Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!Or all that we have left is empty talkOf old achievements, and despair of new.
I was a stricken deer that left the herdLong since; with many an arrow deep infixedMy panting side was charged, when I withdrewTo seek a tranquil death in distant shades.There was I found by One who had HimselfBeen hurt by th' archers. In His side He bore,And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars.With gentle force soliciting the darts,He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.Since then, with few associates, in remoteAnd silent woods I wander, far from thoseMy former partners of the peopled scene,With few associates, and not wishing more.Here much I ruminate, as much I may,With other views of men and manners nowThan once, and others of a life to come.I see that all are wanderers, gone astrayEach in his own delusions; they are lostIn chase of fancied happiness, still wooedAnd never won; dream after dream ensues,And still they dream that they shall still succeed,And still are disappointed: rings the worldWith the vain stir. I sum up half mankind.And add two-thirds of the remaining half,And find the total of their hopes and fearsDreams, empty dreams.
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,News from all nations lumbering at his back,True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concernIs to conduct it to the destined inn,And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on.He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of griefPerhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,To him indifferent whether grief or joy.Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wetWith tears that trickled down the writers cheeksFast as the periods from his fluent quill,Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swainsOr nymphs responsive, equally affectHis horse and him, unconscious of them all.But oh th' important budget, ushered inWith such heart-shaking music, who can sayWhat are its tidings? Have our troops awaked,Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?Is India free, and does she wear her plumedAnd jewelled turban with a smile of peace,Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,The popular harangue, the tart reply,The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free,And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round;And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urnThrows up a steamy column, and the cupsThat cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious moreTo France than all her losses and defeatsOld or of later date, by sea or land,Her house of bondage worse than that of oldWhich God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastile!Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts,Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,That monarchs have supplied from age to ageWith music such as suits their sovereign ears—The sighs and groans of miserable men,There's not an English heart that would not leapTo hear that ye were fallen at last, to knowThat even our enemies, so oft employedIn forging chains for us, themselves were free:For he that values liberty, confinesHis zeal for her predominance withinNo narrow bounds; her cause engages himWherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man.There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,Immured though unaccused, condemned untried.Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape.There, like the visionary emblem seenBy him of Babylon, life stands a stump,And filleted about with hoops of brass,Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone.To count the hour-bell and expect no change;And ever as the sullen sound is heard,Still to reflect that though a joyless noteTo him whose moments all have one dull pace,Ten thousand rovers in the world at largeAccount it music—that it summons someTo theatre, or jocund feast, or ball;The wearied hireling finds it a releaseFrom labour; and the lover, who has chidIts long delay, feels every welcome strokeUpon his heart-strings trembling with delight:To fly for refuge from distracting thoughtTo such amusements as ingenious woeContrives, hard-shifting and without her tools—To read engraven on the muddy walls,In staggering types, his predecessor's tale,A sad memorial, and subjoin his own;To turn purveyor to an overgorgedAnd bloated spider, till the pampered pestIs made familiar, watches his approach,Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend;To wear out time in numbering to and froThe studs that thick emboss his iron door,Then downward and then upward, then aslantAnd then alternate, with a sickly hopeBy dint of change to give his tasteless taskSome relish, till, the sum exactly foundIn all directions, he begins again:—Oh comfortless existence! hemmed aroundWith woes, which who that suffers would not kneelAnd beg for exile or the pangs of death?That man should thus encroach on fellow-man,Abridge him of his just and native rights,Eradicate him, tear him from his holdUpon th' endearments of domestic lifeAnd social, nip his fruitfulness and use,And doom him for perhaps an heedless wordTo barrenness and solitude and tears,Moves indignation; makes the name of king(Of king whom such prerogative can please)As dreadful as the Manichean god,Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.
