the Fates but name the price
  Would bless me with your charms and you!
With frantic joy Id pay it thrice,
  If human art and power could do!


Then take, Clarinda, friendships hand,
  (Friendship, at least, I may avow;)
And lay no more your chill command,
  Ill write whatever Ive to do.SYLVANDER.


 Note 1. A grass-widow, Mrs. MLehose. [back]
WITH secret throes I marked that earth,
That cottage, witness of my birth;
And near I saw, bold issuing forth
                  In youthful pride,
A Lindsay race of noble worth,
                  Famed far and wide.


Where, hid behind a spreading wood,
An ancient Pict-built mansion stood,
I spied, among an angel brood,
                  A female pair;
Sweet shone their high maternal blood,
                  And fathers air. 1


An ancient tower 2 to memory brought
How Dettingens bold hero fought;
Still, far from sinking into nought,
                  It owns a lord
Who far in western climates fought,
                  With trusty sword.


Among the rest I well could spy
One gallant, graceful, martial boy,
The soldier sparkled in his eye,
                  A diamond water.
I blest that noble badge with joy,
                  That owned me frater. 3


After 20th stanza of the text (at Dispensing good):Near by arose a mansion fine 4
The seat of many a muse divine;
Not rustic muses such as mine,
                  With holly crownd,
But th ancient, tuneful, laurelld Nine,
                  From classic ground.


I mournd the card that Fortune dealt,
To see where bonie Whitefoords dwelt; 5
But other prospects made me melt,
                  That village near; 6
There Nature, Friendship, Love, I felt,
                  Fond-mingling, dear!


Hail! Natures pang, more strong than death!
Warm Friendships glow, like kindling wrath!
Love, dearer than the parting breath
                  Of dying friend!
Not evn with lifes wild devious path,
                  Your force shall end!


The Power that gave the soft alarms
In blooming Whitefoords rosy charms,
Still threats the tiny, featherd arms,
                  The barbed dart,
While lovely Wilhelmina warms
                  The coldest heart. 7


After 21st stanza of the text (at That, to adore):Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid, 8
Where lately Want was idly laid,
I markd busy, bustling Trade,
                  In fervid flame,
Beneath a Patroness aid,
                  Of noble name.


Wild, countless hills I could survey,
And countless flocks as wild as they;
But other scenes did charms display,
                  That better please,
Where polishd manners dwell with Gray,
                  In rural ease. 9


Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound; 10
And Irwine, marking out the bound,
Enamourd of the scenes around,
                  Slow runs his race,
A name I doubly honourd found, 11
                  With knightly grace.


Brydons brave ward, 12 I saw him stand,
Fame humbly offering her hand,
And near, his kinsmans rustic band, 13
                  With one accord,
Lamenting their late blessed land
                  Must change its lord.


The owner of a pleasant spot,
Near and sandy wilds, I last did note; 14
A heart too warm, a pulse too hot
                  At times, oerran:
But large in evry feature wrote,
                  Appeard the Man.


 Note 1. Sundrum.R. B. [back]
Note 2. Stair.R. B. [back]
Note 3. Captain James Montgomerie, Master of St. James Lodge, Tarbolton, to which the author has the honour to belong.R. B. [back]
Note 4. Auchinleck.R. B. [back]
Note 5. Ballochmyle. [back]
Note 6. Mauchline. [back]
Note 7. Miss Wilhelmina Alexander. [back]
Note 8. Cumnock.R. B. [back]
Note 9. Mr. Farquhar Gray.R. B. [back]
Note 10. Auchinskieth.R. B. [back]
Note 11. Caprington.R. B. [back]
Note 12. Colonel Fullerton.R. B. [back]
Note 13. Dr. Fullerton.R. B. [back]
Note 14. Orangefield.R. B. [back]
I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North.
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.


Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall
The Whistles your challenge, to Scotland get oer,
And drink them to hell, Sir! or neer see me more!


Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions venturd, what champions fell:
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.


Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatchd at the bottle, unconquerd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;
No tide of the Baltic eer drunker than he.


Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gaind;
Which now in his house has for ages remaind;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renewd.


Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw
Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilld in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.


Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.


By the gods of the ancients! Downrightly replies,
Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
Ill conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn with him twenty times oer.


Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he neer turnd his back on his foe, or his friend;
Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,
And, knee-deep in claret, hed die ere hed yield.


To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.


A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wishd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.


The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And evry new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.


Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran oer:
Bright Phoebus neer witnessd so joyous a core,
And vowd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted hed see them next morn.


Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turnd oer in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore twas the way that their ancestor did.


Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;
A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;
He left the foul business to folks less divine.


The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend!
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.


Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:
Craigdarroch, thoult soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Comeone bottle moreand have at the sublime!


Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!
MY girl shes airy, shes buxom and gay;
Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;
    A touch of her lips it ravishes quite:
Shes always good naturd, good humourd, and free;
She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me;
    I never am happy when out of her sight.
HEAR, Land o Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groats;
If theres a hole in a your coats,
                  I rede you tent it:
A chields amang you takin notes,
                  And, faith, hell prent it:


If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight,
O stature short, but genius bright,
                  Thats he, mark weel;
And wow! he has an unco sleight
                  O cauk and keel.


By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
Its ten to ane yell find him snug in
                  Some eldritch part,
Wi deils, they say, Ld saves! colleaguin
                  At some black art.


Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you, deep-read in hells black grammar,
                  Warlocks and witches,
Yell quake at his conjuring hammer,
                  Ye midnight bitches.


Its tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fan than fled;
But now hes quat the spurtle-blade,
                  And dog-skin wallet,
And taen theAntiquarian trade,
                  I think they call it.


He has a fouth o auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
                  A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
                  Before the flood.


Of Eves first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcains fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
                  O Balaams ass:
A broomstick o the witch of Endor,
                  Weel shod wi brass.


Forbye, hell shape you aff fu gleg
The cut of Adams philibeg;
The knife that nickit Abels craig
                  Hell prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
                  Or lang-kail gullie.


But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
                  Gude fellows wi him:
And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
                  And THEN yell see him!


Now, by the Powrs o verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!
Whaeer o thee shall ill suppose,
                  They sair misca thee;
Id take the rascal by the nose,
                  Wad say, Shame fa thee!
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
  Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
  Perhaps I must appear!


If I have wanderd in those paths
  Of life I ought to shun,
As something, loudly, in my breast,
  Remonstrates I have done;


Thou knowst that Thou hast formed me
  With passions wild and strong;
And listning to their witching voice
  Has often led me wrong.


Where human weakness has come short,
  Or frailty stept aside,
Do Thou, All-Good-for such Thou art
  In shades of darkness hide.


Where with intention I have errd,
  No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
  Delighteth to forgive.
O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,
  And loud the tempests roar;
A waefu wanderer seeks thy tower,
  Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her fathers ha,
  And a for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
  If love it may na be.


Lord Gregory, mindst thou not the grove
  By bonie Irwine side,
Where first I ownd that virgin love
  I lang, lang had denied.
How aften didst thou pledge and vow
  Thou wad for aye be mine!
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
  It neer mistrusted thine.


Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
  And flinty is thy breast:
Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by,
  O, wilt thou bring me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,
  Your willing victim see;
But spare and pardon my fause Love,
  His wrangs to Heaven and me.
WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood
  An 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.


Then thro the lakes Montgomery takes,
  I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowries Burn he took a turn,
  And Carleton did ca, man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
  Montgomery-like did fa, man,
Wi sword in hand, before his band,
  Amang his enmies a, man.


Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
  Was kept at Boston-ha, man;
Till Willie Howe took oer the knowe
  For Philadelphia, man;
Wi sword an gun he thought a sin
  Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi knife an fork,
  Sir-Loin he hacked sma, man.


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 langs he dought,
  An did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clintons glaive frae rust to save,
  He hung it to the wa, man.


Then Montague, an Guilford too,
  Began to fear, a fa, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
  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 lowsd his tinkler jaw, man.


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 Stephens boys, wi jarring noise,
  They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an Fox united stocks,
  An bore him to the wa, man.


Then clubs an hearts were Charlies cartes,
  He swept the stakes awa, man,
Till the diamonds ace, of Indian race,
  Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi loud placads,
  On Chathams boy did ca, man;
An Scotland drew her pipe an blew,
  Up, Willie, waur them a, man!


Behind the throne then Granvilles gone,
  A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arousd the class
  Be-north the Roman wa, man:
An Chathams wraith, in heavnly graith,
  (Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi kindling eyes, cryd, Willie, rise!
  Would I hae feard them a, man?


But, word an blow, North, Fox, and Co.
  Gowffd Willie like a ba, man;
Till Suthron raise, an 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 bluid,
  To mak it guid in law, man.
FAREWELL, old Scotias bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
  Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mothers blessing dear!
A borthers sigh! a sisters tear!
  My Jeans heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho thourt bereft
  Of my paternal care.
A faithful brother I have left,
  My part in him thoult share!
    Adieu, too, to you too,
      My Smith, my bosom frien;
    When kindly you mind me,
      O then befriend my Jean!


What bursting anguish tears my heart;
From thee, my Jeany, must I part!
  Thou, weeping, answrestNo!
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
  I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
  A grateful, warm adieu:
I, with a much-indebted tear,
  Shall still remember you!
    All hail then, the gale then,
      Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
    It rustles, and whistles
      Ill never see thee more!
YE Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear,
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear,
  Ye Jacobites by name,
  Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.


What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law?
What is Right and what is Wrang by the law?
  What is Right, and what is Wrang?
  A short sword, and a lang,
A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.


What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife famed afar?
  What makes heroic strife?
  To whet th assassins knife,
Or hunt a Parents life, wi bluidy war?


Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state,
Then let your schemes alone in the state.
  Then let your schemes alone,
  Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man undone, to his fate.
THERE was three kings into the east,
  Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
  John Barleycorn should die.


They took a plough and ploughd him down,
  Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
  John Barleycorn was dead.


But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
  And showrs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
  And sore surprisd them all.


The sultry suns of Summer came,
  And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel armd wi pointed spears,
  That no one should him wrong.


The sober Autumn enterd mild,
  When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
  Showd he began to fail.


His colour sickend more and more,
  He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
  To show their deadly rage.


Theyve taen a weapon, long and sharp,
  And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
  Like a rogue for forgerie.


They laid him down upon his back,
  And cudgelld him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
  And turned him oer and oer.


They filled up a darksome pit
  With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
  There let him sink or swim.


They laid him out upon the floor,
  To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appeard,
  They tossd him to and fro.


They wasted, oer a scorching flame,
  The marrow of his bones;
But a miller usd him worst of all,
  For he crushd him between two stones.


And they hae taen his very hearts blood,
  And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
  Their joy did more abound.


John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
  Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
  Twill make your courage rise.


Twill make a man forget his woe;
  Twill heighten all his joy;
Twill make the widows heart to sing,
  Tho the tear were in her eye.


Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
  Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
  Neer fail in old Scotland!
FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows
  Around Elizas dwelling;
O memry! spare the cruel thoes
  Within my bosom swelling.
Condemnd to drag a hopeless chain
  And yet in secret languish;
To feel a fire in every vein,
  Nor dare disclose my anguish.


Loves veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
  I fain my griefs would cover;
The bursting sigh, th unweeting groan,
  Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doomst me to despair,
  Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;
But, O Eliza, hear one prayer
  For pitys sake forgive me!


The music of thy voice I heard,
  Nor wist while it enslavd me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing feard,
  Till fears no more had savd me:
Th unwary sailor thus, aghast
  The wheeling torrent viewing,
Mid circling horrors sinks at last,
  In overwhelming ruin.
THINE am I, my faithful Fair,
  Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Evry pulse along my veins,
  Evry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart,
  There to throb and languish;
Tho despair had wrung its core,
  That would heal its anguish.


Take away those rosy lips,
  Rich with balmy treasure;
Turn away thine eyes of love,
  Lest I die with pleasure!
What is life when wanting Love?
  Night without a morning:
Loves the cloudless summer sun,
  Nature gay adorning.
WHEN Princes and Prelates,
  And hot-headed zealots,
A Europe had set in a low, a low,
  The poor man lies down,
  Nor envies a crown,
And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow,
And comforts himself as he dow.


