FOOTNOTES:

An’ there will be lads o’ the gospel,Muirhead,[119]wha’s as gude as he’s true;An’ there will be Buittle’s[120]apostle,Wha’s more o’ the black than the blue;An’ there will be folk from St. Mary’s,[121]A house o’ great merit and note,The deil ane but honours them highly,—The deil ane will gie them his vote!

VII.

An’ there will be wealthy young Richard,[122]Dame Fortune should hing by the neck;For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,His merit had won him respect:An’ there will be rich brother nabobs,Tho’ nabobs, yet men of the first,An’ there will be Collieston’s[123]whiskers,An’ Quintin, o’ lads not the worst.

VIII.

An’ there will be stamp-office Johnnie,[124]Tak’ tent how ye purchase a dram;An’ there will be gay Cassencarrie,An’ there will be gleg Colonel Tam;An’ there will be trusty Kerroughtree,[125]Whose honour was ever his law,If the virtues were pack’d in a parcel,His worth might be sample for a’.

IX.

An’ can we forget the auld major,Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the Greys,Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other,Him only ’tis justice to praise.An’ there will be maiden Kilkerran,And also Barskimming’s gude knight,An’ there will be roarin’ Birtwhistle,Wha luckily roars in the right.

An’ there, frae the Niddisdale borders,Will mingle the Maxwells in droves;Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an’ Walie,That griens for the fishes an’ loaves;An’ there will be Logan Mac Douall,[126]Sculdudd’ry an’ he will be there,An’ also the wild Scot of Galloway,Sodgerin’, gunpowder Blair.

XI.

Then hey the chaste interest o’ Broughton,An’ hey for the blessings ’twill bring?It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,In Sodom ’twould make him a king;An’ hey for the sanctified M——y,Our land who wi’ chapels has stor’d;He founder’d his horse among harlots,But gied the auld naig to the Lord.

FOOTNOTES:[112]Murray, of Broughton and Caillie.[113]Gordon of Balmaghie.[114]Bushby, of Tinwald-Downs.[115]Maxwell, of Cardoness.[116]The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle-Douglas.[117]Gordon, afterwards Viscount Kenmore.[118]Laurie, of Redcastle.[119]Morehead, Minister of Urr.[120]The Minister of Buittle.[121]Earl of Selkirk’s family.[122]Oswald, of Auchuncruive.[123]Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood.[124]John Syme, of the Stamp-office.[125]Heron, of Kerroughtree.[126]Colonel Macdouall, of Logan.

[112]Murray, of Broughton and Caillie.

[113]Gordon of Balmaghie.

[114]Bushby, of Tinwald-Downs.

[115]Maxwell, of Cardoness.

[116]The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle-Douglas.

[117]Gordon, afterwards Viscount Kenmore.

[118]Laurie, of Redcastle.

[119]Morehead, Minister of Urr.

[120]The Minister of Buittle.

[121]Earl of Selkirk’s family.

[122]Oswald, of Auchuncruive.

[123]Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood.

[124]John Syme, of the Stamp-office.

[125]Heron, of Kerroughtree.

[126]Colonel Macdouall, of Logan.

[BALLAD THIRD.]

[This third and last ballad was written on the contest between Heron and Stewart, which followed close on that with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was unseated by the decision of a Committee of the House of Commons: a decision which it is said he took so much to heart that it affected his health, and shortened his life.]

Tune.—“Buy broom besoms.”