The night was winter in his roughest mood,The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon,Upon the southern side of the slant hills,And where the woods fence off the northern blast,The season smiles, resigning all its rage,And has the warmth of May. The vault is blueWithout a cloud, and white without a speckThe dazzling splendour of the scene below.Again the harmony comes o'er the vale,And through the trees I view the embattled towerWhence all the music. I again perceiveThe soothing influence of the wafted strains,And settle in soft musings as I treadThe walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.The roof, though moveable through all its lengthAs the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,And intercepting in their silent fallThe frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.The redbreast warbles still, but is contentWith slender notes, and more than half suppressed:Pleased with, his solitude, and flitting lightFrom spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakesFrom many a twig the pendent drops of ice,That tinkle in the withered leaves below.Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,Charms more than silence. Meditation hereMay think down hours to moments. Here the heartMay give a useful lesson to the head,And learning wiser grow without his books.Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwellsIn heads replete with thoughts of other men,Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,The mere materials with which wisdom builds,'Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.Books are not seldom talismans and spells,By which the magic art of shrewder witsHolds an unthinking multitude enthralled.Some to the fascination of a nameSurrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the styleInfatuates, and through labyrinths and wildsOf error leads them, by a tune entranced.While sloth seduces more, too weak to bearThe insupportable fatigue of thought,And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice,The total grist unsifted, husks and all.But trees, and rivulets whose rapid courseDefies the check of winter, haunts of deer,And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs,And lanes in which the primrose ere her timePeeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth,Not shy as in the world, and to be wonBy slow solicitation, seize at onceThe roving thought, and fix it on themselves.
I would not enter on my list of friends,Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,Yet wanting sensibility, the manWho needlessly sets foot upon a worm.An inadvertent, step may crush the snailThat crawls at evening in the public path;But he that has humanity, forewarned,Will tread aside and let the reptile live.The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,A visitor unwelcome, into scenesSacred to neatness and repose—th' alcove,The chamber, or refectory,—may die:A necessary act incurs no blame.Not so when, held within their proper boundsAnd guiltless of offence, they range the air,Or take their pastime in the spacious field:There they are privileged; and he that huntsOr harms them there is guilty of a wrong,Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm,Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.
O that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!'The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blest be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here!Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long,I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own:And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian revery,A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! it answers 'Yes,'I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such? It was: where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived,By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learnt at last submission to my lot,But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more:Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrappedIn scarlet, mantle warm, and velvet-capped,'Tis now become a history little knownThat once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! But the record fairThat memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit or confectionary plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;All this, and, more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaksThat humour interposed too often makes;All this, still legible on memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honours to thee as my numbers may,Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hoursWhen, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, the jessamine,I pricked them into paper with a pin(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might.But no—what here we call our life is such,So little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast,The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods, that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay,So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,'And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distressed,Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he,That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents passed into the skies!
And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wished is done:By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again,To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
The twentieth year is well-nigh past,Since first our sky was overcast;Ah, would that this might be the last!My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,I see thee daily weaker grow;'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disused, and shine no more,My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!
But well thou playedst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language uttered in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!
For, could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign,Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine,My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,That now at every step thou movestUpheld by two, yet still thou lovest,My Mary!
And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!
And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last,My Mary!
Obscurest night involved the sky,The Atlantic billows roared,When such a destined wretch as I,Washed headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,His floating home forever left.
No-braver chief could Albion boastThan he with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion's coastWith warmer wishes sent.He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again,
Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay;Nor soon he felt his strength decline,Or courage die away;But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had failedTo check the vessel's course,But so the furious blast prevailed,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;And such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delayed not to bestow.But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to dieDeserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld;And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repelled;And ever, as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'
At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,Could catch the sound no more:For then, by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson's tear:And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date:But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allayed,No light propitious shone,When, snatched from all effectual aid,We perished, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend,Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still,The lonely battlement, the farthest hillAnd wood, I think of those who have no friend;Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts,Retiring, wander to the ringdove's hauntsUnseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bedHang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eyePresenting fairy vales, where the tired mindMight rest beyond the murmurs of mankind,Nor hear the hourly moans of misery!Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the whileShould smile like you, and perish as they smile!
On these white cliffs, that calm above the floodUprear their shadowing heads, and at their feetHear not the surge that has for ages beat,How many a lonely wanderer has stood!And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,And o'er the distant billows the still eveSailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leaveTo-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;Of social scenes, from which he wept to part!Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless allThe thoughts that would full fain the past recall,Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide—The world his country, and his God his guide.
O Mary, at thy window be;It is the wished, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me seeThat make the miser's treasure poor!How blythely wad I bide the stoure,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure,The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing;I sat, but neither heard nor saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sighed, and said amang them a','Ye are na Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peaceWha for thy sake wad gladly die?Or canst thou break that heart of hisWhase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gie,At least be pity to me shown!A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.