  The black-headed eagle,
  As keen as a beagle,
He hunted oer height and oer howe,
  In the braes o Gemappe,
  He fell in a trap,
Een let him come out as he dow, dow, dow,
Een let him come out as he dow.
                                      But truce with commotions,
  And new-fangled notions,
A bumper, I trust youll allow;
  Heres George our good king,
  And Charlotte his queen,
And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow,
And lang may they ring as they dow.
YE Irish lords, ye knights an squires,
Wha represent our brughs an shires,
An doucely manage our affairs
                    In parliament,
To you a simple poets prayrs
                    Are humbly sent.


Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours hearts wi grief twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her arse
                    Low i the dust,
And scriechinh out prosaic verse,
                    An like to brust!


Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an mes in great affliction,
Eer sin they laid that curst restriction
                    On aqua-vit&;
An rouse them up to strong conviction,
                    An move their pity.


Stand forth an tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o mine an Scotlands drouth,
                    His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south
                    If ye dissemble!


Does ony great man glunch an gloom?
Speak out, an never fash your thumb!
Let posts an pensions sink or soom
                    Wi them wha grant them;
If honestly they canna come,
                    Far better want them.


In gathrin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Neer claw your lug, an fidge your back,
                    An hum an haw;
But raise your arm, an tell your crack
                    Before them a.


Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as tooms a whissle;
An dmnd excisemen in a bussle,
                    Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushint like a mussel,
                    Or limpet shell!


Then, on the tither hand present her
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner
                    Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter
                    Of a kind coin.


Is there, that bears the name o Scot,
But feels his hearts bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mithers pot
                    Thus dung in staves,
An plunderd o her hindmost groat
                    By gallows knaves?


Alas! Im but a nameless wight,
Trode i the mire out o sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
                    Or gab like Boswell, 2
Theres some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
                    An tie some hose well.


God bless your Honours! can ye seet
The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,
An no get warmly to your feet,
                    An gar them hear it,
An tell them wia patriot-heat
                    Ye winna bear it?


Some o you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an pause,
An with rhetoric clause on clause
                    To mak harangues;
Then echo thro Saint Stephens was
                    Auld Scotlands wrangs.


Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot Ise warran;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4
An that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
                    The Laird o Graham; 5
An ane, a chap thats damnd aulfarran,
                    Dundas his name: 6


Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8
An Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9
                    An mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
                    Might own for brithers.


See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented,
If poets eer are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted,
                    Yed lend a hand;
But when theres ought to say anent it,
                    Yere at a stand.


Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! Ill wad my new pleugh-pettle,
                    Yell seet or lang,
Shell teach you, wi a reekin whittle,
                    Anither sang.


This while shes been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fird her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
                    Playd her that pliskie!)
An now shes like to rin red-wud
                    About her whisky.


An Lord! if ance they pit her tillt,
Her tartan petticoat shell kilt,
Andurk an pistol at her belt,
                    Shell tak the streets,
An rin her whittle to the hilt,
                    I the first she meets!


For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
An straik her cannie wi the hair,
An to the muckle house repair,
                    Wi instant speed,
An strive, wi a your wit an lear,
                    To get remead.


Yon ill-tongud tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi his jeers and mocks;
But gie himt het, my hearty cocks!
                    Een cowe the cadie!
An send him to his dicing box
                    An sportin lady.


Tell you guid bluid o auld Boconnocks, 11
Ill be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An drink his health in auld Nance Tinnocks 12
                    Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an winnocks,
                    Was kindly seek.


Could he some commutation broach,
Ill pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach
                    Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,
                    The Coalition.


Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
Shes just a devil wi a rung;
An if she promise auld or young
                    To tak their part,
Tho by the neck she should be strung,
                    Shell no desert.


And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mithers heart support ye;
Then, thoa minister grow dorty,
                    An kick your place,
Yell snap your gingers, poor an hearty,
                    Before his face.


God bless your Honours, a your days,
Wi sowps o kail and brats o claise,
In spite o a the thievish kaes,
                    That haunt St. Jamies!
Your humble poet sings an prays,
                    While Rab his name is.


POSTSCRIPTLET half-starvd slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clustring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland nere envies,
                    But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
                    Tak aff their whisky.


What tho their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,
When wretches range, in famishd swarms,
                    The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
                    In hungry droves!


Their guns a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o powther;
Their bauldest thoughts a hankring swither
                    To stan or rin,
Till skelpa shottheyre aff, athrowther,
                    To save their skin.


But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal Georges will,
                    An theres the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill
                    Twa at a blow.


Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi fearless eye he sees him;
Wibluidy hand a welcome gies him;
                    An when he fas,
His latest draught o breathin leaes him
                    In faint huzzas.


Sages their solemn een may steek,
An raise a philosophic reek,
An physically causes seek,
                    In clime an season;
But tell me whiskys name in Greek
                    Ill tell the reason.


Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o heather,
                    Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an whisky gang thegither!
                    Take aff your dram!


 Note 1. This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.R. B. [back]
Note 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. [back]
Note 3. George Dempster of Dunnichen. [back]
Note 4. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. [back]
Note 5. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. [back]
Note 6. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. [back]
Note 7. Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. [back]
Note 8. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. [back]
Note 9. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. [back]
Note 10. Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. [back]
Note 11. Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. [back]
Note 12. A worthy old hostess of the authors in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.R. B. [back]
FY, let us a to Kirkcudbright,
  For there will be bickerin there;
For Murrays light horse are to muster,
  And O how the heroes will swear!
And there will be Murray, Commander,
  And Gordon, the battle to win;
Like brothers theyll stand by each other,
  Sae knit in alliance and kin.


And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
  The tongue o the trump to them a;
An he get na Hell for his haddin,
  The Deil gets na justice ava.
And there will be Kempletons birkie,
  A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob fortune,
  Well een let the subject alane.


And there will be Wigtons new Sheriff;
  Dame Justice fu brawly has sped,
Shes gotten the heart of a Bushby,
  But, Lord! whats become o the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
  Sae mighty in Cardoness eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
  The Devil the prey will despise.


And there will be Douglasses doughty,
  New christening towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
  By kissin the  o a Peer:
And there will be folk frae Saint Marys
  A house o great merit and note;
The deil ane but honours them highly
  The deil ane will gie them his vote!


And there will be Kenmure sae genrous,
  Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
  He lent them his name in the Firm.
And there will be lads o the gospel,
  Muirhead whas as gude as hes true;
And there will be Buittles Apostle,
  Whas mair o the black than the blue.


And there will be Logan MDowall,
  Sculduddry an he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot o Galloway,
  Sogering, gunpowder Blair.
But we winna mention Redcastle,
  The body, een let him escape!
Hed venture the gallows for siller,
  An twere na the cost o the rape.


But where is the Doggerbank hero,
  That made Hogan Mogan to skulk?
Poor Keiths gane to hell to be fuel,
  The auld rotten wreck of a Hulk.
And where is our Kings Lord Lieutenant,
  Sae famd for his gratefu return?
The birkie is gettin his Questions
  To say in Saint Stephens the morn.


But mark ye! theres trusty Kerroughtree,
  Whose honor was ever his law;
If the Virtues were packd in a parcel,
  His worth might be sample for a;
And strang an respectfus his backing,
  The maist o the lairds wi him stand;
Nae gipsy-like nominal barons,
  Whas propertys papernot land.


And there, frae the Niddisdale borders,
  The Maxwells will gather in droves,
Teugh Jockie, staunch Geordie, an Wellwood,
  That griens for the fishes and loaves;
And there will be Heron, the Major,
  Whall neer be forgot in the Greys;
Our flattry well keep for some other,
  HIM, only its justice to praise.


And there will be maiden Kilkerran,
  And also Barskimmings gude Knight,
And there will be roarin Birtwhistle,
  Yet luckily roars i the right.
And therell be Stamp Office Johnie,
  (Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!)
And there will be gay Cassencarry,
  And therell be gleg Colonel Tam.


And therell be wealthy young Richard,
  Dame Fortune should hing by the neck,
For prodigal, thriftless bestowing
  His merit had won him respect.
And there will be rich brother Nabobs,
  (Tho Nabobs, yet men not the worst,)
And there will be Colliestons whiskers,
  And Quintina lad o the first.


Then hey! the chaste Interest o Broughton
  And hey! for the blessins twill bring;
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
  In Sodom twould make him a king;
And hey! for the sanctified Murray,
  Our land wha wi chapels has stord;
He founderd his horse among harlots,
  But gied the auld naig to the Lord.
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Nights 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 Ive no more to say,
Give me Marias 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.
NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
  No lyre olian I awake;
Tis libertys bold note I swell,
  Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
  And dash it in a tyrants face,
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is feared
  No more the despot of Columbias race!
A tyrants proudest insults bravd,
They shouta People freed! They hail an Empire saved.


Where is mans god-like form?
  Where is that brow erect and bold
  That eye that can unmovd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That eer created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despots nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
  Canst laud the hand that struck th insulting blow!
Art thou of mans Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
  Each skulking feature answers, No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
Columbias offspring, brave as free,
In dangers hour still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!


Alfred! on thy starry throne,
  Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
  The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
  And rousd the freeborn Britons soul of fire,
No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design,
  To make detested tyrants bleed?
  Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
  Beneath her hostile banners waving,
  Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls, The tyrants cause is mine!
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice
And hell, thro all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!


Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
Famd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
  To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,
  Beneath that hallowd turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
  Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
  Disturb not ye the heros sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
  Blasting the despots proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which, nervd with thundering fate,
  Crushd Usurpations boldest daring!
Dark-quenchd as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance lightens afar;
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
MY heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
  Some counsel unto me come len,
To anger them a is a pity,
  But what will I do wi Tam Glen?


Im thinking, wi sic a braw fellow,
  In poortith I might mak a fen;
What care I in riches to wallow,
  If I maunna marry Tam Glen!


Theres Lowrie the Laird o Dumeller
  Gude day to you, brute! he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o his siller,
  But when will he dance like Tam Glen!


My minnie does constantly deave me,
  And bids me beware o young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me,
  But wha can think sae o Tam Glen!


My daddie says, gin Ill forsake him,
  Hed gie me gude hunder marks ten;
But, if its ordaind I maun take him,
  O wha will I get but Tam Glen!


Yestreen at the Valentines dealing,
  My heart to my mou gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
  And thrice it was written Tam Glen!


The last Halloween I was waukin
  My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken,
His likeness came up the house staukin,
  And the very grey breeks o Tam Glen!


Come, counsel, dear Tittie, dont tarry;
  Ill gie ye my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
  The lad I loe dearly, Tam Glen.
ChorusO aye my wife she dang me,
  An aft my wife she bangd me,
If ye gie a woman a her will,
  Gude faith! shell soon oer-gang ye.


ON peace an rest my mind was bent,
  And, fool I was! I married;
But never honest mans intent
  Sane cursedly miscarried.
          O aye my wife, &c.


Some sairie comfort at the last,
  When a thir days are done, man,
My pains o hell on earth is past,
  Im sure o bliss aboon, man,
          O aye my wife, &c.
IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
  Your heavy loss deplore;
Now, half extinct your powers of song,
  Sweet Echo is no more.


Ye jarring, screeching things around,
  Scream your discordant joys;
Now, half your din of tuneless sound
  With Echo silent lies.
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 furrowed brow.


So in lone Povertys dominion drear,
  Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
  Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought 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 heavn bestowd, that mite with thee Ill share.
WHEN wild wars deadly blast was blawn,
  And gentle peace returning,
Wi mony a sweet babe fatherless,
  And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
  Where lang Id been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a my wealth,
  A poor and honest sodger.


A leal, light heart was in my breast,
  My hand unstaind wi plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
  I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks o Coil,
  I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
  That caught my youthful fancy.


At length I reachd the bonie glen,
  Where early life I sported;
I passd the mill and trysting thorn,
  Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
  Down by her mothers dwelling!
And turnd me round to hide the flood
  That in my een was swelling.