Wha will buy my troggin,Fine election ware;Broken trade o’ Broughton,A’ in high repair.Buy braw troggin,Frae the banks o’ Dee;Wha wants trogginLet him come to me.There’s a noble Earl’s[127]Fame and high renownFor an auld sang—It’s thought the gudes were stown.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here’s the worth o’ Broughton[128]In a needle’s ee;Here’s a reputationTint by Balmaghie.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here’s an honest conscienceMight a prince adorn;Frae the downs o’ Tinwald—[129]So was never worn.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here’s its stuff and lining,Cardoness’[130]head;Fine for a sodgerA’ the wale o’ lead.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here’s a little wadsetBuittle’s[131]scrap o’ truth,Pawn’d in a gin-shopQuenching holy drouth.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here’s armorial bearingsFrae the manse o’ Urr;[132]The crest, an auld crab-appleRotten at the core.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here is Satan’s picture,Like a bizzard gled,Pouncing poor Redcastle,[133]Sprawlin’ as a taed.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here’s the worth and wisdomCollieston[134]can boast;By a thievish midgeThey had been nearly lost.Buy braw troggin, &c.Here is Murray’s fragmentsO’ the ten commands;Gifted by black Jock[135]To get them aff his hands.Buy braw troggin, &c.Saw ye e’er sic troggin?If to buy ye’re slack,Hornie’s turnin’ chapman,He’ll buy a’ the pack.Buy braw troggin,Frae the banks o’ Dee;Wha wants trogginLet him come to me.

Wha will buy my troggin,Fine election ware;Broken trade o’ Broughton,A’ in high repair.Buy braw troggin,Frae the banks o’ Dee;Wha wants trogginLet him come to me.

There’s a noble Earl’s[127]Fame and high renownFor an auld sang—It’s thought the gudes were stown.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here’s the worth o’ Broughton[128]In a needle’s ee;Here’s a reputationTint by Balmaghie.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here’s an honest conscienceMight a prince adorn;Frae the downs o’ Tinwald—[129]So was never worn.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here’s its stuff and lining,Cardoness’[130]head;Fine for a sodgerA’ the wale o’ lead.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here’s a little wadsetBuittle’s[131]scrap o’ truth,Pawn’d in a gin-shopQuenching holy drouth.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here’s armorial bearingsFrae the manse o’ Urr;[132]The crest, an auld crab-appleRotten at the core.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Satan’s picture,Like a bizzard gled,Pouncing poor Redcastle,[133]Sprawlin’ as a taed.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here’s the worth and wisdomCollieston[134]can boast;By a thievish midgeThey had been nearly lost.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Murray’s fragmentsO’ the ten commands;Gifted by black Jock[135]To get them aff his hands.Buy braw troggin, &c.

Saw ye e’er sic troggin?If to buy ye’re slack,Hornie’s turnin’ chapman,He’ll buy a’ the pack.Buy braw troggin,Frae the banks o’ Dee;Wha wants trogginLet him come to me.

FOOTNOTES:[127]The Earl of Galloway.[128]Murray, of Broughton and Caillie.[129]Bushby, of Tinwald-downs.[130]Maxwell, of Cardoness.[131]The Minister of Buittle.[132]Morehead, of Urr.[133]Laurie, of Redcastle.[134]Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood.[135]John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs.

[127]The Earl of Galloway.

[128]Murray, of Broughton and Caillie.

[129]Bushby, of Tinwald-downs.

[130]Maxwell, of Cardoness.

[131]The Minister of Buittle.

[132]Morehead, of Urr.

[133]Laurie, of Redcastle.

[134]Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood.

[135]John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs.

[The gentlemen to whom this very modest, and, under the circumstances, most affecting application for his salary was made, filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and generous nature: but few were aware that the poet was suffering both from ill-health and poverty.]

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;Alake, alake, the meikle deilWi’ a’ his witchesAre at it, skelpin’ jig and reel,In my poor pouches!I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it,That one pound one, I sairly want it,If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it,It would be kind;And while my heart wi’ life-blood duntedI’d bear’t in mind.So may the auld year gang out moaningTo see the new come laden, groaning,Wi’ double plenty o’er the loaninTo thee and thine;Domestic peace and comforts crowningThe hale design.

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;Alake, alake, the meikle deilWi’ a’ his witchesAre at it, skelpin’ jig and reel,In my poor pouches!

