"The influence of the poetry of the past lasted; new elements were added to poetry, and new forms of it took shape. The study of the Greek and Latin classics revived, and with it a more artistic poetry. Not only correct form, for which Pope sought, but beautiful form was sought after. Men like Thomas Gray and William Collins strove to pour into their work that simplicity of beauty which the Greek poets and Italians like Petrarca had reached as the last result of genius restrained by art. . . . Two things had been learned. First, that artistic rules were necessary, and, secondly, that natural feeling was necessary in order that poetry should have a style fitted to express nobly the emotions and thoughts of man. The way was therefore now made ready for a style in which the Art should itself be Nature, and it sprang at once into being in the work of the poets of this time. The style of Gray is polished to the finest point, and yet it is instinct with natural feeling. Goldsmith is natural even to simplicity, and yet his verse is even more accurate than Pope's. Cowper's style, in such poems as the 'Lines to my Mother's Picture,' arises out of the simplest pathos, and yet it is as pure in expression as Greek poetry."—Stopford Brooke.
"The influence of the poetry of the past lasted; new elements were added to poetry, and new forms of it took shape. The study of the Greek and Latin classics revived, and with it a more artistic poetry. Not only correct form, for which Pope sought, but beautiful form was sought after. Men like Thomas Gray and William Collins strove to pour into their work that simplicity of beauty which the Greek poets and Italians like Petrarca had reached as the last result of genius restrained by art. . . . Two things had been learned. First, that artistic rules were necessary, and, secondly, that natural feeling was necessary in order that poetry should have a style fitted to express nobly the emotions and thoughts of man. The way was therefore now made ready for a style in which the Art should itself be Nature, and it sprang at once into being in the work of the poets of this time. The style of Gray is polished to the finest point, and yet it is instinct with natural feeling. Goldsmith is natural even to simplicity, and yet his verse is even more accurate than Pope's. Cowper's style, in such poems as the 'Lines to my Mother's Picture,' arises out of the simplest pathos, and yet it is as pure in expression as Greek poetry."—Stopford Brooke.
"At last there started up an unfortunate Scotch peasant (Burns), rebelling against the world, and in love, with the yearnings, lusts, greatness, and irrationality of modern genius. Now and then behind his plough, he lighted on genuine verses, verses such as Heine and Alfred de Musset have written in our own days. In those few words, combined after a new fashion, there was a revolution."—Taine.
"At last there started up an unfortunate Scotch peasant (Burns), rebelling against the world, and in love, with the yearnings, lusts, greatness, and irrationality of modern genius. Now and then behind his plough, he lighted on genuine verses, verses such as Heine and Alfred de Musset have written in our own days. In those few words, combined after a new fashion, there was a revolution."—Taine.
Alexander Pope(1688-1744). See biographical note, page155.
Thomas Parnell(1679-1718). "The Hermit"; short poems.
Edward Young(1684-1765), "Night Thoughts"; "The Last Day"; "Resignation."
Allan Ramsay(1686-1758). "The Gentle Shepherd": "Scots Songs"; "Fables and Tales."
John Gay(1688-1732). "The Beggar's Opera"; "The Shepherd's Week"; "Trivia"; "Rural Sports"; fables, and other short poems.
Matthew Green(1696-1737). "The Grotto"; "The Spleen."
John Dyer(1698-1758). "Grongar Hill"; "The Fleece."
Robert Blair(1699-1746). "The Grave."
James Thomson(1700-1748). "The Seasons"; "The Castle of Indolence."
Samuel Johnson(1709-1784), "The Vanity of Human Wishes"; "London."
Richard Glover(1712-1785). "Leonidas"; "Admiral Hosier's Ghost"; "The Athenaid."
William Shenstone(1714-1763). "The Schoolmistress"; "Pastoral Ballads."
Thomas Gray(1716-1771). See biographical note, page139.
William Collins(1721-1759). Odes and other short poems.
Mark Akenside(1721-1770). "The Pleasures of the Imagination."
Oliver Goldsmith(1728-1774). See biographical note, page128.
Thomas Warton(1728-1790). "The Pleasures of Melancholy"; "The Triumph of Isis"; short poems.
William Cowper(1731-1800). See biographical note, page122.
Charles Churchill(1731-1764). "The Prophecy of Famine"; "The Rosciad."
James Beattie(1735-1803). "The Minstrel."
Robert Fergusson(1750-1774). Short Scottish poems.
Thomas Chatterton(1752-1770). "Poems of Thomas Rowlie"; short poems.
George Crabbe(1754-1832). "Tales of the Hall"; "The Village"; "The Parish Register"; "Tales in Verse."
William Blake(1757-1827). "Songs of Innocence"; "Songs of Experience"; "Poetical Sketches."