Wi alterd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass,
  Sweet as yon hawthorns blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
  Thats dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, Ive far to gang,
  And fain would be thy lodger;
Ive servd my king and country lang
  Take pity on a sodger.


Sae wistfully she gazd on me,
  And lovelier was than ever;
Quo she, A sodger ance I loed,
  Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
  Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge-the dear cockade,
  Yere welcome for the sake ot.


She gazdshe reddend like a rose
  Syne pale like only lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
  Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky!
  By whom true loves regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
  True lovers be rewarded.


The wars are oer, and Im come hame,
  And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho poor in gear, were rich in love,
  And mair wese neer be parted.
Quo she, My grandsire left me gowd,
  A mailen plenishd fairly;
And come, my faithfu sodger lad,
  Thourt welcome to it dearly!


For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
  The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodgers prize,
  The sodgers wealth is honor:
The brave poor sodger neer despise,
  Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember hes his countrys stay,
  In day and hour of danger.
O WHA my babie-clouts will buy?
O wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?
  The rantin dog, the daddie ot.


O wha will own he did the faut?
O wha will buy the groanin maut?
O wha will tell me how to cat?
  The rantin dog, the daddie ot.


When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, Ill seek nae mair,
  The rantin dog, the daddie ot.


Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin fain?
Wha will kiss me oer again?
  The rantin dog, the daddie ot.
TIS Friendships pledge, my young, fair Friend,
  Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
  The moralising Muse.


Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,
  Must bid the world adieu,
(A world gainst Peace in constant arms)
  To join the Friendly Few.


Since, thy gay morn of life oercast,
  Chill came the tempests lour;
(And neer Misfortunes eastern blast
  Did nip a fairer flower.)


Since lifes gay scenes must charm no more,
  Still much is left behind,
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store
  The comforts of the mind!


Thine is the self-approving glow,
  Of conscious Honours part;
And (dearest gift of Heaven below)
  Thine Friendships truest heart.


The joys refind of Sense and Taste,
  With every Muse to rove:
And doubly were the Poet blest,
  These joys could he improve.R.B.
O MY Luves like a red, red rose,
  Thats newly sprung in June:
O my Luves like the melodie,
  Thats sweetly playd in tune.


As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
  So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  Till a the seas gang dry.


Till a the seas gang dry, my dear,
  And the rocks melt wi the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  While the sands o life shall run.


And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
  And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
  Tho twere ten thousand mile!
O THOU, who in the heavens does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to heaven an ten to hell,
                A for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude or ill
                Theyve done afore Thee!


I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore Thy sight,
                For gifts an grace
A burning and a shining light
                To a this place.


What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve most just damnation
                For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere my creation,
                Thro Adams cause?


When frae my mithers womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
                In burnin lakes,
Where damned devils roar and yell,
                Chaind to their stakes.


Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
Im here a pillar o Thy temple,
                Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
                To a Thy flock.


O Ld, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an swearers swear,
An singin there, an dancin here,
                Wi great and sma;
For I am keepit by Thy fear
                Free frae them a.


But yet, O Ld! confess I must,
At times Im fashd wi fleshly lust:
An sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
                Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we are dust,
                Defild wi sin.


O Ld! yestreen, Thou kens, wi Meg
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O! mayt neer be a livin plague
                To my dishonour,
An Ill neer lift a lawless leg
                Again upon her.


Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi Leezies lass, three times I trow
But Ld, that Friday I was fou,
                When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
                Wad never steer her.


Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant een and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high shoud turn,
                That hes sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han maun een be borne,
                Until Thou lift it.


Ld, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But Gd confound their stubborn face,
                An blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
                An public shame.


Ld, mind Gawn Hamiltons deserts;
He drinks, an swears, an plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin arts,
                Wi great and sma,
Frae Gds ain priest the peoples hearts
                He steals awa.


An when we chastend him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
An set the warld in a roar
                O laughing at us;
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
                Kail an potatoes.


Ld, hear my earnest cry and prayr,
Against that Presbytry o Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Ld, make it bare
                Upo their heads;
Ld visit them, an dinna spare,
                For their misdeeds.


O Ld, my Gd! that glib-tongud Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin,
                An pd wi dread,
While he, wi hingin lip an snakin,
                Held up his head.


Ld, in Thy day o vengeance try him,
Ld, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in Thy mercy by em,
                Nor hear their prayr,
But for Thy peoples sake, destroy em,
                An dinna spare.


But, Ld, remember me an mine
Wi mercies tempral an divine,
That I for grace an gear may shine,
                Excelld by nane,
And a the glory shall be thine,
                Amen, Amen!
EARTHD up, here lies an imp o hell,
  Planted by Satans dibble;
Poor silly wretch, hes damned himsel,
  To save the Lord the trouble.
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An bar the doors wi driving snaw,
  An hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An spin a verse or twa o rhyme,
  In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
  Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folks gift,
  That live sae bien an snug:
    I tent less, and want less
      Their roomy fire-side;
    But hanker, and canker,
      To see their cursed pride.


Its hardly in a bodys powr
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
  To see how things are shard;
How best o chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
  And ken na how to wairt;
But, Davie, lad, neer fash your head,
  Tho we hae little gear;
Were fit to win our daily bread,
  As langs were hale and fier:
    Mair spier na, nor fear na, 1
      Auld age neer mind a feg;
    The last ot, the warst ot
      Is only but to beg.


To lie in kilns and barns at een,
When banes are crazd, and bluid is thin,
  Is doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could make us blest;
Evn then, sometimes, wed snatch a taste
  Of truest happiness.
The honest heart thats free frae a
  Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba,
  Has aye some cause to smile;
    An mind still, youll find still,
      A comfort this nae sma;
    Nae mair then well care then,
      Nae farther can we fa.


What tho, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
  But either house or hal,
Yet natures charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
  Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,
  And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
  To see the coming year:
    On braes when we please, then,
      Well sit an sowth a tune;
    Syne rhyme tillt well time tillt,
      An singt when we hae done.


Its no in titles nor in rank;
Its no in wealth like Lonon bank,
  To purchase peace and rest:
Its no in makin muckle, mair;
Its no in books, its no in lear,
  To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
  An centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
  But never can be blest;
    Nae treasures, nor pleasures
      Could make us happy lang;
    The heart ayes the part aye
      That makes us right or wrang.


Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge an drive thro wet and dry,
  Wi never ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
  As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
  Gods creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a thats guid,
  They riot in excess!
    Baith careless and fearless
      Of either heaven or hell;
    Esteeming and deeming
      Its a an idle tale!


Then let us cheerfu acquiesce,
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
  By pining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi some
  Ans thankfu for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
  They let us ken oursel;
They make us see the naked truth,
  The real guid and ill:
    Tho losses an crosses
      Be lessons right severe,
    Theres wit there, yell get there,
      Yell find nae other where.


But tent me, Davie, ace o hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
  And flattry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
An joys that riches neer could buy,
  An joys the very best.
Theres a the pleasures o the heart,
  The lover an the frien;
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
  And I my darling Jean!
    It warms me, it charms me,
      To mention but her name:
    It heats me, it beets me,
      An sets me a on flame!


O all ye Powrs who rule above!
O Thou whose very self art love!
  Thou knowst my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
  Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
  Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief,
  And solace to my breast.
    Thou Being, All-seeing,
      O hear my fervent prayr;
    Still take her, and make her
      Thy most peculiar care!


All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
  The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this worlds thorny ways
Had numberd out my weary days,
  Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
  In evry care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band
  A tie more tender still.
    It lightens, it brightens
      The tenebrific scene,
    To meet with, and greet with
      My Davie, or my Jean!


O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank an file,
  Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus an the famous Nine
  Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
  Till ance hes fairly het;
And then hell hilch, and stilt, an jimp,
  And rin an unco fit:
    But least then the beast then
      Should rue this hasty ride,
    Ill light now, and dight now
      His sweaty, wizend hide.


 Note 1. Ramsay.R. B. [back]
YE maggots, feed on Nicols brain,
  For few sic feasts youve gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicols heart,
  For deil a bit ots rotten.
O THOU Great Being! what Thou art,
  Surpasses me to know;
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee
  Are all Thy works below.


Thy creature here before Thee stands,
  All wretched and distrest;
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
  Obey Thy high behest.


Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!
O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!


But, if I must afflicted be,
To suit some wise design,
Then man my soul with firm resolves,
To bear and not repine!
HERE is the glen, and here the bower
  All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour,
  O what can stay my lovely maid?


Tis not Marias whispering call;
  Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warblers dying fall,
  The dewy star of eve to hail.


It is Marias voice I hear;
  So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little, faithful mate to cheer;
  At once tis music and tis love.


And art thou come! and art thou true!
  O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,
  Along the flowery banks of Cree.
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 reckond 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.


Een then, a wish, (I mind its powr),
A wish that to my latest hour
  Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I for poor auld Scotlands 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 turnd the weeder-clips aside,
  An spard the symbol dear:
    No nation, no station,
      My envy eer 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 harst I said before,
May partner in the merry core,
  She rousd 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 fird, inspired,
      At every kindling keek,
    But bashing, and dashing,
      I feard aye to speak.


Health to the sex! 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 yere connected with her:
    Yere wae men, yere 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.
Id 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
      Neer at your hallan ca!R. BURNS.March, 1787
THE CATRINE woods were yellow seen,
  The flowers decayd on Catrine lee,
Nae lavrock sang on hillock green,
  But nature sickend on the ee.
Thro faded groves Maria sang,
  Hersel in beautys bloom the while;
And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang,
  Fareweel the braes o Ballochmyle!


Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
  Again yell flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withring bowers,
  Again yell charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
  Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr,
  Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
WHEN biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro the leafless bowr;
When Phoebus gies a short-livd glowr,
                  Far south the lift,
Dim-darkning thro the flaky showr,
                  Or whirling drift:


Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi snawy wreaths up-choked,
                  Wild-eddying swirl;
Or, thro the mining outlet bocked,
                  Down headlong hurl:


Listning the doors an winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
                  O winter war,
And thro the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
                  Beneath a scar.


Ilk happing bird,wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
                  What comes o thee?
Whare wilt thou cowr thy chittering wing,
                  An close thy ee?


Evn you, on murdering errands toild,
Lone from your savage homes exild,
The blood-staind roost, and sheep-cote spoild
                  My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
                  Sore on you beats!


Now Phoebe in her midnight reign,
Dark-muffd, viewd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
                  Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plantive strain,
                  Slow, solemn, stole:


Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
  More hard unkindness unrelenting,
  Vengeful malice unrepenting.
Than heaven-illumind Man on brother Man bestows!


See stern Oppressions iron grip,
    Or mad Ambitions gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
    Woe, Want, and Murder oer a land!
  Evn in the peaceful rural vale,
  Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamperd Luxury, Flattry by her side,
  The parasite empoisoning her ear,
  With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks oer proud Property, extended wide;
  And eyes the simple, rustic hind,
    Whose toil upholds the glittring show
  A creature of another kind,
  Some coarser substance, unrefind
Placd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!


Where, where is Loves fond, tender throe,
  With lordly Honours lofty brow,
    The powrs you proudly own?
  Is there, beneath Loves noble name,
  Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
    To bless himself alone?
  Mark maiden-innocence a prey
    To love-pretending snares:
  This boasted Honour turns away,
  Shunning soft Pitys rising sway,
Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayrs!
  Perhaps this hour, in Miserys squalid nest,
  She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mothers fears shrinks at the rocking blast!


Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
    Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
    Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
  Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill-satisfyd keen natures clamorous call,
  Stretchd on his straw, he lays himself to sleep;
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
    Chill, oer his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
  Think on the dungeons grim confine,
  Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!
  Guilt, erring man, relenting view,
  But shall thy legal rage pursue
  The wretch, already crushed low
  By cruel Fortunes undeserved blow?
Afflictions sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!


    I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
      Shook off the pouthery snaw,
    And haild the morning with a cheer,
      A cottage-rousing craw.
    But deep this truth impressd my mind
      Thro all His works abroad,
    The heart benevolent and kind
      The most resembles God.
NOW spring has clad the grove in green,
  And strewd the lea wi flowers;
The furrowd, waving corn is seen
  Rejoice in fostering showers.
While ilka thing in nature join
  Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
  The weary steps o woe!


