FOOTNOTES:

What tho’, like commoners of air,We wander out we know not where,But either house or hall?Yet nature’s 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 boundTo see the coming year:On braes when we please, then,We’ll sit and sowth a tune;Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t,And sing’t when we hae done.

It’s no in titles nor in rank;It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,To purchase peace and rest;It’s no in makin muckle mair;It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,To make us truly blest;If happiness hae not her seatAnd 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 ay’s the part ayThat makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ 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 moodGod’s creatures they oppress!Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,They riot in excess!Baith careless and fearlessOf either heaven or hell!Esteeming and deemingIt’s a’ an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce;Nor make one scanty pleasures less,By pining at our state;And, even should misfortunes come,I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some,An’s 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, and crosses,Be lessons right severe,There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,Ye’ll find nae other where.

VIII.

But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,And flatt’ry I detest,)This life has joys for you and I;And joys that riches ne’er could buy:And joys the very best.There’s 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,And sets me a’ on flame!

IX.

O, all ye pow’rs who rule above!O, Thou, whose very self art love!Thou know’st 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 griefDeprive my soul of rest,Her dear idea brings reliefAnd solace to my breast.Thou Being, All-seeing,O hear my fervent pray’r!Still take her, and make herThy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!The smile of love, the friendly tear,The sympathetic glow!Long since, this world’s thorny waysHad number’d out my weary days,Had it not been for you!Fate still has blest me with a friend,In every care and ill;And oft a more endearing hand,A tie more tender still.It lightens, it brightensThe tenebrific scene,To meet with, and greet withMy Davie or my Jean!

XI.

O, how that name inspires my styleThe words come skelpin, rank and file,Amaist before I ken!The ready measure rins as fine,As Phœbus and the famous NineWere glowrin owre my pen.My spaviet Pegasus will limp,’Till ance he’s fairly het;And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,An’ rin an unco fit:But least then, the beast thenShould rue this hasty ride,I’ll light now, and dight nowHis sweaty, wizen’d hide.

FOOTNOTES:[4]Ramsay.

[4]Ramsay.

[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time master of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his early comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.]

AULD NIBOR,I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter;Tho’ I maun say’t, I doubt ye flatter,Ye speak sae fair.For my puir, silly, rhymin clatterSome less maun sair.Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,To cheer you thro’ the weary widdleO’ war’ly cares,Till bairn’s bairns kindly cuddleYour auld, gray hairs.But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be licketUntil yo fyke;Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faiket,Be hain’t who like.For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,Rivin’ the words to gar them clink;Whyles daez’t wi’ love, whyles daez’t wi’ drink,Wi’ jads or masons;An’ whyles, but ay owre late, I thinkBraw sober lessons.Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,Commen’ me to the Bardie clan;Except it be some idle planO’ rhymin’ clink,The devil-haet, that I sud ban,They ever think.Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’,Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’;But just the pouchie put the nieve in,An’ while ought’s there,Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,An’ fash nae mair.Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,My chief, amaist my only pleasure,At hame, a-fiel’, at work, or leisure,The Muse, poor hizzie!Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,She’s seldom lazy.Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:The warl’ may play you monie a shavie;But for the Muse she’ll never leave ye,Tho’ e’er so puir,Na, even tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavieFrae door to door.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,To cheer you thro’ the weary widdleO’ war’ly cares,Till bairn’s bairns kindly cuddleYour auld, gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be licketUntil yo fyke;Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faiket,Be hain’t who like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,Rivin’ the words to gar them clink;Whyles daez’t wi’ love, whyles daez’t wi’ drink,Wi’ jads or masons;An’ whyles, but ay owre late, I thinkBraw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,Commen’ me to the Bardie clan;Except it be some idle planO’ rhymin’ clink,The devil-haet, that I sud ban,They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’,Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’;But just the pouchie put the nieve in,An’ while ought’s there,Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,My chief, amaist my only pleasure,At hame, a-fiel’, at work, or leisure,The Muse, poor hizzie!Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:The warl’ may play you monie a shavie;But for the Muse she’ll never leave ye,Tho’ e’er so puir,Na, even tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavieFrae door to door.

“O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow’rs,That led th’ embattled Seraphim to war.”

Milton

[The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes moved the heart on one of the coldest of our critics. “It was, I think,” says Gilbert Burns, “in the winter of 1784, as we were going with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the ‘Address to the Deil.’ The idea of the address was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august personage.”]