Robert Burns(1759-1796). See biographical note, page111.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,The short but simple annals of the Poor.3—Gray.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,The short but simple annals of the Poor.3—Gray.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,The short but simple annals of the Poor.3—Gray.
My loved, my honored, 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,4The lowly train5in 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;6The short'ning winter-day is near a close;The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor 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.7At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th' expectant wee things toddlin', stacher thro'To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wine's smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee,Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.8Belyve, the elder bairns9come drapping in,At service out, amang the farmers roun';Some ca'10the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rinA cannie errand to a neibor11town: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 deposit12her sair-won penny-fee,13To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,An' each for other's welfare 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 an' her shears,Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.Their master's and their mistress's command,The younkers a' are warned to obey;And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play:"And, oh! 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!"14But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,Tells how a neibor 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;Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name,While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;15A strappin' youth; he takes the mother's eye;Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.16The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,But, blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave;The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spyWhat makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave;Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.O happy love! where love like this is found!O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!I've 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 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 honor, 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 board,—The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food:The sowpe their only hawkie17does afford,That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood;The dame brings forth in complimental mood,To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell,An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tellHow 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.18The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,The big ha'-Bible,19ance his father's pride;His bonnet20rev'rently is laid aside,His lyart haffets wearing thin an' 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" beets21the 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 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 Babylon'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,"22That 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 every grace, except the heart!The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole23;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 request,That 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:"24And 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, oh, 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's25undaunted 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!)O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
My loved, my honored, 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,4The lowly train5in 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;6The short'ning winter-day is near a close;The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor 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.7
At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th' expectant wee things toddlin', stacher thro'To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wine's smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee,Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.8
Belyve, the elder bairns9come drapping in,At service out, amang the farmers roun';Some ca'10the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rinA cannie errand to a neibor11town: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 deposit12her sair-won penny-fee,13To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,An' each for other's welfare 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 an' her shears,Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their master's and their mistress's command,The younkers a' are warned to obey;And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play:"And, oh! 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!"14
But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,Tells how a neibor 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;Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name,While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;15A strappin' youth; he takes the mother's eye;Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.16The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,But, blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave;The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spyWhat makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave;Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
O happy love! where love like this is found!O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!I've 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 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 honor, 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 board,—The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food:The sowpe their only hawkie17does afford,That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood;The dame brings forth in complimental mood,To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell,An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tellHow 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.18
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,The big ha'-Bible,19ance his father's pride;His bonnet20rev'rently is laid aside,His lyart haffets wearing thin an' 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" beets21the 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 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 Babylon'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,"22That 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 every grace, except the heart!The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole23;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 request,That 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:"24And 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, oh, 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's25undaunted 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!)O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
This poem, composed in 1785, is written partly in the Scottish dialect, partly in English. The livelier passages are in the poet's vernacular; the loftier or more solemn parts in the language of books. This distinctionwas doubtless made because Burns disliked to treat his higher themes in a merely colloquial manner, fearing to belittle them by so doing. The household described was probably that of the poet's own father; it was at least a typical Scotch peasant's household, with which no one was more familiar. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to Dr. Currie, says: "Although the 'Cotter' in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in his manners, his family devotions, and exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. None of us ever went 'At service out amang the neibors roun'.' Instead of our depositing our 'sair-won penny-fee' with our parents, my father labored hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be able to keep his children at home."
The influence of Gray and Goldsmith is very apparent in more than one passage in this poem.
"Robert had frequently remarked to me," said his brother, "that there was something particularly venerable in the phrase, 'Let us worship God,' used by a decent, sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author, the world is indebted for 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' The hint of the plan and title of the poem is taken from Ferguson's 'Farmer's Ingle.'"
1.Cotter."One who inhabits a cot, or cottage, dependent on a farm."—Jamieson.
2.R. Aiken.A friend with whom Burns had been brought into contact during the Old and New Light Controversy.
3.See Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," eighth stanza.
4.lays.Songs; probably from the same root as the Germanlied. The word was originally applied to a form of elegiac French poetry, much imitated by the English.
5.train.A favorite word with the poets at this time. Goldsmith uses it no fewer than six times in the "Deserted Village." The original meaning is something drawn along; from Lat.traho, to draw.
6.sugh.Also spelledsough. Whistling sound, murmur. Derived from the same root as sigh, for which word it is used by Burns in his lines, "On the Battle of Sherriffmuir":
"My heart for fear gae sough for soughTo hear the thuds," etc.
"My heart for fear gae sough for soughTo hear the thuds," etc.
7.Compare with Gray's "Elegy," line 3:
"The ploughman homeward plods his weary way."
"The ploughman homeward plods his weary way."