The trout in yonder wimpling burn
  That glides, a silver dart,
And, safe beneath the shady thorn,
  Defies the anglers art
My life was ance that careless stream,
  That wanton trout was I;
But Love, wi unrelenting beam,
  Has scorchd my fountains dry.


That little flowerets peaceful lot,
  In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnets flight, I wot,
  Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love has oer me past,
  And blighted a my bloom;
And now, beneath the withering blast,
  My youth and joy consume.


The wakend lavrock warbling springs,
  And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
  In mornings rosy eye;
As little reckd I sorrows power,
  Until the flowery snare
Owitching Love, in luckless hour,
  Made me the thrall o care.


O had my fate been Greenland snows,
  Or Africs burning zone,
Wiman and nature leagued my foes,
  So Peggy neer Id known!
The wretch whose doom is Hope nae mair
  What tongue his woes can tell;
Within whase bosom, save Despair,
  Nae kinder spirits dwell.
ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu;
  Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favourd, enlightend few,
  Companions of my social joy;
Tho I to foreign lands must hie,
  Pursuing Fortunes sliddry ba;
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
  Ill mind you still, tho far awa.


Oft have I met your social band,
  And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honourd with supreme command,
  Presided oer the sons of light:
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
  Which none but Craftsmen ever saw
Strong Memry on my heart shall write
  Those happy scenes, when far awa.


May Freedom, Harmony, and Love,
  Unite you in the grand Design,
Beneath th Omniscient Eye above,
  The glorious Architect Divine,
That you may keep th unerring line,
  Still rising by the plummets law,
Till Order bright completely shine,
  Shall be my prayr when far awa.


And you, farewell! whose merits claim
  Justly that highest badge to wear:
Heavn bless your honourd noble name,
  To Masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
  When yearly ye assemble a,
One round, I ask it with a tear,
  To him, the Bard thats far awa.
ON a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
  For summer lightly drest,
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
  With love and sleep opprest;
When Willie, wandring thro the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued;
    He gazd, he wishd
    He feard, he blushd,
And trembled where he stood.


Her closd eyes, like weapons sheathd,
  Were seald in soft repose;
Her lip, still as she fragrant breathd,
  It richer dyed the rose;
The springing lilies, sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast;
    He gazd, he wishd,
    He meard, he blushd,
His bosom ill at rest.


Her robes, light-waving in the breeze,
  Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
  All harmony and grace;
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole;
    He gazd, he wishd,
    He feard, he blushd,
And sighd his very soul.


As flies the partridge from the brake,
  On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting, half-awake,
  Away affrighted springs;
But Willie followd-as he should,
He overtook her in the wood;
    He vowd, he prayd,
    He found the maid
Forgiving all, and good.
MY lord, I know your noble ear
  Woe neer assails in vain;
Emboldend thus, I beg youll hear
  Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus scorching beams,
  In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
  And drink my crystal tide. 1


The lightly-jumping, glowrin trouts,
  That thro my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
  They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
  Im scorching up so shallow,
Theyre left the whitening stanes amang,
  In gasping death to wallow.


Last day I grat wi spite and teen,
  As poet Burns came by.
That, to a bard, I should be seen
  Wi half my channel dry;
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
  Evn as I was, he shord me;
But had I in my glory been,
  He, kneeling, wad adord me.


Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,
  In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
  Wild-roaring oer a linn:
Enjoying each large spring and well,
  As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho I sayt mysel,
  Worth gaun a mile to see.


Would then my noble master please
  To grant my highest wishes,
Hell shade my banks wi towring trees,
  And bonie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my lord,
  Youll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
  Return you tuneful thanks.


The sober lavrock, warbling wild,
  Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Musics gayest child,
  Shall sweetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
  The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
  In all her locks of yellow.


This, too, a covert shall ensure,
  To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
  Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
  To weave his crown of flowrs;
Or find a sheltring, safe retreat,
  From prone-descending showrs.


And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,
  Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds, with all their wealth,
  As empty idle care;
The flowrs shall vie in all their charms,
  The hour of heavn to grace;
And birks extend their fragrant arms
  To screen the dear embrace.


Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
  Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
  And misty mountain grey;
Or, by the reapers nightly beam,
  Mild-chequering thro the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
  Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.


Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
  My lowly banks oerspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
  Their shadows watry bed:
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,
  My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songsters nest,
  The close embowring thorn.


So may old Scotias darling hope,
  Your little angel band
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
  Their honourd native land!
So may, thro Albions farthest ken,
  To social-flowing glasses,
The grace beAtholes honest men,
  And Atholes bonie lasses!


 Note 1. Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.R. B. [back]
AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees
  Her robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
  All freshly steepd in morning dews.


  Chorus.And maun I still on Menie doat,
    And bear the scorn thats in her ee?
  For its jet, jet black, an its like a hawk,
    An it winna let a body be.


In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
  In vain to me the vilets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
  The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
                And maun I still, &c.


The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to mes a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
                And maun I still, &c.


The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And evry thing is blest but I.
                And maun I still, &c.


The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And oer the moorlands whistles shill:
Wi wild, unequal, wandring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
                And maun I still, &c.


And when the lark, tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisys side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
                And maun I still, &c.


Come winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
                And maun I still, &c.
THERE was five Carlins in the South,
  They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to London town,
  To bring them tidings hame.


Nor only bring them tidings hame,
  But do their errands there,
And aiblins gowd and honor baith
  Might be that laddies share.


There was Maggy by the banks o Nith,
  A dame wi pride eneugh;
And Marjory o the mony Lochs,
  A Carlin auld and teugh.


And blinkin Bess of Annandale,
  That dwelt near Solway-side;
And whisky Jean, that took her gill,
  In Galloway sae wide.


And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 1
  O gipsy kith an kin;
Five wighter Carlins were na found
  The South countrie within.


To send a lad to London town,
  They met upon a day;
And mony a knight, and mony a laird,
  This errand fain wad gae.


O mony a knight, and mony a laird,
  This errand fain wad gae;
But nae ane could their fancy please,
  O neer a ane but twae.


The first ane was a belted Knight,
  Bred of a Border band; 2
And he wad gae to London town,
  Might nae man him withstand.


And he wad do their errands weel,
  And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the court
  Wad bid to him gude-day.


The neist cam in a Soger youth, 3
  Who spak wi modest grace,
And he wad gae to London town,
  If sae their pleasure was.


He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,
  Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an honest heart,
  Wad neer desert his friend.


Now, wham to chuse, and wham refuse,
  At strife thir Carlins fell;
For some had Gentlefolks to please,
  And some wad please themsel.


Then out spak mim-moud Meg o Nith,
  And she spak up wi pride,
And she wad send the Soger youth,
  Whatever might betide.


For the auld Gudeman o London court 4
  She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the Soger youth,
  To greet his eldest son. 5


Then up sprang Bess o Annandale,
  And a deadly aith shes taen,
That she wad vote the Border Knight,
  Though she should vote her lane.


For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,
  And fools o change are fain;
But I hae tried the Border Knight,
  And Ill try him yet again.


Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel,
  A Carlin stoor and grim.
The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman,
  For me may sink or swim;


For fools will prate o right or wrang,
  While knaves laugh them to scorn;
But the Sogers friends hae blawn the best,
  So he shall bear the horn.


Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink,
  Ye weel ken, kimmers a,
The auld gudeman o London court,
  His backs been at the wa;


And mony a friend that kissd his caup
  Is now a fremit wight;
But its neer be said o whisky Jean
  Well send the Border Knight.


Then slow raise Marjory o the Lochs,
  And wrinkled was her brow,
Her ancient weed was russet gray,
  Her auld Scots bluid was true;


Theres some great folk set light by me,
  I set as light by them;
But I will send to London town
  Wham I like best at hame.


Sae how this mighty plea may end,
  Nae mortal wight can tell;
God grant the King and ilka man
  May look weel to himsel.


 Note 1. Sanquhar. [back]
Note 2. Sir James Johnston of Westerhall. [back]
Note 3. Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton. [back]
Note 4. The King. [back]
Note 5. The Prince of Wales. [back]
AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roams,
    Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;
  An inmate in the casual shed,
  On transient pitys bounty fed,
    Haunted by busy memorys bitter tale!
  Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,
    But He, who should imperial purple wear,
Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head!
    His wretched refuge, dark despair,
  While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,
  And distant far the faithful few
    Who would his sorrows share.


  False flatterer, Hope, away!
    Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
  We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
    To prove our loyal truth-we can no more,
  And owning Heavens mysterious sway,
    Submissive, low adore.


  Ye honored, mighty Dead,
    Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
    Your King, your Country, and her laws,
  From great DUNDEE, who smiling Victory led,
  And fell a Martyr in her arms,
  (What breast of northern ice but warms!)
  To bold BALMERINOS undying name,
  Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heavens high flame,
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim:
  Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie,
    It only lags, the fatal hour,
  Your blood shall, with incessant cry,
    Awake at last, th unsparing Power;
  As from the cliff, with thundering course,
    The snowy ruin smokes along
  With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale;
    So Vengeance arm, ensanguind, strong,
  Shall with resistless might assail,
  Usurping Brunswicks pride shall lay,
And STEWARTS wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay.


  PERDITION, baleful child of night!
  Rise and revenge the injured right
    Of STEWARTS royal race:
  Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell,
  Till all the frighted echoes tell
    The blood-notes of the chase!
  Full on the quarry point their view,
  Full on the base usurping crew,
The tools of faction, and the nations curse!
  Hark how the cry grows on the wind;
  They leave the lagging gale behind,
  Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour;
  With murdering eyes already they devour;
    See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey,
  His life one poor despairing day,
Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
    Such havock, howling all abroad,
      Their utter ruin bring,
    The base apostates to their God,
      Or rebels to their King.


 Note 1. The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward. [back]
Chorus.Robin shure in hairst,
  I shure wi him.
Fient a heuk had I,
  Yet I stack by him.


I GAED up to Dunse,
  To warp a wab o plaiden,
At his daddies yett,
  Wha met me but Robin:
    Robin shure, &c.


Was na Robin bauld,
  Tho I was a cotter,
Playd me sic a trick,
  An me the Elers dochter!
    Robin shure, &c.


Robin promisd me
  A my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but three
  Guse-feathers and a whittle!
    Robin shure, &c.
THE WINTRY west extends his blast,
  And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
  The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
  And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
  And pass the heartless day.


The sweeping blast, the sky oercast,
  The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
  Than all the pride of May:
The tempests howl, it soothes my soul,
  My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
  Their fate resembles mine!


Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
  These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
  Because they are Thy will!
Then all I wantO do Thou grant
  This one request of mine!
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
  Assist me to resign.
BRAW, braw lads on Yarrow-braes,
  They rove amang the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws
  Can match the lads o Galla Water.


But there is ane, a secret ane,
  Aboon them a I loe him better;
And Ill be his, and hell be mine,
  The bonie lad o Galla Water.


Altho his daddie was nae laird,
  And tho I hae nae meikle tocher,
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
  Well tent our flocks by Galla Water.


It neer was wealth, it neer was wealth,
  That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o mutual love,
  O thats the chiefest warlds treasure.
TWAS in the seventeen hunder year
  O grace, and ninety-five,
That year I was the waeest man
  Of ony man alive.


In March the three-an-twentieth morn,
  The sun raise clear an bright;
But oh! I was a waefu man,
  Ere to-fa o the night.


Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land,
  Wi equal right and fame,
And thereto was his kinsmen joind,
  The Murrays noble name.


Yerl Galloways man o men was I,
  And chief o Broughtons host;
So twa blind beggars, on a string,
  The faithfu tyke will trust.


But now Yerl Galloways sceptres broke,
  And Broughtons wi the slain,
And I my ancient craft may try,
  Sin honesty is gane.


Twas by the banks o bonie Dee,
  Beside Kirkcudbrights towers,
The Stewart and the Murray there,
  Did muster a their powers.