O thou! whatever title suit thee,Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,Closed under hatches,Spairges about the brunstane cootie,To scaud poor wretches!Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,An’ let poor damned bodies be;I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,E’en to a deil,To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,An’ hear us squeel!Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;Far kend an’ noted is thy name;An’ tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,Thou travels far;An’, faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,Nor blate nor scaur.Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin,Tirlin the kirks;Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,Unseen thou lurks.I’ve heard my reverend Graunie say,In lanely glens ye like to stray;Or where auld-ruin’d castles, gray,Nod to the moon,Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s wayWi’ eldricht croon.When twilight did my Graunie summon,To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,Wi’ eerie drone;Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortries comin,Wi’ heavy groan.Ae dreary, windy, winter night,The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a frightAyont the lough;Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,Wi’ waving sough.The cudgel in my nieve did shake.Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,When wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick—quaick—Amang the springs,Awa ye squatter’d, like a drake,On whistling wings.Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags,Tell how wi’ you, on rag weed nags,They skim the muirs an’ dizzy cragsWi’ wicked speed;And in kirk-yards renew their leaguesOwre howkit dead.Thence countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain:For, oh! the yellow treasure’s taenBy witching skill;An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gaenAs yell’s the bill.Thence mystic knots mak great abuseOn young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;When the best wark-lume i’ the houseBy cantrip wit,Is instant made no worth a louse,Just at the bit,When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,An’ float the jinglin icy-boord,Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,By your direction;An’ nighted trav’llers are allur’dTo their destruction.An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkiesDecoy the wight that late an’ drunk is,The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeysDelude his eyes,Till in some miry slough he sunk is,Ne’er mair to rise.When masons’ mystic word an’ gripIn storms an’ tempests raise you up,Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,Or, strange to tell!The youngest brother ye wad whipAff straught to hell!Lang syne, in Eden’s bonie yard,When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,An’ all the soul of love they shar’d,The raptur’d hour,Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry sward,In shady bow’r:Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!Ye came to Paradise incog.An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,(Black be your fa’!)An’ gied the infant world a shog,‘Maist ruin’d a’.D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,Ye did present your smoutie phiz‘Mang better folk,An’ sklented on the man of UzzYour spitefu’ joke?An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hall,While scabs an’ botches did him gall,Wi’ bitter claw,An’ lows’d his ill tongu’d, wicked scawl,Was warst ava?But a’ your doings to rehearse,Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,Down to this time,Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,In prose or rhyme.An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,Some luckless hour will send him linkinTo your black pit;But, faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,An’ cheat you yet.But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben!O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—Still hae a stake—I’m wae to think upo’ yon denEv’n for your sake!

O thou! whatever title suit thee,Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,Closed under hatches,Spairges about the brunstane cootie,To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,An’ let poor damned bodies be;I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,E’en to a deil,To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;Far kend an’ noted is thy name;An’ tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,Thou travels far;An’, faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin,Tirlin the kirks;Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my reverend Graunie say,In lanely glens ye like to stray;Or where auld-ruin’d castles, gray,Nod to the moon,Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s wayWi’ eldricht croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon,To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,Wi’ eerie drone;Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortries comin,Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a frightAyont the lough;Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,Wi’ waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake.Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,When wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick—quaick—Amang the springs,Awa ye squatter’d, like a drake,On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags,Tell how wi’ you, on rag weed nags,They skim the muirs an’ dizzy cragsWi’ wicked speed;And in kirk-yards renew their leaguesOwre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain:For, oh! the yellow treasure’s taenBy witching skill;An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gaenAs yell’s the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuseOn young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;When the best wark-lume i’ the houseBy cantrip wit,Is instant made no worth a louse,Just at the bit,

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,An’ float the jinglin icy-boord,Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,By your direction;An’ nighted trav’llers are allur’dTo their destruction.

An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkiesDecoy the wight that late an’ drunk is,The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeysDelude his eyes,Till in some miry slough he sunk is,Ne’er mair to rise.

When masons’ mystic word an’ gripIn storms an’ tempests raise you up,Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,Or, strange to tell!The youngest brother ye wad whipAff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonie yard,When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,An’ all the soul of love they shar’d,The raptur’d hour,Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry sward,In shady bow’r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!Ye came to Paradise incog.An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,(Black be your fa’!)An’ gied the infant world a shog,‘Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,Ye did present your smoutie phiz‘Mang better folk,An’ sklented on the man of UzzYour spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hall,While scabs an’ botches did him gall,Wi’ bitter claw,An’ lows’d his ill tongu’d, wicked scawl,Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,Down to this time,Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,In prose or rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,Some luckless hour will send him linkinTo your black pit;But, faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,An’ cheat you yet.