8.Toil was perhaps pronouncedtile, thus properly rhyming withbeguile. Johnson, in "London," says:
"On all thy hours security shall smile,And bless thine evening walk and morning toil."
"On all thy hours security shall smile,And bless thine evening walk and morning toil."
9.bairns.From A.-S.bearns, children.
10.ca'.Drive, follow. Probably not from the same root as our common wordcall. Kingsley uses it in this sense in the line:
"Go, Mary, go, and call the cattle home."
"Go, Mary, go, and call the cattle home."
11.neibor.Neighboring. Milton, in "Comus," uses the expressions: "Some neighbor woodman," "some neighbor villager"; and Shakespeare says: "A neighbor thicket" ("Love's Labour Lost"), and "neighbor room" ("Hamlet").
12.deposit.Pronounced heredep´o-zit.
13.penny-fee.Fee, wages, from A.-S.feoh, cattle. "Cattle," says Bosworth, "was the first kind of property; and, by bartering, this word came to signify money in general." So, too, the wordpennyis from A.-S.penig, Icelandicpeningr, cattle. The wordpenny, as in this country the worddollar, is used indefinitely formoney.
14.Observe that in quoting the words of the Cotter the poet partially drops the Ayrshire dialect and uses a purer English.
15.ben.Within. The inner part of the house; from O. E.binnan, within. Its opposite isbut, the outside of the house.
16.kye.Cattle, from O.-E.cu, orkie.Kineis derived from the same root, and probablycow.
17.hawkie.This word, says Hales, "denotes, properly, a cow with a white face. So, in Northumberland,bawsandwas used of an animal with a white spot on its forehead, andcrummieof a cow with crooked horns."
18.sin' lint was i' the bell.Since flax was in bloom. That is, the cheese was a year old last flax-blossoming time.
19.ha'-Bible.The hall Bible—the Bible kept in the best room.
20.bonnet.This word in Scotch denotes a man's head-covering. In early English it was used in the same sense.
21.beets.Feeds,—that is, gives fuel to the flame.
"It warms me, it charms me,To mention but her name;It heats me, it beets me,And sets me a' on flame."
"It warms me, it charms me,To mention but her name;It heats me, it beets me,And sets me a' on flame."
—Burns's Epistle to Davie, a brother poet.
The word is probably from A.-S.betan, to better, to mend; from which, also, we have the wordsbeat, to excel,better,best, etc.
22.Burns refers the reader to Pope's "Windsor Forest" for this quotation. He probably had in mind the line in the "Essay on Man":
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
23.sacerdotal stole.A long, narrow scarf with fringed ends, and richly embroidered, worn by the clergy upon special occasions.Sacerdotal, from Lat.sacerdos, a priest.Stole, from Lat.stola, a long dress worn by Roman women over their tunic and fastened with a girdle.
24.Pope's "Essay on Man," Epistle iv, line 247.
25.William Wallace (1270-1305), the Scotch national hero was, like Burns, a native of Ayrshire.
VOCABULARY.aft, often.ingle, fire.amaist, almost.jauk, trifle.amang, among.kebbuck, cheese.ance, once.kens, understands.auld, old.lathefu', shy.belyve, by and by.lave, the rest.blate, bashful.lyart, gray.blinkin, gleaming.miry, muddy, dusty.blythe, happy.moil, labor.braw, brave, fine.nae, no.cannie, easy.parritch, porridge.carking, fretting.pleugh, plough.certes, certain.rin, run.chows, chews.sair-won, hard-earned.claes, clothes.sowpe, milk.convoy, accompany.spiers, inquires.cracks, talks.stacher, stagger.craws, crows.strappin', strapping, stout.drapping, dropping.tentie, attentively.eydent, diligent.towmond, twelvemonth.fell, tasty.uncos, unknown things, new.flichterin, fluttering.wales, chooses.frae, from.wee bit, little.gang, go.weel, well.gars, makes.wee things, little folks.guid, good.weel-hained, well-kept.hae, have.wiles, knowledge.haffets, temples.wily, knowing.hafflins, half.youngling, youthful.halesome, wholesome.younkers, youngsters, children.hallan, partition wall.'yont, on the other side of.hameward, homeward.
Wee, modest, crimson-tippéd 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 power,Thou bonnie gem.Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee 'mang the dewy weetWi' 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 flowers our gardens yield,High sheltering woods an' 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 betrayed,And guileless trust,Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laidLow 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 given,Who long with wants and woes has striven,By human pride or cunning drivenTo misery's brink,Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,He, ruined, sink!Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,That fate is thine—no distant date;Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,Full on thy bloom,Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,Shall be thy doom.