Then Murray on the auld grey yaud,
  Wi winged spurs did ride,
That auld grey yaud a Nidsdale rade,
  He staw upon Nidside.


And there had na been the Yerl himsel,
  O there had been nae play;
But Garlies was to London gane,
  And sae the kye might stray.


And there was Balmaghie, I ween,
  In front rank he wad shine;
But Balmaghie had better been
  Drinkin Madeira wine.


And frae Glenkens cam to our aid
  A chief o doughty deed;
In case that worth should wanted be,
  O Kenmure we had need.


And by our banners marchd Muirhead,
  And Buittle was na slack;
Whase haly priesthood nane could stain,
  For wha could dye the black?


And there was grave squire Cardoness,
  Lookd on till a was done;
Sae in the tower o Cardoness
  A howlet sits at noon.


And there led I the Bushby clan,
  My gamesome billie, Will,
And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
  My footsteps followd still.


The Douglas and the Herons name,
  We set nought to their score;
The Douglas and the Herons name,
  Had felt our weight before.


But Douglasses o weight had we,
  The pair o lusty lairds,
For building cot-houses sae famd,
  And christenin kail-yards.


And there Redcastle drew his sword,
  That neer was staind wi gore,
Save on a wandrer lame and blind,
  To drive him frae his door.


And last cam creepin Collieston,
  Was mair in fear than wrath;
Ae knave was constant in his mind
  To keep that knave frae scaith.
THE GLOOMY night is gathring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving oer the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor.
The scattred coveys meet secure;
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.


The Autumn mourns her ripning corn
By early Winters ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave;
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.


Tis not the surging billows roar,
Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Tho death in evry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpiercd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.


Farewell, old Coilas hills and dales,
Her healthy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those:
The bursting tears my heart declare
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!
THE LADDIES by the banks o Nith
  Wad trust his Grace 1 wi a, Jamie;
But hell sair them, as he saird the King
  Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie.


Chorus.Up and waur them a, Jamie,
  Up and waur them a;
The Johnstones hae the guidin ot,
  Ye turncoat Whigs, awa!


The day he stude his countrys friend,
  Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie,
Or frae puir man a blessin wan,
  That day the Duke neer saw, Jamie.
    Up and waur them, &c.


But wha is he, his countrys boast?
  Like him there is na twa, Jamie;
Theres no a callent tents the kye,
  But kens o Westerha, Jamie.
    Up and waur them, &c.


To end the wark, heres Whistlebirk,
  Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;
And Maxwell true, o sterling blue;
  And well be Johnstones a, Jamie.
    Up and waur them, &c.
BY yon Castle wa, at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho his head it was grey:
And as he was singing, the tears doon came,
Therell never be peace till Jamie comes hame.


The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars,
We dare na weel sayt, but we ken whas to blame,
Therell never be peace till Jamie comes hame.


My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o my faithful and dame,
Therell never be peace till Jamie comes hame.


Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the same,
Therell never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
WHA will buy my troggin, fine election ware,
Broken trade o Broughton, a in high repair?


Chorus.Buy braw troggin frae the banks o Dee;
Wha wants troggin let him come to me.


Theres a noble Earls fame and high renown,
For an auld sangits thought the gudes were stown
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres the worth o Broughton in a needles ee;
Heres a reputation tint by Balmaghie.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres its stuff and lining, Cardoness head,
Fine for a soger, a the wale o lead.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres a little wadset, Buittles scrap o truth,
Pawnd in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres an honest conscience might a prince adorn;
Frae the downs o Tinwald, so was never worn.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres armorial bearings frae the manse o Urr;
The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast;
By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Here is Satans picture, like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin like a taed.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Heres the font where Douglas stane and mortar names;
Lately used at Caily christening Murrays crimes.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Here is Murrays fragments o the ten commands;
Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.


Saw ye eer sic troggin? if to buy yere slack,
Hornies turnin chapmanhell buy a the pack.
            Buy braw troggin, &c.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your watry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
yatures gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billows shock.


  Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace,
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in freedoms pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.


  The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:
But Man, to whom alone is givn
A ray direct from pitying Heavn,
Glories in his heart humane
And creatures for his pleasure slain!


  In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandring swains,
Where the mossy rivlet strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And lifes poor season peaceful spend.


  Or, if mans superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his powrs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.
I HAE a wife of my ain,
  Ill partake wi naebody;
Ill take Cuckold frae nane,
  Ill gie Cuckold to naebody.


I hae a penny to spend,
  Therethanks to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
  Ill borrow frae naebody.


I am naebodys lord,
  Ill be slave to naebody;
I hae a gude braid sword,
  Ill tak dunts frae naebody.


Ill be merry and free,
  Ill be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
  I care for naebody.
THERE was once a day, but old Time wasythen young,
  That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung,
  (Who knows not that brave Caledonias divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,
  To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would:
Her heavnly relations there fixed her reign,
  And pledgd her their godheads to warrant it good.


A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,
  The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,
  Whoeer shall provoke thee, th encounter shall rue!
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
  To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods were her favrite resort,
  Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.


Long quiet she reigned; till thitherward steers
  A flight of bold eagles from Adrias strand:
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
  They darkend the air, and they plunderd the land:
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
  Theyd conquerd and ruind a world beside;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,
  The daring invaders they fled or they died.


The Cameleon-Savage disturbd her repose,
  With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provokd beyond bearing, at last she arose,
  And robbd him at once of his hopes and his life:
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,
  Oft prowling, ensanguind the Tweeds silver flood;
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,
  He learnd to fear in his own native wood.


The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,
  The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore;
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth
  To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore:
Oer countries and kingdoms their fury prevaild,
  No arts could appease them, no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assaild,
  As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.


Thus bold, independent, unconquerd, and free,
  Her bright course of glory for ever shall run:
For brave Caledonia immortal must be;
  Ill prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle-triangle, the figure well chuse:
  The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;
But brave Caledonias the hypothenuse;
  Then, ergo, shell match them, and match them always.
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 to Scot neer met so hot,
  Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
  Who should be the Facultys Dean, Sir.


This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
  Among the first was numberd;
But pious Bob, mid learnings store,
  Commandment the tenth rememberd:
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
  And wan his hearts desire,
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
  Tho the devil piss in the fire.


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 merits rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, dye see,
  To their gratis grace and goodness.


As once on Pisgah purgd was the sight
  Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,
  Bobs purblind mental vision
Nay, Bobbys mouth may be opened yet,
  Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear that he has the angel met
  That met the ass of Balaam.


In your heretic sins may you live and die,
  Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty!
But accept, ye sublime Majority,
  My congratulations hearty.
With your honours, as with a certain king,
  In your servants this is striking,
The more incapacity they bring,
  The more theyre to your liking.
ONCE fondly lovd, and still rememberd dear,
  Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
  Friendship! tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
  One friendly sigh for himhe asks no more,
Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes,
  Or haply lies beneath th Atlantic roar.
SWEET flowret, pledge o meikle love,
  And ward o mony a prayer,
What heart o stane wad thou na move,
  Sae helpless, sweet, and fair?


November hirples oer the lea,
  Chill, on thy lovely form:
And gane, alas! the sheltring tree,
  Should shield thee frae the storm.


May He who gives the rain to pour,
  And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving showr,
  The bitter frost and snaw.


May He, the friend o Woe and Want,
  Who heals lifes various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
  And heal her cruel wounds.


But late she flourishd, rooted fast,
  Fair in the summer morn,
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
  Unshelterd and forlorn.


Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
  Unscathd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
  Arise to deck our land!
MY lovd, my honourd, much respected friend!
  No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
  My dearest meed, a friends esteem and praise:
  To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in lifes sequesterd scene,
  The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!


November chill blaws loud wi angry sugh;
  The shortning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
  The blackning trains o craws to their repose:
  The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
  Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, oer the moor, his course does hameward bend.


At length his lonely cot appears in view,
  Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
  To meet their dead, wi flichterin noise and glee.
  His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifies smile,
  The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.


Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
  At service out, amang the farmers roun;
Some ca the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
  A cannie errand to a neibor town:
  Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu bloom-love sparkling in her ee
  Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.


With joy unfeignd, brothers and sisters meet,
  And each for others weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wingd, unnoticd fleet:
  Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
  The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
  The mother, wi her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weels the new;
The father mixes a wi admonition due.


Their masters and their mistress command,
  The younkers a are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi an eydent hand,
  And neer, tho out o sight, to jauk or play;
  And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
  Lest in temptations path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.


But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
  Jenny, wha kens the meaning o the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came oer the moor,
  To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
  The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jennys ee, and flush her cheek;
  With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother hears, its nae wild, worthless rake.


Wi kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
  A strappin youth, he takes the mothers eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visits no ill taen;
  The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
  The youngsters artless heart oerflows wi joy,
But blate an laithfu, scarce can weel behave;
  The mother, wi a womans wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu and sae grave,
Weel-pleasd to think her bairns respected like the lave.


O happy love! where love like this is found:
  O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
Ive paced much this weary, mortal round,
  And sage experience bids me this declare,
  If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
  Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In othersarms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.


Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
  A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
  Betray sweet Jennys unsuspecting youth?
  Curse on his perjurd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exild?
  Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling oer their child?
Then paints the ruind maid, and their distraction wild?


But now the supper crowns their simple board,
  The halesome parritch, chief of Scotias food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,
  That, yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
  The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-haind kebbuck, fell;
  And aft hes prest, and aft he cas it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How twas a towmond auld, sin lint was i the bell.


The cheerfu supper done, wi serious face,
  They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns oer, with patriarchal grace,
  The big habible, ance his fathers pride:
  His bonnet revrently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
  Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And Let us worship God! he says with solemn air.


They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
  They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundees wild-warbling measures rise;
  Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
  Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotias holy lays:
  Compard with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickld ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creators praise.


The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
  How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
  With Amaleks ungracious progeny;
  Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heavens avenging ire;
  Or Jobs pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiahs wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.


Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
  How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
  Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
  How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
  How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bablons doom pronouncd by Heavens command.


Then, kneeling down to Heavens Eternal King,
  The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing, 1
  That thus they all shall meet in future days,
  There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
  Together hymning their Creators praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere


Compard with this, how poor Religions pride,
  In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
  Devotions evry grace, except the heart!
  The Power, incensd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
  But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleasd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.


Then homeward all take off their sevral way;
  The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
  And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
  That he who stills the ravens clamrous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowry pride,
  Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.


From scenes like these, old Scotias grandeur springs,
  That makes her lovd at home, reverd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
  An honest mans the noblest work of God;
  And certes, in fair virtues heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
  What is a lordlings pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refind!


O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
  For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
  Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
  And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxurys contagion, weak and vile!
  Then howeer crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lovd isle.


O Thou! who pourd the patriotic tide,
  That streamd thro Wallaces undaunted heart,
Who dard to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
  Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
  (The patriots God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
  O never, never Scotias realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!


 Note 1. Popes Windsor Forest.R. B. [back]
O THOU dread Power, who reignst above,
  I know thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love,
  I make this prayer sincere.


The hoary Sirethe mortal stroke,
  Long, long be pleasd to spare;
To bless this little filial flock,
  And show what good men are.


She, who her lovely offspring eyes
  With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mothers joys,
  But spare a mothers tears!


Their hope, their stay, their darling youth.
  In manhoods dawning blush,
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,
  Up to a parents wish.


The beauteous, seraph sister-band
  With earnest tears I pray
Thou knowst the snares on evry hand,
  Guide Thou their steps alway.


When, soon or late, they reach that coast,
  Oer Lifes rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no wandrer lost,
  A family in Heaven!
WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
  The spot they cad it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
  Could stown a clue wi ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
  O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
  I wad na gie a button for her!


She has an ee, she has but ane,
  The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
  A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou,
  Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
  I wadna gie a button for her!


Shes bow-houghd, shes hein-shind,
  Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
Shes twisted right, shes twisted left,
  To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a lump upon her breast,
  The twin o that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
  I wadna gie a button for her!


Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
  An wi her loof her face a-washin;
But Willies wife is nae sae trig,
  She dights her grunzie wi a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
  Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
  I wadna gie a button for her!
KEN ye aught o Captain Grose?Igo, and ago,
If hes amang his friends or foes?Iram, coram, dago.