Upon a simmer Sunday morn,When Nature's face is fair,I walkèd forth to view the corn,An' snuff the caller air.The rising sun, owre Galston muirs,Wi' glorious light was glintin;The hares were hirplin down the furs,The lav'rocks they were chantinFu' sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowered abroad,To see a scene sae gay,Three hizzies, early at the road,Cam skelpin up the way.Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,But ane wi' lyart lining;The third, that gaed a wee a-back,Was in the fashion shiningFu' gay that day.
The twa appeared like sisters twin,In feature, form, an' claes;Their visage withered, lang an'thin,An' sour as onie slaes:The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,As light as onie lambie,An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,As soon as e'er she saw me,Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,I think ye seem to ken me;I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,But yet I canna name ye.'Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,An'taks me by the han's,'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feckOf a' the Ten Comman'sA screed some day.
'My name is Fun—your cronie dear,The nearest friend ye hae;An'this is Superstition here,An'that's Hypocrisy.I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,To spend an hour in daffin:Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair,We will get famous laughinAt them this day.'
Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't:I'll get my Sunday's sark on,An' meet you on the holy spot;Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!'Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,An' soon I made me ready;For roads were clad frae side to sideWi' monie a wearie body,In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,Gaed hoddin by their cotters;There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,Are springin owre the gutters.The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,In silks an' scarlets glitter;Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang,An' farls baked wi' butter,Fu' crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,Weel heapèd up wi' ha'pence,A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,An' we maun draw our tippence.Then in we go to see the show:On every side they're gath'rin,Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools,An' some are busy bleth'rinRight loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the showers,An' screen our countra gentry,There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores,Are blinkin' at the entry.Here sits a raw of tittlin' jads,Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck;An'there a batch o' wabster lads.Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,For fun this day.
Here some are thinkin on their sins,An' some upo' their claes;Ane curses feet that fyled his shins,Anither sighs and prays;On this hand sits a chosen swatch,Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces;On that a set o' chaps, at watch,Thrang winkln on the lassesTo chairs that day.
O happy is that man an' blest(Nae wonder that it pride him!)Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,Conies clinkin down beside him!Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back,He sweetly does compose him;Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,An's loof upon her bosom,Unkend that day.
Now a' the congregation o'erIs silent expectation;For Moodie speels the holy doorWi' tidings o' damnation.Should Hornie, as in ancient days,'Mang sons o' God present him,The vera sight o' Moodie's faceTo 's ain het hame had sent himWi' fright that day.
Hear how he clears the points o' faithWi' rattlin an wi' thumpin!Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,He's stampin an' he's jumpin!His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout,His eldritch squeel an' gestures,O how they fire the heart devout—Like cantharidian plaisters,On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has changed its voice;There's peace an' rest nae langer;For a' the real judges rise,They canna sit for anger:Smith opens out his cauld haranguesOn practice and on morals;An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,To gie the jars an' barrelsA lift that day.
What signifies his barren shineOf moral pow'rs an' reason?His English style an' gesture fineAre a' clean out o' season.Like Socrates or Antonine,Or some auld pagan heathen,The moral man he does define,But ne'er a word o' faith inThat's right that day.
In guid time comes an antidoteAgainst sic poisoned nostrum;For Peebles, frae the water-fit,Ascends the holy rostrum:See, up he's got the word o' God,An' meek an' mim has viewed it,While Common Sense has taen the road,An' aff, an' up the CowgateFast, fast that day.
Wee Miller niest the guard relieves,An' orthodoxy raibles,Tho' in his heart he weel believesAn'thinks it auld wives' fables;But faith! the birkie wants a manse,So cannilie he hums them,Altho' his carnal wit an' senseLike hafflins-wise o'ercomes himAt times that day,
Now butt an' ben the change-house fillsWi' yill-caup commentators;Here's crying out for bakes an' gills,An'there the pint-stowp clatters;While thick an'thrang, an' loud an' lang,Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture,They raise a din that in the endIs like to breed a ruptureO' wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mairThan either school or college;It kindles wit, it waukens lear,It pangs us fou o' knowledge.Be 't whisky-gill or penny-wheep,Or onie stronger potion,It never fails, on drinkin deep,To kittle up our notion,By night or day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bentTo mind baith saul an' body,Sit round the table weel content,An' steer about the toddy.On this ane's dress an'that ane's leukThey're makin observations;While some are cozie i' the neuk,An' formin assignationsTo meet some day.