I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it,That one pound one, I sairly want it,If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it,It would be kind;And while my heart wi’ life-blood duntedI’d bear’t in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaningTo see the new come laden, groaning,Wi’ double plenty o’er the loaninTo thee and thine;Domestic peace and comforts crowningThe hale design.

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been licket,And by felt death was nearly nicket;Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,And sair me sheuk;But by guid luck I lap a wicket,And turn’d a neuk.But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t,And by that life, I’m promised mair o’t,My hale and weel I’ll tak a care o’t,A tentier way:Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t,For ance and aye!

Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been licket,And by felt death was nearly nicket;Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,And sair me sheuk;But by guid luck I lap a wicket,And turn’d a neuk.

But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t,And by that life, I’m promised mair o’t,My hale and weel I’ll tak a care o’t,A tentier way:Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t,For ance and aye!

[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daughter: for this she has the silent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns; she has received more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined soon to die.]

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,And with them take the Poet’s prayer;That fate may in her fairest page,With every kindliest, best presageOf future bliss, enrol thy name:With native worth and spotless fame,And wakeful caution still awareOf ill—but chief, man’s felon snare;All blameless joys on earth we find,And all the treasures of the mind—These be thy guardian and reward;So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.

June26, 1796.

[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided himself on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Americans. He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sciences: he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verses.]

My honoured colonel, deep I feelYour interest in the Poet’s weal;Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speelThe steep Parnassus,Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,And potion glasses.O what a canty warld were it,Would pain and care and sickness spare it;And fortune favour worth and merit,As they deserve!(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;Syne, wha wad starve?)Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,And in paste gems and frippery deck her;Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsickerI’ve found her still,Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,’Tween good and ill.Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut onWi’ felon ire;Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on—He’s aff like fire.Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,First shewing us the tempting ware,Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,To put us daft;Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snareO’ hell’s damn’d waft.Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye,And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,Thy auld danm’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy,And hellish pleasure;Already in thy fancy’s eye,Thy sicker treasure!Soon heels-o’er gowdie! in he gangs,And like a sheep head on a tangs,Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangsAnd murd’ring wrestle,As, dangling in the wind, he hangsA gibbet’s tassel.But lest you think I am uncivil,To plague you with this draunting drivel,Abjuring a’ intentions evil,I quat my pen:The Lord preserve us frae the devil,Amen! amen!

My honoured colonel, deep I feelYour interest in the Poet’s weal;Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speelThe steep Parnassus,Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,Would pain and care and sickness spare it;And fortune favour worth and merit,As they deserve!(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;Syne, wha wad starve?)

Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,And in paste gems and frippery deck her;Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsickerI’ve found her still,Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,’Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut onWi’ felon ire;Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on—He’s aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,First shewing us the tempting ware,Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,To put us daft;Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snareO’ hell’s damn’d waft.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye,And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,Thy auld danm’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy,And hellish pleasure;Already in thy fancy’s eye,Thy sicker treasure!

Soon heels-o’er gowdie! in he gangs,And like a sheep head on a tangs,Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangsAnd murd’ring wrestle,As, dangling in the wind, he hangsA gibbet’s tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,To plague you with this draunting drivel,Abjuring a’ intentions evil,I quat my pen:The Lord preserve us frae the devil,Amen! amen!

[William Burness merited his son’s eulogiums: he was an example of piety, patience, and fortitude.]

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend!Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains,The tender father and the gen’rous friend.The pitying heart that felt for human woe;The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;“For ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.”

[Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom “The Cotter’s Saturday Night” is addressed: a kind and generous man.]

Know thou, O stranger to the fameOf this much lov’d, much honour’d name!(For none that knew him need be told)A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.

[The name of this friend is neither mentioned nor alluded to in any of the poet’s productions.]

An honest man here lies at restAs e’er God with his image blest!The friend of man, the friend of truth;The friend of age, and guide of youth;Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,Few heads with knowledge so inform’d:If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;If there is none, he made the best of this.

[These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured for presuming to ride on Sunday, and say, “damn it,” in the presence of the minister of Mauchline.]

The poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps,Whom canting wretches blam’d:But with such as he, where’er he be,May I be sav’d or damn’d!

[Wee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns’s Poems: he doubted the success of the speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of their meaning.]

Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know,That death has murder’d Johnny!An’ here his body lies fu’ low—For saul he ne’er had ony.

[John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline: his religion is made to consist of a comparative appreciation of the liquors he kept.]

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;What was his religion?Wha e’er desires to ken,To some other warl’Maun follow the carl,For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!Strong ale was ablution—Small beer, persecution,A dram wasmemento mori;But a full flowing bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;What was his religion?Wha e’er desires to ken,To some other warl’Maun follow the carl,For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution—Small beer, persecution,A dram wasmemento mori;But a full flowing bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory.

[This laborious and useful wag was the “Dear Smith, thou sleest pawkie thief,” of one of the poet’s finest epistles: he died in the West Indies.]

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’,He aften did assist ye;For had ye staid whole weeks awa,Your wives they ne’er had missed ye.Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pressTo school in bands thegither,O tread ye lightly on his grass,—Perhaps he was your father.

[Souter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his impertinent inquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of Burns.]

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;—To h—ll, if he’s gane thither,Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,He’ll haud it weel thegither.

[This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of James Humphrey: he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dissertation on free grace, effectual-calling, and predestination.]

Below thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes:O Death, it’s my opinion,Thou ne’er took such a blethrin’ b—chInto thy dark dominion!

[The heroine of these complimentary lines lived in Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks.]

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times,Been Jeany Scott, as thou art,The bravest heart on English groundHad yielded like a coward!

[Though satisfied with the severe satire of these lines, the poet made a second attempt.]

As father Adam first was fool’d,A case that’s still too common,Here lies a man a woman rul’d,The devil rul’d the woman.

[The second attempt did not in Burns’s fancy exhaust this fruitful subject: he tried his hand again.]

O Death, hadst thou but spared his life,Whom we this day lament,We freely wad exchang’d the wife,And a’ been weel content!Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff,The swap we yet will do’t;Take thou the carlin’s carcase aff,Thou’se get the soul to boot.

O Death, hadst thou but spared his life,Whom we this day lament,We freely wad exchang’d the wife,And a’ been weel content!

Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff,The swap we yet will do’t;Take thou the carlin’s carcase aff,Thou’se get the soul to boot.

[In these lines he bade farewell to the sordid dame, who lived, it is said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.]

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,When depriv’d of her husband she loved so well,In respect for the love and affection he’d show’d her,She reduc’d him to dust and she drank up the powder.But Queen Netherplace, of a diff’rent complexion,When call’d on to order the fun’ral direction,Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pretence,Not to show her respect, but to save the expense.

[Burns took farewell of the hospitalities of the Scottish Highlands in these happy lines.]

When Death’s dark stream I ferry o’er,A time that surely shall come;In Heaven itself I’ll ask no moreThan just a Highland welcome.

[Smellie, author of the Philosophy of History; a singular person, of ready wit, and negligent in nothing save his dress.]

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,The old cock’d hat, the gray surtout, the same;His bristling beard just rising in its might,’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:His uncomb’d grizzly locks wild staring, thatch’dA head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d:Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting, rude,His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,The old cock’d hat, the gray surtout, the same;His bristling beard just rising in its might,’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:

His uncomb’d grizzly locks wild staring, thatch’dA head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d:Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting, rude,His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

[These lines were written on receiving what the poet considered an uncivil refusal to look at the works of the celebrated Carron foundry.]

We came na here to view your warksIn hopes to be mair wise,But only, lest we gang to hell,It may be nae surprise:For whan we tirl’d at your door,Your porter dought na hear us;Sae may, shou’d we to hell’s yetts comeYour billy Satan sair us!

We came na here to view your warksIn hopes to be mair wise,But only, lest we gang to hell,It may be nae surprise:

For whan we tirl’d at your door,Your porter dought na hear us;Sae may, shou’d we to hell’s yetts comeYour billy Satan sair us!