Is he to Abrams bosom gane?Igo, and ago,
Or haudin Sarah by the wame?Iram, coram dago.


Is he south or is he north?Igo, and ago,
Or drowned in the river Forth?Iram, coram dago.


Is he slain by Hielan bodies?Igo, and ago,
And eaten like a wether haggis?Iram, coram, dago.


Whereer he be, the Lord be near him!Igo, and ago,
As for the deil, he daur na steer him.Iram, coram, dago.


But please transmit th enclosed letter,Igo, and ago,
Which will oblige your humble debtor.Iram, coram, dago.


So may ye hae auld stanes in store,Igo, and ago,
The very stanes that Adam bore.Iram, coram, dago,


So may ye get in glad possession,Igo, and ago,
The coins o Satans coronation!Iram coram dago.
UPON that night, when fairies light
  On Cassilis Downans 2 dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
  On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is taen,
  Beneath the moons pale beams;
There, up the Cove, 3 to stray an rove,
  Amang the rocks and streams
            To sport that night;


Amang the bonie winding banks,
  Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear;
Where Bruce 4 ance ruld the martial ranks,
  An shook his Carrick spear;
Some merry, friendly, countra-folks
  Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an pou their stocks,
  An haud their Halloween
            Fu blythe that night.


The lasses feat, an cleanly neat,
  Mair braw than when theyre fine;
Their faces blythe, fu sweetly kythe,
  Hearts leal, an warm, an kin:
The lads sae trig, wi wooer-babs
  Weel-knotted on their garten;
Some unco blate, an some wi gabs
  Gar lasses hearts gang startin
            Whiles fast at night.


Then, first an foremost, thro the kail,
  Their stocks 5 maun a be sought ance;
They steek their een, and grape an wale
  For muckle anes, an straught anes.
Poor havrel Will fell aff the drift,
  An wandered thro the bow-kail,
An pout for want o better shift
  A runt was like a sow-tail
            Sae bowt that night.


Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
  They roar an cry a throuther;
The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin,
  Wi stocks out owre their shouther:
An gif the custocks sweet or sour,
  Wi joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
  Wi cannie care, theyve placd them
            To lie that night.


The lassies staw frae mang them a,
  To pou their stalks o corn; 6
But Rab slips out, an jinks about,
  Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard and fast:
  Loud skirld a the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
  Whan kiutlin in the fause-house 7
            Wi him that night.


The auld guid-wifes weel-hoordit nits 8
  Are round an round dividend,
An mony lads an lasses fates
  Are there that night decided:
Some kindle couthie side by side,
  And burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi saucy pride,
  An jump out owre the chimlie
            Fu high that night.


Jean slips in twa, wi tentie ee;
  Wha twas, she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an this is me,
  She says in to hersel:
He bleezd owre her, an she owre him,
  As they wad never mair part:
Till fuff! he started up the lum,
  An Jean had een a sair heart
            To seet that night.


Poor Willie, wi his bow-kail runt,
  Was brunt wi primsie Mallie;
An Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,
  To be compard to Willie:
Malls nit lap out, wi pridefu fling,
  An her ain fit, it brunt it;
While Willie lap, and swore by jing,
  Twas just the way he wanted
            To be that night.


Nell had the fause-house in her min,
  She pits hersel an Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
  Till white in ase theyre sobbin:
Nells heart was dancin at the view;
  She whisperd Rob to leuk fort:
Rob, stownlins, pried her bonie mou,
  Fu cozie in the neuk fort,
            Unseen that night.


But Merran sat behint their backs,
  Her thoughts on Andrew Bell:
She leaes them gashin at their cracks,
  An slips out-by hersel;
She thro the yard the nearest taks,
  An for the kiln she goes then,
An darklins grapit for the bauks,
  And in the blue-clue 9 throws then,
            Right feart that night.


An ay she wint, an ay she swat
  I wat she made nae jaukin;
Till something held within the pat,
  Good Ld! but she was quaukin!
But whether twas the deil himsel,
  Or whether twas a bauk-en,
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
  She did na wait on talkin
            To spier that night.


Wee Jenny to her graunie says,
  Will ye go wi me, graunie?
Ill eat the apple at the glass, 10
  I gat frae uncle Johnie:
She fufft her pipe wi sic a lunt,
  In wrath she was sae vaprin,
She notict na an aizle brunt
  Her braw, new, worset apron
            Out thro that night.


Ye little skelpie-limmers face!
  I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul thief ony place,
  For him to spae your fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
  Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
  An livd an died deleerit,
            On sic a night.


Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,
  I mindt as weels yestreen
I was a gilpey then, Im sure
  I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been cauld an wat,
  An stuff was unco green;
An eye a rantin kirn we gat,
  An just on Halloween
            It fell that night.


Our stibble-rig was Rab MGraen,
  A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi wean,
  That lived in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed, 11 I mind it weel,
  Anhe made unco light ot;
But mony a day was by himsel,
  He was sae sairly frighted
            That vera night.


Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck,
  An he swoor by his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;
  For it was a but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught down the pock,
  An out a handfu gied him;
Syne bad him slip frae mang the folk,
  Sometime when nae ane seed him,
            An tryt that night.


He marches thro amang the stacks,
  Tho he was something sturtin;
The graip he for a harrow taks,
  An haurls at his curpin:
And evry now an then, he says,
  Hemp-seed I saw thee,
An her that is to be my lass
  Come after me, an draw thee
            As fast this night.


He wistld up Lord Lennox March
  To keep his courage cherry;
Altho his hair began to arch,
  He was sae fleyd an eerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
  An then a grane an gruntle;
He by his shouther gae a keek,
  An tumbled wi a wintle
            Out-owre that night.


He roard a horrid murder-shout,
  In dreadfu desperation!
An young an auld come rinnin out,
  An hear the sad narration:
He swoor twas hilchin Jean MCraw,
  Or crouchie Merran Humphie
Till stop! she trotted thro them a;
  And wha was it but grumphie
            Asteer that night!


Meg fain wad to the barn gaen,
  To winn three wechts o naething; 12
But for to meet the deil her lane,
  She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
  An twa red cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
  In hopes to see Tam Kipples
            That vera night.


She turns the key wi cannie thraw,
  Anowre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca,
  Syne baudly in she enters:
A ratton rattld up the wa,
  An she cryd Lord preserve her!
An ran thro midden-hole an a,
  An prayd wi zeal and fervour,
            Fu fast that night.


They hoyt out Will, wi sair advice;
  They hecht him some fine braw ane;
It chancd the stack he faddomt thrice 13
  Was timmer-propt for thrawin:
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak
  For some black, grousome carlin;
An loot a winze, an drew a stroke,
  Till skin in blypes cam haurlin
            Affs nieves that night.


A wanton widow Leezie was,
  As cantie as a kittlen;
But och! that night, amang the shaws,
  She gat a fearfu settlin!
She thro the whins, an by the cairn,
  An owre the hill gaed scrievin;
Whare three lairds lans met at a burn, 14
  To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
            Was bent that night.


Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays,
  As thro the glen it wimplt;
Whiles round a rocky scar it strays,
  Whiles in a wiel it dimplt;
Whiles glitterd to the nightly rays,
  Wi bickerin, dancin dazzle;
Whiles cookit undeneath the braes,
  Below the spreading hazel
            Unseen that night.


Amang the brachens, on the brae,
  Between her an the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
  Gat up an gae a croon:
Poor Leezies heart maist lap the hool;
  Near lavrock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an in the pool
  Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
            Wi a plunge that night.


In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
  The luggies 15 three are ranged;
An evry time great care is taen
  To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlocks joys
  Sin Mars-year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
  He heavd them on the fire
            In wrath that night.


Wi merry sangs, an friendly cracks,
  I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an funnie jokes
  Their sports were cheap an cheery:
Till butterd sowens, 16 wi fragrant lunt,
  Set a their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi a social glass o strunt,
  They parted aff careerin
            Fu blythe that night.


 Note 1. Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.R. B. [back]
Note 2. Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.R.B. [back]
Note 3. A noted cavern near Colean house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of fairies.R. B. [back]
Note 4. The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.R. B. [back]
Note 5. The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells-the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custock, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.R. B. [back]
Note 6. They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.R. B. [back]
Note 7. When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.R. B. [back]
Note 8. Burning the nuts is a favorite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.R. B. [back]
Note 9. Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and, toward the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, Wha hauds? i. e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.R. B. [back]
Note 10. Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjungal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.R. B. [back]
Note 11. Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then: Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee. Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, Come after me and shaw thee, that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say: Come after me and harrow thee.R. B. [back]
Note 12. This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a wecht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.R. B. [back]
Note 13. Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.R. B. [back]
Note 14. Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.R. B. [back]
Note 15. Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.R. B. [back]
Note 16. Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.R. B. [back]
WHOM will you send to London town,
  To Parliament and a that?
Or wha in a the country round
  The best deserves to fa that?
    For a that, and a that,
    Thro Galloway and a that,
  Where is the Laird or belted Knight
    The best deserves to fa that?


Wha sees Kerroughtrees open yett,
  (And wha ist never saw that?)
Wha ever wi Kerroughtree met,
  And has a doubt of a that?
    For a that, and a that,
    Heres Heron yet for a that!
  The independent patriot,
    The honest man, and a that.


Tho wit and worth, in either sex,
  Saint Marys Isle can shaw that,
Wi Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix,
  And weel does Selkirk fa that.
    For a that, and a that,
    Heres Heron yet for a that!
  The independent commoner
    Shall be the man for a that.


But why should we to Nobles jouk,
  And ist against the law, that?
For why, a Lord may be a gowk,
  Wi ribband, star and a that,
    For a that, and a that,
    Heres Heron yet for a that!
  A Lord may be a lousy loun,
    Wi ribband, star and a that.


A beardless boy comes oer the hills,
  Wi uncles purse and a that;
But well hae ane frae mang oursels,
  A man we ken, and a that.
    For a that, and a that,
    Heres Heron yet for a that!
  For were not to be bought and sold,
    Like naigs, and nowt, and a that.


Then let us drinkThe Stewartry,
  Kerroughtrees laird, and a that,
Our representative to be,
  For weel hes worthy a that.
    For a that, and a that,
    Heres Heron yet for a that!
A House of Commons such as he,
  They wad be blest that saw that.
GUDE pity me, because Im little!
For though I am an elf o mettle,
An can, like ony wabsters shuttle,
                Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as langs a gude kail-whittle,
                Im unco queer.


An now Thou kens our waefu case;
For Geordies jurr were in disgrace,
Because we stangd her through the place,
                An hurt her spleuchan;
For whilk we daurna show our face
                Within the clachan.


An now were dernd in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi constables-thae blackguard fallows,
                An sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
                That shamefu death!


Auld grim black-bearded Geordies sel
O shake him owre the mouth o hell!
There let him hing, an roar, an yell
                Wi hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
                Then heave him in.


When Death comes in wi glimmerin blink,
An tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup a clink
                Within his yett,
An fill her up wi brimstone drink,
                Red-reekin het.


Though Jock an havrel Jean are merry
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
An waft them in th infernal wherry
                Straught through the lake,
An gie their hides a noble curry
                Wi oil of aik!


As for the jurr-puir worthless body!
Shes got mischief enough already;
Wi stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy
                Shes sufferd sair;
But, may she wintle in a woody,
                If she wh-e mair!
ALTHO my back be at the wa,
  And tho he be the fautor;
Altho my back be at the wa,
  Yet, heres his health in water.
O wae gae by his wanton sides,
  Sae brawlies he could flatter;
Till for his sake Im slighted sair,
  And dree the kintra clatter:
But tho my back be at the wa,
  And tho he be the fautor;
But tho my back be at the wa,
  Yet heres his health in water!
THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
  At kirk or market to be seen;
When a our fairest maids were met,
  The fairest maid was bonie Jean.


And aye she wrought her mammies wark,
  And aye she sang sae merrilie;
The blythest bird upon the bush
  Had neer a lighter heart than she.