But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben!O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—Still hae a stake—I’m wae to think upo’ yon denEv’n for your sake!

"AULD MARE MAGGIE."“AULD MARE MAGGIE.”

[“Whenever Burns has occasion,” says Hogg, “to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the heart.” The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of knight-errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffest land; faced the steepest brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness of the loveliness of the load.]

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!Hae, there’s a rip to thy auld baggie:Tho’ thou’s howe-backit, now, an’ knaggie,I’ve seen the dayThou could hae gaen like onie staggieOut-owre the lay.Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisy,I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek, and glaizie,A bonny gray:He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,Ance in a day.Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,A filly, buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,An set weel down a shapely shank,As e’er tread yird;An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,Like ony bird.It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s Meere;He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,An’ fifty mark;Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,An’ thou was stark.When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,Ye then was trottin wi’ your minnie:Tho’ ye was trickle, slee, an’ funny,Ye ne’er was donsie:But hamely, tawie, quiet an’ cannie,An’ unco sonsie.That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,Wi’ maiden air!Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,For sic a pair.Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,That day, ye was a jinker noble,For heels an’ win’!An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,Far, far, behin’!When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh,An’ tak the road!Town’s bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,An’ ca’t thee mad.When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,We took the road ay like a swallow:At Brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,For pith an’ speed;But every tail thou pay’t them hollow,Where’er thou gaed.The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle,Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their mettle,An’ gar’t them whaizle:Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattleO’ saugh or hazle.Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,As e’er in tug or tow was drawn:Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours gaun,In guid March-weather,Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’For days thegither.Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,’Till spiritty knowes wad rair’t and risket,An’ slypet owre.When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,I gied thy cog a wee-bit heapAboon the timmer;I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleepFor that, or simmer.In cart or car thou never reestit;The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, an’ breastit,Then stood to blaw;But just thy step a wee thing hastit,Thou snoov’t awa.My pleugh is now thy bairntime a’;Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;Forbye sax mae, I’ve sell’t awa,That thou hast nurst:They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,The vera worst.Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,An, wi’ the weary warl’ fought!An’ monie an anxious day, I thoughtWe wad be beat!Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,Wi’ something yet.And think na, my auld, trusty servan’,That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,An’ thy auld days may end in starvin,For my last fow,A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve aneLaid by for you.We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether,To some hain’d rig,Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!Hae, there’s a rip to thy auld baggie:Tho’ thou’s howe-backit, now, an’ knaggie,I’ve seen the dayThou could hae gaen like onie staggieOut-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisy,I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek, and glaizie,A bonny gray:He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,A filly, buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,An set weel down a shapely shank,As e’er tread yird;An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s Meere;He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,An’ fifty mark;Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,An’ thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,Ye then was trottin wi’ your minnie:Tho’ ye was trickle, slee, an’ funny,Ye ne’er was donsie:But hamely, tawie, quiet an’ cannie,An’ unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,Wi’ maiden air!Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,For sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,That day, ye was a jinker noble,For heels an’ win’!An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,Far, far, behin’!

When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh,An’ tak the road!Town’s bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,An’ ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,We took the road ay like a swallow:At Brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,For pith an’ speed;But every tail thou pay’t them hollow,Where’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle,Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their mettle,An’ gar’t them whaizle:Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattleO’ saugh or hazle.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,As e’er in tug or tow was drawn:Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours gaun,In guid March-weather,Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’For days thegither.

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,’Till spiritty knowes wad rair’t and risket,An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,I gied thy cog a wee-bit heapAboon the timmer;I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleepFor that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, an’ breastit,Then stood to blaw;But just thy step a wee thing hastit,Thou snoov’t awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a’;Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;Forbye sax mae, I’ve sell’t awa,That thou hast nurst:They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,The vera worst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,An, wi’ the weary warl’ fought!An’ monie an anxious day, I thoughtWe wad be beat!Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,Wi’ something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan’,That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,An’ thy auld days may end in starvin,For my last fow,A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve aneLaid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether,To some hain’d rig,Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

[The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.]