But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,Till a' the hills are rairin,And echoes back return the shouts;Black Russell is na spairin:His piercin words, like Highlan' swords,Divide the joints an' marrow;His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell,Our verra 'sauls does harrow'Wi' fright that day!
A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit,Filled fou o' lowin brunstane,Whase ragin flame an' scorchin heatWad melt the hardest whun-stane!The half-asleep start up wi' fear,An'think they hear it roarin,When presently it does appear'Twas but some neebor snorin,Asleep that day.
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tellHow monie stories passed,An' how they crouded to the yill,When they were a' dismissed;How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,Amang the furms an' benches,An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,Was dealt about in lunchesAn' dawds that day.
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,An' sits down by the fire,Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;The lasses they are shyer;The auld guidmen about the graceFrae side to side they bother,Till some ane by his bonnet laysAnd gi'es them 't, like a tether,Fu' lang that day.
Waesueks for him that gets nae lass,Or lasses that hae naething!Sma' need has he to say a grace,Or melvie his braw claithing!O wives, be mindfu', ance yourselHow bonie lads ye wanted,An' dinna for a kebbuck-heelLet lasses be affrontedOn sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, w' rattlin tow,Begins to jow an' croon;Some swagger hame the best they dow,Some wait the afternoon,At slaps the billies halt a blink,Till lasses strip their shoon;Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,They're a' in famous tuneFor crack that day.
How monie hearts this day convertsO' sinners and o' lasses!Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaenAs saft as onie flesh is.There's some are fou o' love divine,There's some are fou o' brandy;An' monie jobs that day begin,May end in houghmagandieSome ither day.
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?Your impudence protects you sairly;I canna say but ye strunt rarelyOwer gauze and lace,Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparelyOn sic a place,
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner,How daur ye set your fit upon her,Sae fine a lady!Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinnerOn some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle;There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattleWi' ither kindred jumping cattle,In shoals and nations,Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettleYour thick plantations.
Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight,Below the fatt'rils, snug an'tight;Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be rightTill ye've got on it,The vera tapmost, tow'ring heightO' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,As plump an' grey as onie grozet;O for some rank, mercurial rozetOr fell red smeddum!I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o'tWad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surprised to spyYou on an auld wife's flainen toy,Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,On's wyliecoat;But Miss's fine Lunardi—fie!How daur ye do't!
O Jenny, dinna toss your head,An' set your beauties a' abread!Ye little ken what cursèd speedThe blastie's makin!Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,Are notice takin!
O wad some Power the giftie gie usTo see oursels as ithers see us!It wad frae monie a blunder free us,An' foolish notion;What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,An' ev'n devotion!
I am nae poet, in a sense,But just a rhymer like by chance,An' hae to learning nae pretence;Yet what the matter?Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,And say, 'How can you e'er propose,You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,To mak a sang?'But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes,Ye're maybe wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools,Your Latin names for horns an' stools?If honest Nature made you fools,What sairs your grammers?Ye'd better taen up spades and shoolsOr knappin-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashesConfuse their brains in college classes;They gang in stirks, and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An' syne they think to climb ParnassusBy dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,That's a' the learning I desire;Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mireAt pleugh or cart,My Muse, tho' hamely in attire,May touch the heart.
My loved, my honoured, much respected friend!No mercenary bard his homage pays;With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise:To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,What Aiken in a cottage would have been;Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;The shortening winter-day is near a close;The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;The blackening 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, o'er 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 throughTo meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's 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 neebor town.Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,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 unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers;The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed 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 sheers,Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;The father mixes a' wi' admonition due:
Their master's and their mistress's commandThe younkers a' are warnèd to obey,And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,And ne'er, 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 temptation's 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 neebor lad came o'er the moor,To do some errands and convoy her hame.The wily mother sees the conscious flameSparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name,While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.
With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben:A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye;Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen;The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spyWhat makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave,Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
Oh happy love, where love like this is found!Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!I've pacèd 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 pairIn other's arms 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 Jenny's unsuspecting youth?Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled?Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns their simple hoard:The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food:The soupe 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-hained kebbuek, fell;And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid;The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tellHow 'twas a towmond auld sin' lint was i' the bell.