Wee, modest, crimson-tippéd 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 power,Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee 'mang the dewy weetWi' 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 flowers our gardens yield,High sheltering woods an' 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 betrayed,And guileless trust,Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laidLow 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 given,Who long with wants and woes has striven,By human pride or cunning drivenTo misery's brink,Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,He, ruined, sink!
Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,That fate is thine—no distant date;Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,Full on thy bloom,Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,Shall be thy doom.
VOCABULARY.bield, protection.maun, must.blythe, happy.spreckled, speckled.bonnie, pretty.stibble, stubble.card, compass.stoure, dust.glinted, passed quickly.weet, wetness.histie, barren.wrenched, deprived.
Is there, for honest poverty,That hangs his head, and a' that?1The coward slave, we pass him by,We dare be poor for a' that!For a' that, and a' that,Our toils obscure, and a' that;The rank is but the guinea's stamp,2The man's the gowd3for a' that!What though on hamely fare we dine,Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,A man's a man for a' that!For a' that, and a' that,Their tinsel show, and a' that;The honest man, though e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that!Ye see yon birkie,4ca'd a lord,Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;Though hundreds worship at his word,He's but a coof5for a' that;For a' that, and a' that,His riband, star, and a' that;The man of independent mind,He looks and laughs at a' that.A prince can mak a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a' that;But an honest man's aboon6his might,Guid faith, he maunna fa'7that!For a' that, and a' that,Their dignities, and a' that;The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,Are higher ranks than a' that!Then let us pray that come it may—As come it will for a' that—That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,May bear the gree,8and a' that.For a' that, and a' that,It's coming yet, for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be for a' that!
Is there, for honest poverty,That hangs his head, and a' that?1The coward slave, we pass him by,We dare be poor for a' that!For a' that, and a' that,Our toils obscure, and a' that;The rank is but the guinea's stamp,2The man's the gowd3for a' that!
What though on hamely fare we dine,Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,A man's a man for a' that!For a' that, and a' that,Their tinsel show, and a' that;The honest man, though e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie,4ca'd a lord,Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;Though hundreds worship at his word,He's but a coof5for a' that;For a' that, and a' that,His riband, star, and a' that;The man of independent mind,He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a' that;But an honest man's aboon6his might,Guid faith, he maunna fa'7that!For a' that, and a' that,Their dignities, and a' that;The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,Are higher ranks than a' that!
Then let us pray that come it may—As come it will for a' that—That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,May bear the gree,8and a' that.For a' that, and a' that,It's coming yet, for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be for a' that!
1.Is there anything in honest poverty to cause one to hang his head, etc.?
2.Explain lines 7 and 8 fully.
3.gowd, gold.
4.birkie, fellow.
5.coof, fool.
6.aboon his might, above his power.
7.maunna fa', may not get.
8.gree, palm, supremacy.
"Burns was not only the poet of love, but also of the new excitement about man. Himself poor, he sang the poor. Neither poverty nor low birth made a man the worse—the man was 'a man for a' that.'"—Stopford Brooke.
Robert Burnswas born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1759. His childhood and youth were spent in poverty on his father's farm, where he learned to plough, reap, mow, and thresh in the barn, but where opportunities for education were such only as Scottish peasants know. In 1784 his father died, and he attempted to manage a farm of his own at Mossgiel. The experiment proving to be a failure, he resolved to leave Scotland, and secured an appointment to a clerkship in Jamaica. Just before the time set for his departure, he learned of the success of a volume of his poems which had just been published at Kilmarnock; and, instead of departing for the West Indies, he made a visit to Edinburgh. He was welcomed by the best society, and received at once into the literary circles of the Scottish capital. "His name and fame flashed like sunshine over the land: the shepherd on the hill, the maiden at her wheel, learned his songs by heart, and the first scholars of Scotland courted his acquaintance." A second edition of his poems was published in 1787, and with the proceeds—about $2500—he took a farm at Ellisland, in Nithsdale. But his habits were such that he made sad failure a second time in the experiment of farming; and, after two years of mismanagement, to eke out his scanty income he accepted an appointment as exciseman. In 1791, "unfortunately both for his health and for his reputation," he removed to Dumfries, where, five years later, he died.
"While the Shakespeares and Miltons roll on like mighty rivers through the country of Thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl-fishers on their waves, this little Valclusa Fountain will also arrest our eye; for this also is of Nature's own and most cunning workmanship, bursts from the depths of the earth, with a full gushing current, into the light of day; and often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines."—Carlyle.
"Burns is not the poet's poet, which Shelley no doubt meant to be, or the philosopher's poet, which Wordsworth, in spite of himself, is. He is the poet of homely human nature, not half so homely or prosaic as it seems. His genius, in a manner all its own, associates itself with the fortunes, experiences, memorable moments, of humanbeings whose humanity is their sole patrimony; to whom 'liberty and whatever, like liberty, has the power