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,Painch, tripe, or thairm:Weel are ye wordy o’ a graceAs lang’s my arm.The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o’ need,While thro’ your pores the dews distilLike amber bead.His knife see rustic-labour dight,An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,Trenching your gushing entrails brightLike onie ditch;And then, O what a glorious sight,Warm-reekin, rich!Then horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,’Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyveAre bent like drums;Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,Bethankit hums.Is there that o’er his French ragout,Or olio that wad staw a sow,Or fricassee wad mak her spewWi’ perfect sconner,Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ viewOn sic a dinner?Poor devil! see him owre his trash,As feckless as a wither’d rash,His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,His nieve a nit;Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,O how unfit!But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,The trembling earth resounds his tread,Clap in his walie nieve a blade,He’ll mak it whissle;An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,Like taps o’ thrissle.Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,And dish them out their bill o’ fare,Auld Scotland wants nae stinking wareThat jaups in luggies;But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,Gie her a Haggis!

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,Painch, tripe, or thairm:Weel are ye wordy o’ a graceAs lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o’ need,While thro’ your pores the dews distilLike amber bead.

His knife see rustic-labour dight,An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,Trenching your gushing entrails brightLike onie ditch;And then, O what a glorious sight,Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,’Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyveAre bent like drums;Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,Bethankit hums.

Is there that o’er his French ragout,Or olio that wad staw a sow,Or fricassee wad mak her spewWi’ perfect sconner,Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ viewOn sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,As feckless as a wither’d rash,His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,His nieve a nit;Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,The trembling earth resounds his tread,Clap in his walie nieve a blade,He’ll mak it whissle;An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,And dish them out their bill o’ fare,Auld Scotland wants nae stinking wareThat jaups in luggies;But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,Gie her a Haggis!

[“There was a certain period of my life,” says Burns, “that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following.”]

O Thou Great Being! what Thou artSurpasses me to know;Yet sure I am, that known to TheeAre all Thy works below.Thy creature here before Thee stands,All wretched and distrest;Yet sure those ills that wring my soulObey Thy high behest.Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not actFrom 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 resolvesTo bear and not repine!

O Thou Great Being! what Thou artSurpasses me to know;Yet sure I am, that known to TheeAre all Thy works below.

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

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not actFrom 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 resolvesTo bear and not repine!

[I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful to the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o’ermastering gifts.]

O Thou unknown, Almighty CauseOf all my hope and fear?In whose dread presence, ere an hourPerhaps I must appear!If I have wander’d in those pathsOf life I ought to shun;As something, loudly, in my breast,Remonstrates I have done;Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me,With passions wild and strong;And list’ning to their witching voiceHas 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 err’d,No other plea I have,But, Thou art good; and goodness stillDelighteth to forgive.

O Thou unknown, Almighty CauseOf all my hope and fear?In whose dread presence, ere an hourPerhaps I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those pathsOf life I ought to shun;As something, loudly, in my breast,Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me,With passions wild and strong;And list’ning to their witching voiceHas 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 err’d,No other plea I have,But, Thou art good; and goodness stillDelighteth to forgive.

[These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls “Misgivings in the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death.” He elsewhere says they were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, first put nature on the alarm.]

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?How I so found it full of pleasing charms?Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:Some gleams of sunshine ‘mid renewing storms:Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?Or Death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode?For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;I tremble to approach an angry God,And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul offence!”Fain promise never more to disobey;But, should my Author health again dispense,Again I might desert fair virtue’s way:Again in folly’s path might go astray;Again exalt the brute and sink the man;Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan?Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?O Thou, great Governor of all below!If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,Or still the tumult of the raging sea:With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n meThose headlong furious passions to confine;For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be,To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line;O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul offence!”Fain promise never more to disobey;But, should my Author health again dispense,Again I might desert fair virtue’s way:Again in folly’s path might go astray;Again exalt the brute and sink the man;Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan?Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,Or still the tumult of the raging sea:With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n meThose headlong furious passions to confine;For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be,To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line;O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

“Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you areThat bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,Your looped and widow’d raggedness defend youFrom seasons such as these?”

Shakspeare.

[“This poem,” says my friend Thomas Carlyle, “is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him.”]