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious faceThey round the ingle form a circle wide;The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride;His bonnet reverently 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 'Dundee's' wild-warbling measures rise,Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name;Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame,The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise;Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page;How Abram was the friend of God on high;Or Moses bade eternal warfare wageWith Amalek's ungracious progeny;Or how the royal bard did groaning lieBeneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;Or rapt Isaiah's 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 nameHad 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 banishèd,Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,The saint, the father, and the husband prays;Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,'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 Creator's praise,In such society, yet still more dear,While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,In all the pomp of method and of art,When men display to congregations wideDevotion's ev'ry grace except the heart!The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;But haply, in some cottage far apart,May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their several way;The youngling cottagers retire to rest;The parent-pair their secret homage pay,And proffer up to Heaven the warm requestAnd He who stills the raven's clamorous nest,And decks the lily fair in flowery 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 Scotia's grandeur springs,That makes her loved at home, revered abroad:Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,'An honest man's the noblest work of God.'And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road,The cottage leaves the palace far behind:What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toilBe blest with health and peace and sweet content!And O may Heaven their simple lives preventFrom luxury's contagion, weak and vile!Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,A virtuous populace may rise the while,And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.
O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tideThat streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,Or nobly die, the second glorious part!(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art,His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert,But still the patriot and the patriot-bardIn bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,O what a panic's in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi' bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,Wi' murdering pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominionHas broken Nature's social union,An' justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion,An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!A daimen icker in a thrave'S a sma' request;I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,An' never miss 't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!An' naething now to big a new ane,O' foggage green!An' bleak December's win's ensuin,Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,An' weary winter comin fast,An' cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell—Till, crash! the cruel coulter passedOut thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibbleHas cost thee monie a weary nibble!Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,But house or hald,To thole the winter's sleety dribble,An' cranreuch cauld!
But mousie, thou art no thy laneIn proving foresight may be vain:The best-laid schemes o' mice an' menGang aft agley,An' lea'e us naught but grief an' painFor promised joy!
Still, thou art bleat compared wi' me!The present only toucheth thee:But och! I backward cast my e'e,On prospects drear!An' forward, tho' I canna see,I guess an' fear!
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour,For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem;To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,The bonie lark, companion meet,Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi' spreckled breast,When upward springing, blythe, to greetThe purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce reared above the parent-earthThy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!By love's simplicity betray'd,And guileless trust,Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid,Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,On life's rough ocean luckless starred!Unskilful he to note the cardOf prudent lore,Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,By human pride or cunning driv'nTo mis'ry's brink;Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,He, ruined, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,That fate is thine—no distant date;Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,Full on thy bloom,Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weightShall be thy doom!
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friendA something to have sent you,Tho' it should serve nae ither endThan just a kind memento.But how the subject-theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang,Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad;And, Andrew dear, believe me,Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,And muckle they may grieve ye:For care and trouble set your thought,Ev'n when your end's attainèd;And a' your views may come to nought,Where ev'ry nerve is strainèd.
I'll no say men are villains a';The real, harden'd wicked,Wha hae nae check but human law,Are to a few restricket;But, och! mankind are unco weak,An' little to be trusted;If self the wavering balance shake,It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,Their fate we shouldna censure,For still th' important end of lifeThey equally may answer;A man may hae an honest heart,Tho' poortith hourly stare him;A man may tak a neebor's part,Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han', your story tell,When wi a bosom crony;But still keep something to yourselYe scarcely tell to ony.Conceal yoursel as weel's ye canFrae critical dissection;But keek thro' ev'ry other man,Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,Luxuriantly indulge it;But never tempt th' illicit rove,Tho' naething should divulge it;I ware the quantum o' the sin,The hazard of concealing;But, och! it hardens a' within,And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,Assiduous wait upon her;And gather gear by ev'ry wileThat's justified by honour;Not for to hide it in a hedge,Nor for a train attendant;But for the glorious privilegeOf being independent.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,To haud the wretch in order;But where ye feel your honour grip,Let that aye be your border;Its slightest touches, instant pause;—Debar a' side-pretences;And resolutely keep its laws,Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere,Must sure become the creature;But still the preaching cant forbear,And ev'n the rigid feature;Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,Be complaisance extended;An atheist-laugh's a poor exchangeFor Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,Religion may be blinded;Or, if she gie a random sting,It may be little minded;But when on life we're tempest-driv'n—A conscience but a canker,A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'nIs sure a noble anchor!