[Burns wrote this reproof in a Shakspeare, which he found splendidly bound and gilt, but unread and worm-eaten, in a noble person’s library.]

Through and through the inspir’d leaves,Ye maggots, make your windings;But oh! respect his lordship’s taste,And spare his golden bindings.

[On visiting Stirling, Burns was stung at beholding nothing but desolation in the palaces of our princes and our halls of legislation, and vented his indignation in those unloyal lines: some one has said that they were written by his companion, Nicol, but this wants confirmation.]

Here Stuarts once in glory reign’d,And laws for Scotland’s weal ordain’d;But now unroof’d their palace stands,Their sceptre’s sway’d by other hands;The injured Stuart line is gone,A race outlandish fills their throne;An idiot race, to honour lost;Who know them best despise them most.

[The imprudence of making the lines written at Stirling public was hinted to Burns by a friend; he said, “Oh, but I mean to reprove myself for it,” which he did in these words.]

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy nameShall no longer appear in the records of fame;Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,Says the more ’tis a truth, Sir, the more ’tis a libel?

[The minister of Gladsmuir wrote a censure on the Stirling lines, intimating, as a priest, that Burns’s race was nigh run, and as a prophet, that oblivion awaited his muse. The poet replied to the expostulation.]

Like Esop’s lion, Burns says, sore I feelAll others’ scorn—but damn that ass’s heel.

[The Miss Burns of these lines was well known in those days to the bucks of the Scottish metropolis: there is still a letter by the poet, claiming from the magistrates of Edinburgh a liberal interpretation of the laws of social morality, in belief of his fair namesake.]

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings,Lovely Burns has charms—confess:True it is, she had one failing—Had a woman ever less?

[These portraits are strongly coloured with the partialities of the poet: Dundas had offended his pride, Erskine had pleased his vanity; and as he felt he spoke.]

LORD ADVOCATE.

He clench’d his pamphlets in his fist,He quoted and he hinted,’Till in a declamation-mistHis argument he tint it:He gaped for’t, he grap’d for’t,He fand it was awa, man;But what his common sense came shortHe eked out wi’ law, man.

MR. ERSKINE.

Collected Harry stood awee,Then open’d out his arm, man:His lordship sat wi’ rueful e’e,And ey’d the gathering storm, man;Like wind-driv’n hail it did assail,Or torrents owre a linn, man;The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes,Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man.

[A lady who expressed herself with incivility about her husband’s potations with Burns, was rewarded by these sharp lines.]

Curs’d be the man, the poorest wretch in life,The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!Who has no will but by her high permission;Who has not sixpence but in her possession;Who must to her his dear friend’s secret tell;Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!Were such the wife had fallen to my part,I’d break her spirit, or I’d break her heart;I’d charm her with the magic of a switch,I’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b——h.

[Neglected at the inn of Inverary, on account of the presence of some northern chiefs, and overlooked by his Grace of Argyll, the poet let loose his wrath and his rhyme: tradition speaks of a pursuit which took place on the part of the Campbell, when he was told of his mistake, and of a resolution not to be soothed on the part of the bard.]

Whoe’er he be that sojourns here,I pity much his case,Unless he’s come to wait uponThe Lord their God, his Grace.There’s naething here but Highland prideAnd Highland cauld and hunger;If Providence has sent me here,T’was surely in his anger.

Whoe’er he be that sojourns here,I pity much his case,Unless he’s come to wait uponThe Lord their God, his Grace.

There’s naething here but Highland prideAnd Highland cauld and hunger;If Providence has sent me here,T’was surely in his anger.

[Burns thus relates the origin of this sally:—“Stopping at a merchant’s shop in Edinburgh, a friend of mine one day put Elphinston’s Translation of Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. I asked permission to write my opinion on a blank leaf of the book; which being granted, I wrote this epigram.”]

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