But hawks will rob the tender joys
  That bless the little lintwhites nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
  And love will break the soundest rest.


Young Robie was the brawest lad,
  The flower and pride of a the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
  And wanton naigies nine or ten.


He gaed wi Jeanie to the tryste,
  He dancd wi Jeanie on the down;
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
  Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!


As in the bosom of the stream,
  The moon-beam dwells at dewy een;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
  Within the breast of bonie Jean.


And now she works her mammies wark,
  And aye she sighs wi care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
  Or what wad make her weel again.


But did na Jeanies heart loup light,
  And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o love
  Ae eening on the lily lea?


The sun was sinking in the west,
  The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly laid,
  And whisperd thus his tale o love:


O Jeanie fair, I loe thee dear;
  O canst thou think to fancy me,
Or wilt thou leave thy mammies cot,
  And learn to tent the farms wi me?


At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
  Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
  And tent the waving corn wi me.


Now what could artless Jeanie do?
  She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blushd a sweet consent,
  And love was aye between them twa.
SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never pennd:
Evn ministers they hae been kennd,
                In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times to vend,
                And nailt wi Scripture.


But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as trues the Deils in hell
                Or Dublin city:
That eer he nearer comes oursel
                S a muckle pity.


The clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacherd whiles, but yet too tent aye
                To free the ditches;
An hillocks, stanes, an bushes, kennd eye
                Frae ghaists an witches.


The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi a my powr,
                I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four,
                I coud na tell.


I was come round about the hill,
An todlin down on Willies mill,
Setting my staff wi a my skill,
                To keep me sicker;
Tho leeward whiles, against my will,
                I took a bicker.


I there wi Something did forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An awfu scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
                Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-taed leister on the ither
                Lay, large an lang.


Its stature seemd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that eer I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava;
                And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an sma
                As cheeks o branks.


Guid-een, quo I; Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin! 1
I seemd to make a kind o stan
                But naething spak;
At length, says I, Friend! whare ye gaun?
                Will ye go back?


It spak right howe,My name is Death,
But be na fleyd.Quoth I, Guid faith,
Yere maybe come to stap my breath;
                But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o skaith
                See, theres a gully!


Gudeman, quo he, put up your whittle,
Im no designed to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
                To be misleard;
I wad na mind it, no that spittle
                Out-owre my beard.


Weel, weel! says I, a bargain bet;
Come, gies your hand, an sae were greet;
Well ease our shanks an tak a seat
                Come, gies your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
                At mony a house. 2


Ay, ay! quo he, an shook his head,
Its een a lang, lang time indeed
Sin I began to nick the thread,
                An choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
                An sae maun Death.


Sax thousand years are near-hand fled
Sin I was to the butching bred,
An mony a scheme in vains been laid,
                To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbooks 3 taen up the trade,
                And faith! hell waur me.


Ye ken Hornbook i the clachan,
Deil mak his kings-hood in spleuchan!
Hes grown sae weel acquaint wi Buchan 4
                And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
                An pouk my hips.


See, heres a scythe, an theres dart,
They hae piercd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi his art
                An cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a ft,
                Dnd haet theyll kill!


Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi less, Im sure, Ive hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just playd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.


Hornbook was by, wi ready art,
An had sae fortifyd the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
                It was sae blunt,
Fient haet ot wad hae piercd the heart
                Of a kail-runt.


I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
                Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
                O hard whin rock.


Evn them he canna get attended,
Altho their face he neer had kend it,
Just  in a kail-blade, an sent it,
                As soons he smells t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
                At once he tells t.


And then, a doctors saws an whittles,
Of a dimensions, shapes, an mettles,
A kind o boxes, mugs, an bottles,
                Hes sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
                As A B C.


Calces o fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o the seas;
The farina of beans an pease,
                He hast in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, what you please,
                He can content ye.


Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons;
Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
                Distilld per se;
Sal-alkali o midge-tail clippings,
                And mony mae.


Waes me for Johnie Geds-Hole 5 now,
Quoth I, if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
                Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt theyll rive it wi the plew;
                Theyll ruin Johnie!


The creature graind an eldritch laugh,
And says Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be tilld eneugh,
                Tak ye nae fear:
Theyll be trenchd wi mony a sheugh,
                In twa-three year.


Whare I killd ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o blood or want of breath
This night Im free to tak my aith,
                That Hornbooks skill
Has clad a score i their last claith,
                By drap an pill.


An honest wabster to his trade,
Whase wifes twa nieves were scarce weel-bred
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
                When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
                But neer spak mair.


A country laird had taen the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
                An pays him well:
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
                Was laird himsel.


A bonie lassye kend her name
Some ill-brewn drink had hovd her wame;
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
                In Hornbooks care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
                To hide it there.


Thats just a swatch o Hornbooks way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an slay,
                Ans weel paid fort;
Yet stops me o my lawfu prey,
                Wi his dnd dirt:


But, hark! Ill tell you of a plot,
Tho dinna ye be speakin ot;
Ill nail the self-conceited sot,
                As deads a herrin;
Neist time we meet, Ill wad a groat,
                He gets his fairin!


But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
                Which raisd us baith:
I took the way that pleasd mysel,
                And sae did Death.


 Note 1. This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785.R. B. [back]
Note 2. An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.R. B. [back]
Note 3. This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.R. B. [back]
Note 4. Burchans Domestic Medicine.R. B. [back]
Note 5. The grave-digger.R. B. [back]
FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
  The wretchs destinie!
MPhersons time will not be long
  On yonder gallows-tree.


Chorus.Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
  Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He playd a spring, and dancd it round,
  Below the gallows-tree.


O, what is death but parting breath?
  On many a bloody plain
Ive dared his face, and in this place
  I scorn him yet again!
        Sae rantingly, &c.


Untie these bands from off my hands,
  And bring me to my sword;
And theres no a man in all Scotland
  But Ill brave him at a word.
        Sae rantingly, &c.


Ive livd a life of sturt and strife;
  I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart,
  And not avengd be.
        Sae rantingly, &c.


Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
  And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
  The wretch that dares not die!
        Sae rantingly, &c.
FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
  And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
  A boundless oceans roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
  Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
  My heart and soul from thee.


Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
  The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
  We part to meet no more!
But the latest throb that leaves my heart,
  While Death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
  And thine that latest sigh!
HERE lie Willie Michies banes;
  O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o your weans,
  For clever deils hell mak them!
THE BAIRNS gat out wi an unco shout,
  The deuks dang oer my daddie, O!
The fien-ma-care, quo the feirrie auld wife,
  He was but a paidlin body, O!
He paidles out, and he paidles in,
  An he paidles late and early, O!
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,
  An he is but a fusionless carlie, O.


O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,
  O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O:
Ive seen the day, and sae hae ye,
  Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O.
Ive seen the day ye butterd my brose,
  And cuddld me late and early, O;
But downa-dos come oer me now,
  And oh, I find it sairly, O!
I GAED a waefu gate yestreen,
  A gate, I fear, Ill dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
  Twa lovely een obonie blue.
Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
  Her lips like roses wat wi dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white
  It was her een sae bonie blue.


She talkd, she smild, my heart she wyld;
  She charmd my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
  Cam frae her een so bonie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed;
  Shell aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, Ill lay my dead
  To her twa een sae bonie blue.
THE WINTER it is past, and the summer comes at last
  And the small birds, they sing on evry tree;
Now evry thing is glad, while I am very sad,
  Since my true love is parted from me.


The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear,
  May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
  But my true love is parted from me.
Chorus.She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a loesome wee thing,
  This dear wee wife o mine.


I NEVER saw a fairer,
I never loed a dearer,
And neist my heart Ill wear her,
  For fear my jewel tine,
    She is a winsome, &c.


The warlds wrack we share ot;
The warstle and the care ot;
Wi her Ill blythely bear it,
  And think my lot divine.
    She is a winsome, &c.
FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
  Now gay with the broad setting sun;
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
  Our race of existence is run!
Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Lifes gloomy foe!
  Go, frighten the coward and slave;
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
  No terrors hast thou to the brave!


Thou strikst the dull peasanthe sinks in the dark,
  Nor saves een the wreck of a name;
Thou strikst the young heroa glorious mark;
  He falls in the blaze of his fame!
In the field of proud honourour swords in our hands,
  Our King and our country to save;
While victory shines on Lifes last ebbing sands,
  O! who would not die with the brave!
THE DEVIL got notice that Grose was a-dying
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonishd, confounded, cries SatanBy G,
Ill want him, ere I take such a damnable load!
LET other heroes boast their scars,
  The marks of sturt and strife:
And other poets sing of wars,
  The plagues of human life:
Shame fa the fun, wi sword and gun
  To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name, and nobler fame,
  Wha multiplies our number.


Great Nature spoke, with air benign,
  Go on, ye human race;
This lower world I you resign;
  Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong desire
  Ive pourd it in each bosom;
Here, on this had, does Mankind stand,
  And there is Beautys blossom.


The Hero of these artless strains,
  A lowly bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes in Coilas plains,
  With meikle mirth anglee;
Kind Natures care had given his share
  Large, of the flaming current;
And, all devout, he never sought
  To stem the sacred torrent.


He felt the powerful, high behest
  Thrill, vital, thro and thro;
And sought a correspondent breast,
  To give obedience due:
Propitious Powers screend the young flowrs,
  From mildews of abortion;
And low! the barda great reward
  Has got a double portion!


Auld cantie Coil may count the day,
  As annual it returns,
The third of Libras equal sway,
  That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes, an other times,
  To emulate his sire:
To sing auld Coil in nobler style
  With more poetic fire.


Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,
  Look down with gracious eyes;
And bless auld Coila, large and long,
  With multiplying joys;
Lang may she stand to prop the land,
  The flowr of ancient nations;
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing,
  To endless generations!
O HOW shall I, unskilfu, try
  The poets occupation?
The tunefu powers, in happy hours,
  That whisper inspiration;
Even they maun dare an effort mair
  Than aught they ever gave us,
Ere they rehearse, in equal verse,
  The charms o lovely Davies.


Each eye it cheers when she appears,
  Like Phoebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower
  The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks oer Siberias shore,
  When winter-bound the wave is;
Sae droops our heart, when we maun part
  Frae charming, lovely Davies.


Her smiles a gift frae boon the lift,
  That maks us mair than princes;
A sceptred hand, a kings command,
  Is in her darting glances;
The man in arms gainst female charms
  Even he her willing slave is,
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign
  Of conquering, lovely Davies.


My Muse, to dream of such a theme,
  Her feeble powers surrender:
The eagles gaze alone surveys
  The suns meridian splendour.
I wad in vain essay the strain,
  The deed too daring brave is;
Ill drap the lyre, and mute admire
  The charms o lovely Davies.
IT was upon a Lammas night,
  When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moons unclouded light,
  I held awa to Annie;
The time flew by, wi tentless heed,
  Till, tween the late and early,
Wi sma persuasion she agreed
  To see me thro the barley.


Corn rigs, an barley rigs,
  An corn rigs are bonie:
Ill neer forget that happy night,
  Amang the rigs wi Annie.


The sky was blue, the wind was still,
  The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi right good will,
  Amang the rigs o barley:
I kent her heart was a my ain;
  I lovd her most sincerely;
I kissd her owre and owre again,
  Amang the rigs o barley.
      Corn rigs, an barley rigs, &c.


I lockd her in my fond embrace;
  Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
  Amang the rigs o barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
  That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
  Amang the rigs o barley.
      Corn rigs, an barley rigs, &c.


I hae been blythe wi comrades dear;
  I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu gathrin gear;
  I hae been happy thinking:
But a the pleasures eer I saw,
  Tho three times doubld fairly,
That happy night was worth them a,
  Amang the rigs o barley.
      Corn rigs, an barley rigs, &c.
FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
  And piercd my darlings heart;
And with him all the joys are fled
  Life can to me impart.


By cruel hands the sapling drops,
  In dust dishonourd laid;
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
  My ages future shade.


The mother-linnet in the brake
  Bewails her ravishd young;
So I, for my lost darlings sake,
  Lament the live-day long.