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’rFar south the lift,Dim-darkening through the flaky show’r,Or whirling drift:Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths up-choked,Wild-eddying swirl.Or through the mining outlet bocked,Down headlong hurl.Listening, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,I thought me on the ourie cattle,Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattleO’ winter war,And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattleBeneath 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 cower thy chittering wing,An’ close thy e’e?Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,Lone from your savage homes exiled,The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiledMy heart forgets,While pitiless the tempest wildSore on you beats.Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,Rose in my soul,When on my ear this plaintive strainSlow, 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, showsMore hard unkindness, unrelenting,Vengeful malice unrepenting,Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows;See stern oppression’s iron grip,Or mad ambition’s gory hand,Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,Woe, want, and murder o’er a land!Even in the peaceful rural vale,Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,How pamper’d luxury, flattery by her side,The parasite empoisoning her ear.With all the servile wretches in the rear,Looks o’er proud property, extended wide;And eyes the simple rustic hind,Whose toil upholds the glittering show,A creature of another kind,Some coarser substance, unrefin’d,Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.Where, where is love’s fond, tender throe,With lordly honour’s lofty brow,The powers you proudly own?Is there, beneath love’s noble name,Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,To bless himself alone!Mark maiden innocence a preyTo love-pretending snares,This boasted honour turns away,Shunning soft pity’s rising sway,Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!Perhaps this hour, in misery’s squalid nest,She strains your infant to her joyless breast,And with a mother’s 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 satisfied keen nature’s clamorous call,Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!Think on the dungeon’s grim confine,Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!Guilt, erring man, relenting view!But shall thy legal rage pursueThe wretch, already crushed lowBy cruel fortune’s undeserved blow?Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress,A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”I heard nae mair, for ChanticleerShook off the pouthery snaw,And hailed the morning with a cheer—A cottage-rousing craw!But deep this truth impressed my mind—Through all his works abroad,The heart benevolent and kindThe most resemblesGod.

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’rFar south the lift,Dim-darkening through the flaky show’r,Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths up-choked,Wild-eddying swirl.Or through the mining outlet bocked,Down headlong hurl.

Listening, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,I thought me on the ourie cattle,Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattleO’ winter war,And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattleBeneath 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 cower thy chittering wing,An’ close thy e’e?

Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,Lone from your savage homes exiled,The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiledMy heart forgets,While pitiless the tempest wildSore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,Rose in my soul,When on my ear this plaintive strainSlow, 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, showsMore hard unkindness, unrelenting,Vengeful malice unrepenting,Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows;See stern oppression’s iron grip,Or mad ambition’s gory hand,Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,Woe, want, and murder o’er a land!Even in the peaceful rural vale,Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,How pamper’d luxury, flattery by her side,The parasite empoisoning her ear.With all the servile wretches in the rear,Looks o’er proud property, extended wide;And eyes the simple rustic hind,Whose toil upholds the glittering show,A creature of another kind,Some coarser substance, unrefin’d,Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.Where, where is love’s fond, tender throe,With lordly honour’s lofty brow,The powers you proudly own?Is there, beneath love’s noble name,Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,To bless himself alone!Mark maiden innocence a preyTo love-pretending snares,This boasted honour turns away,Shunning soft pity’s rising sway,Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!Perhaps this hour, in misery’s squalid nest,She strains your infant to her joyless breast,And with a mother’s 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 satisfied keen nature’s clamorous call,Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!Think on the dungeon’s grim confine,Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!Guilt, erring man, relenting view!But shall thy legal rage pursueThe wretch, already crushed lowBy cruel fortune’s undeserved blow?Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress,A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”

I heard nae mair, for ChanticleerShook off the pouthery snaw,And hailed the morning with a cheer—A cottage-rousing craw!

But deep this truth impressed my mind—Through all his works abroad,The heart benevolent and kindThe most resemblesGod.

[“I entirely agree,” says Burns, “with the author of theTheory of Moral Sentiments, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom; an ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up admirably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our follies or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command.”]

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,Beyond comparison the worst are thoseThat to our folly or our guilt we owe.In every other circumstance, the mindHas this to say, ‘It was no deed of mine;’But when to all the evil of misfortuneThis sting is added—‘Blame thy foolish self!’Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,—Of guilt, perhaps, where we’ve involved others;The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us,Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,There’s not a keener lash!Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heartFeels all the bitter horrors of his crime,Can reason down its agonizing throbs;And, after proper purpose of amendment,Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?O, happy! happy! enviable man!O glorious magnanimity of soul!

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigen-gillan; the song of “For a’ that, and a’ that” was inserted by the poet, with his name, in theMusical Museumof February, 1790. Cromek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in theReliques, for which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in theQuarterly Review.The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nancy had her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been given.]

RECITATIVO.

Back to Index Next