Adieu, dear amiable Youth!Your heart can ne'er be wanting!May prudence, fortitude, and truth,Erect your brow undaunting!In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,'Still daily to grow wiser;And may you better reck the rede,Than ever did th' adviser!
Is there a whim-inspirèd fool,Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?Let him draw near;And owre this grassy heap sing dool,And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,That weekly this area throng?—Oh, pass not by!But with a frater-feeling strongHere heave a sigh.
Is there a man whose judgment clearCan others teach the course to steer,Yet runs himself life's mad careerWild as the wave?—Here pause—and thro' the starting tearSurvey this grave.
The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to know,And keenly felt the friendly glowAnd softer flame;But thoughtless follies laid him low,And stain'd his name!
Reader, attend! whether thy soulSoars fancy's flights beyond the pole,Or darkling grubs this earthly holeIn low pursuit;Know, prudent, cautious self-controlIs wisdom's root.
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,Sae pious and sae holy,Ye've nought to do but mark and tellYour neebour's fauts and folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supplied wi' store o' water,The heapet happer's ebbing still,And still the clap plays clatter,—
Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortalsThat frequent pass douce Wisdom's doorFor glaikit Folly's portals;I for their thoughtless, careless sakesWould here propone defences—Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd,And shudder at the niffer;But cast a moment's fair regard,What maks the mighty differ?Discount what scant occasion gave,That purity ye pride in,And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)Your better art o' hidin.
Think, when your castigated pulseGies now and then a wallop,What ragings must his veins convulseThat still eternal gallop:Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o' baith to sail,It maks an unco leeway.
See Social Life and Glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grownDebauchery and Drinking:O would they stay to calculateTh' eternal consequences,Or—your more dreaded hell to state—Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,Tied up in godly laces,Before ye gie poor Frailty names,Suppose a change o' cases:A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,A treach'rous inclination—But, let me whisper i' your lug,Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,To step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,The movingwhythey do it;And just as lamely can ye markHow far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord, its various tone,Each spring, its various bias:Then at the balance, let's be mute,We never can adjust it;What's done we partly may compute,But know not what's resisted.
John Anderson, my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonie brow was brent:But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson, my jo!
John Anderson, my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And monie a cantie day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,And hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson, my jo!
The lovely lass of Inverness,Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;For e'en to morn she cries, 'Alas!'And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e:
'Drumossie moor—Drumossie day—A waefu' day it was to me!For there I lost my father dear,My father dear, and brethren three.
'Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,Their graves are growing green to see:And by them lies the dearest ladThat ever blest a woman's e'e!
'Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,A bluidy man I trow thou be;For mony a heart thou hast made sairThat ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!'
O, my luv is like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June:O, my luv is like the melodieThat's sweetly played 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 awhile!And I will come again, my luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to mind?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And auld lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,And surely I'll be mine;And we'll take a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne!
We twa hae run about the braes,And pou'd the gowans fine;But we've wander'd monie a weary fitSin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,Frae morning sun till dine;But seas between us braid hae roar'dSin' auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,And gie's a hand o' thine;And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,For auld lang syne!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise!My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair!
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills!There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,And Bob and Allan cam to see;Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,Ye wad na found in Christendie.
Chorus:
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,But just a drappie in our e'e;The cock may craw, the day may daw,And ay we'll taste the barley bree!
Here are we met, three merry boys,Three merry boys, I trow, are we;And mony a night we've merry been,And mony mae we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn,That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,A cuckold, coward loun is he!Wha first beside his chair shall fa',He is the King amang us three!
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,That lov'st to greet the early morn,Again thou usher'st in the dayMy Mary from my soul was torn,O Mary! dear departed shade!Where is thy place of blissful rest?See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,Can I forget the hallowed grove,Where by the winding Ayr we metTo live one day of parting love?Eternity cannot effaceThose records dear of transports past,Thy image at our last embrace—Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoarTwined amorous round the raptured scene:The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,The birds sang love on every spray,Till too, too soon the glowing westProclaimed the speed of wingèd day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory 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 place of blissful rest?See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis 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 surpassesFor honest men and bonie lasses).