Death, oft Ive feared thy fatal blow.
  Now, fond, I bare my breast;
O, do thou kindly lay me low
  With him I love, at rest!
TWAS 1 in that place o Scotlands isle,
That bears the name o auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin thro the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgatherd ance upon a time.
  The first Ill name, they cad him Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honors pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shewd he was nane o Scotlands dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
  His locked, letterd, braw brass collar
Shewd him the gentleman an scholar;
But though he was o high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Evn wi al tinkler-gipsys messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho eer sae duddie,
But he wad stant, as glad to see him,
An stroant on stanes an hillocks wi him.
  The tither was a ploughmans collie
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an comrade had him,
And in freak had Luath cad him,
After some dog in Highland Sang, 2
Was made lang syne,Lord knows how lang.
  He was a gash an faithfu tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, bawsnt face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi coat o glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi a swirl.
  Nae doubt but they were fain o ither,
And unco pack an thick thegither;
Wi social nose whiles snuffd an snowkit;
Whiles mice an moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scourd awa in lang excursion,
An worryd ither in diversion;
Until wi daffin weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An there began a lang digression.
About the lords o the creation.


CSAR  Ive aften wonderd, honest Luath,
What sort o life poor dogs like you have;
An when the gentrys life I saw,
What way poor bodies livd ava.
  Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kane, an a his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He cas his coach; he cas his horse;
He draws a bonie silken purse,
As langs my tail, where, thro the steeks,
The yellow letterd Geordie keeks.
  Frae morn to een, its nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An tho the gentry first are stechin,
Yet evn the ha folk fill their pechan
Wi sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie,
Thats little short o downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it 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 its past my comprehension.


LUATH  Trowth, C&sar, whiles theyre fasht eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an sic like;
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o wee duddie weans,
An nought but his han-daurk, to keep
Them right an 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 an hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
Theyre maistly wonderfu contented;
An buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.


CSAR  But then to see how yere negleckit,
How huffd, an cuffd, an disrespeckit!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin brock.
  Ive noticd, on our lairds court-day,
An mony a time my hearts been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant ocash,
How they maun thole a factors snash;
Hell stamp an threaten, curse an swear
Hell 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  Theyre no sae wretcheds ane wad think.
Tho constantly on poortiths brink,
Theyre sae accustomd wi the sight,
The view ot gives them little fright.
  Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
Theyre aye in less or mair provided:
An tho fatigued wi close employment,
A blink o rests 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 whiles twalpennie worth o nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy:
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
Theyll talk o patronage an priests,
Wi kindling fury i their breasts,
Or tell what new taxations comin,
An ferlie at the folk in Lonon.
  As bleak-facd Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of evry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an social Mirth
Forgets theres Care upo the earth.
  That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty wins;
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 its owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften playd;
Theres mony a creditable stock
O decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an branch,
Some rascals pridefu greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britains guid his saul indentin


CSAR  Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britains guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:
An saying ay or nos they bid him:
At operas an plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, 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 fathers 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 bowses drumlie German-water,
To mak himsel look fair an fatter,
An clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
  For Britains 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 harassd
For gear to gang that gate at last?
  O would they stay aback frae courts,
An please themsels wi country sports,
It wad for evry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o thems ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The neer-a-bit theyre ill to poor folk,
  But will ye tell me, Master C&sar,
Sure great folks lifes a life o pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger eer can steer them,
The very thought ot need na fear them.


CSAR  Ld, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad neer envy them!
  Its true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro winters cauld, or simmers heat:
Theyve 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 an schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
An aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.
  A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres tilld, hes right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzens dune, shes unco weel;
But gentlemen, an ladies warst,
Wi evn-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.
  Anevn their sports, their balls an races,
Their galloping through public places,
Theres 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 theyre mad wi drink an whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
  The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an gracious a as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o ither,
Theyre a run-deils an jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devils picturd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmers stackyard,
An cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
  Theres some exceptions, man an woman;
But this is gentrys life in common.
  By this, the sun was out of sight,
An darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock hummd wi lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i the loan;
When up they gat an shook their lugs,
Rejoicd they werena men but dogs;
An each took aff his several way,
Resolvd to meet some ither day.


 Note 1. Luath was Burns own dog. [back]
Note 2. Cuchullins dog in Ossians Fingal.R. B. [back]
MY father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had neer a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.


Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;
Tho to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:
Resolvd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.


In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortunes favour, O;
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;
Sometimes by foes I was oerpowerd, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.


Then sore harassd and tird at last, with Fortunes vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;
The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my powr, and so I would enjoy it, O.


No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.


Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro life Im doomd to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:
No view nor care, but shun whateer might breed me pain or sorrow, O;
I live to-day as wells I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.


But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,
Tho Fortunes frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:
I make indeed my daily bread, but neer can make it farther, O:
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.


When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune comes genrally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnaturd folly, O:
But come what will, Ive sworn it still, Ill neer be melancholy, O.


All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
  Hangman of creation! mark,
  Who in widow-weeds appears,
  Laden with unhonourd years,
  Noosing with care a bursting purse,
  Baited with many a deadly curse?


STROPHE  View the witherd Beldams face;
  Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of Humanitys sweet, melting grace?
  Note that eye, tis rheum oerflows;
  Pitys flood there never rose,
  See these hands neer stretched to save,
  Hands that took, but never gave:
  Keeper of Mammons iron chest,
  Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest,
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!


ANTISTROPHEPlunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes,
  (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;)
Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends?
No fallen angel, hurld from upper skies;
  Tis thy trusty quondam Mate,
  Doomd to share thy fiery fate;
    She, tardy, hell-ward plies.


EPODE  And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year?
  In other worlds can Mammon fail,
    Omnipotent as he is here!


O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
  While down the wretched Vital Part is driven!
The cave-lodged Beggar,with a conscience clear,
  Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven.
THOU lingring star, with lessening ray,
  That lovst to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherst in the day
  My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
  Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
  Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast?


That sacred hour can I forget,
  Can I forget the hallowd grove,
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,
  To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface
  Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace,
  Ah! little thought we twas our last!


Ayr, gurgling, kissd his pebbled shore,
  Oerhung with wild-woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
  Twind amorous round the rapturd scene:
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
  The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
  Proclaimd the speed of winged day.


Still oer these scenes my memry wakes,
  And fondly broods with miser-care;
Time but th impression stronger makes,
  As streams their channels deeper wear,
My Mary! dear departed shade!
  Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
  Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast?
I MURDER hate by flood or field,
  Tho glorys name may screen us;
In wars at home Ill spend my blood
  Life-giving wars of Venus.
The deities that I adore
  Are social Peace and Plenty;
Im better pleasd to make one more,
  Than be the death of twenty.


I would not die like Socrates,
  For all the fuss of Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,
  Nor yet would I with Cato:
The zealots of the Church and State
  Shall neer my mortal foes be;
But let me have bold Zimris fate,
  Within the arms of Cozbi!
AH, woe is me, my mother dear!
  A man of strife yeve born me:
For sair contention I maun bear;
  They hate, revile, and scorn me.


I neer could lend on bill or band,
  That five per cent. might blest me;
And borrowing, on the tither hand,
  The deil a ane wad trust me.


Yet I, a coin-denid wight,
  By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how I am, day and night,
  By lad and lass blackguarded!
YOUR friendship much can make me blest,
  O why that bliss destroy!
Why urge the only, one request
  You know I will deny!


Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
  Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
  The very friend I sought.
WHILE Europes eye is fixd on mighty things,
The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings;
While quacks of State must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.


First, in the Sexes intermixd connection,
One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate,
Sunk on the earth, defacd its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th impending storm.


Our second Rightbut needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolates the fashion;
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
Hed die before hed wrong ittis decorum.
There was, indeed, in far less polishd days,
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways,
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade a Ladys quiet.


Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred menand 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 owntis dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of lifeimmortal 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! a ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN!
BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
  The woods rejoicd the day,
Thro gentle showers, the laughing flowers
  In double pride were gay:
But now our joys are fled
  On winter blasts awa;
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
  Again shall bring them a.


But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
  Shall melt the snaws of Age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
  Sinks in Times wintry rage.
Oh, Age has weary days,
  And nights o sleepless pain:
Thou golden time, o Youthfu prime,
  Why comes thou not again!
ORTHODOX! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
  Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
  That what is no sense must be nonsense,
Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.


Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
  To strike evil-doers wi terror:
To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,
  Was heretic, damnable error,
Doctor Mac! 1 Twas heretic, damnable error.


Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
  To meddle wi mischief a-brewing, 2
Provost John 3 is still deaf to the Churchs relief,
  And Orator Bob 4 is its ruin,
Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.


Drymple mild! Drymple mild, tho your hearts like a child,
  And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you,
  For preaching that threes ane an twa,
Drymple mild! 5 For preaching that threes ane an twa.


Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
  Cry the book is with heresy crammd;
Then out wi your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
  And roar evry note of the Dd.
Rumble John! 6 And roar evry note of the Dd.


Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames,
  Theres a holier chase in your view:
Ill lay on your head, that the pack youll soon lead,
  For puppies like you theres but few,
Simper James! 7 For puppies like you theres but few.


Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
  Unconscious what evils await?
With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm evry soul,
  For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie! 8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.


Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
  Wi your Libertys Chain and your wit;
Oer Pegasus side ye neer laid a stride,
  Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.
Poet Willie! 9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t.


Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
  If ye meddle nae mair wi the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
  Wi people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie! 10 Wipeople that ken ye nae better.


Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,
  In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;
But the Doctors your mark, for the Lords holy ark,
  He has cooperd an cad a wrang pin int,
Jamie Goose! 11 He has cooperd an cad a wrang pin int.


Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,
  The core is no nice o recruits;
Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye might boast,
  If the Ass were the king o the brutes,
Davie Bluster! 12 If the Ass were the king o the brutes.


Cessnock-side! Cessnock-side, wi your turkey-cock pride
  Of manhood but sma is your share:
Yeve the figure, tis true, evn your foes will allow,
  And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,
Cessnock-side! 13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.


Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Ld makes a rock,
  To crush common-sense for her sins;
If ill-manners were wit, theres no mortal so fit
  To confound the poor Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock! 14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.


Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
  An the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho yere rich, an look big, yet, lay by hat an wig,
  An yell hae a calfs-had o sma value,
Andro Gowk! 15 Yell hae a calfs head o sma value.


Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, therea a tod in the fauld,
  A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Tho ye do little skaith, yell be in at the death,
  For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,
Daddy Auld! 16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.


Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
  When ye pilferd the alms o the poor;
The timmer is scant when yere taen for a saunt,
  Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,
Holy Will! 17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.


Calvins sons! Calvins sons, seize your spiritual guns,
  Ammunition you never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,
  And your skulls are a storehouse o lead,
Calvins sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o lead.


Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi your priest-skelpin turns,
  Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she een tipsy,
  She could caus nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She could caus nae waur than we are.


PRESENTATION STANZAS TO CORRESPONDENTSFactor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,
  And neer made anither, thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
  He presents thee this token sincere,
Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.


Aftons Laird! Aftons Laird, when your pen can be spared,
  A copy of this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score as I mentiond before,
  To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,
Aftons Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.


 Note 1. Dr. MGill, Ayr.R. B. [back]
Note 2. See the advertisement.R. B. [back]
Note 3. John Ballantine,R. B. [back]
Note 4. Robert Aiken.R. B. [back]
Note 5. Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.R. B. [back]
Note 6. John Russell, Kilmarnock.R. B. [back]
Note 7. James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.R. B. [back]
Note 8. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.R. B. [back]
Note 9. William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the Centenary of the Revolution, in which was the line:        And bound in Libertys endering chain.R. B.
 [back]
Note 10. Stephen Young of Barr.R. B. [back]
Note 11. James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant MitchelR. B. [back]
Note 12. David Grant, Ochiltree.R. B. [back]
Note 13. George Smith, Galston.R. B. [back]
Note 14. John Shepherd Muirkirk.R. B. [back]
Note 15. Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.R. B. [back]
Note 16. William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see Holy Willies Prayer.R. B. [back]
Note 17. Vide the Prayer of this saint.R. B. [back]