FOOTNOTES:

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,As through the glen it wimpl’t;Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays,Whyles in a wiel it dimpl’t;Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rays,Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle;Whyles cookit underneath the braes,Below the spreading hazel,Unseen that night.Amang the brackens on the brae,Between her an’ the moon,The deil, or else an outler quey,Gat up an’ gae a croon:Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool!Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,But mist a fit, an’ in the poolOut-owre the lugs she plumpit,Wi’ a plunge that night.In order, on the clean hearth-stane,The luggies three[42]are ranged,And ev’ry time great care is ta’en,To see them duly changed:Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joysSin Mar’s-year did desire,Because he gat the toom-dish thrice,He heav’d them on the fireIn wrath that night.Wi’ merry sangs, and friendly cracks,I wat they did na weary;An’ unco tales, an’ funnie jokes,Their sports were cheap an’ cheery;Till butter’d so’ns[43]wi’ fragrant lunt,Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’;Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,They parted aff careerin’Fu’ blythe that night.

Amang the brackens on the brae,Between her an’ the moon,The deil, or else an outler quey,Gat up an’ gae a croon:Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool!Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,But mist a fit, an’ in the poolOut-owre the lugs she plumpit,Wi’ a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,The luggies three[42]are ranged,And ev’ry time great care is ta’en,To see them duly changed:Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joysSin Mar’s-year did desire,Because he gat the toom-dish thrice,He heav’d them on the fireIn wrath that night.

Wi’ merry sangs, and friendly cracks,I wat they did na weary;An’ unco tales, an’ funnie jokes,Their sports were cheap an’ cheery;Till butter’d so’ns[43]wi’ fragrant lunt,Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’;Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,They parted aff careerin’Fu’ blythe that night.

FOOTNOTES:[28]Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands: particularly those aërial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.[29]Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.[30]A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.[31]The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.[32]The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.[33]They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.[34]When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.[35]Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.[36]Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; demand “wha hauds?” i.e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.[37]Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.[38]Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, “Hemp-seed, I saw thee; hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “Come after me, and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, “Come after me, and harrow thee.”[39]This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht; and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life.[40]Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.[41]You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where “three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.[42]Take three dishes: put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.[43]Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.

[28]Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands: particularly those aërial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.

[29]Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.

[30]A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.

[31]The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.

[32]The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.

[33]They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.

[34]When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.

[35]Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.

[36]Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; demand “wha hauds?” i.e. who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.

[37]Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.

[38]Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, “Hemp-seed, I saw thee; hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “Come after me, and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, “Come after me, and harrow thee.”

[39]This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht; and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life.

[40]Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.

[41]You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where “three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.

[42]Take three dishes: put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.

[43]Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.

[The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop: “I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of ‘The Life and Age of Man.’” From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with “Man was made to Mourn,” I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.]

When chill November’s surly blastMade fields and forests bare,One ev’ning as I wandered forthAlong the banks of Ayr,I spy’d a man whose aged stepSeem’d weary, worn with care;His face was furrow’d o’er with years,And hoary was his hair.“Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?”Began the rev’rend sage;“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,Or youthful pleasure’s rage?Or haply, prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast beganTo wander forth, with me to mournThe miseries of man.“The sun that overhangs yon moors,Out-spreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty lordling’s pride:I’ve seen yon weary winter-sunTwice forty times return,And ev’ry time had added proofsThat man was made to mourn.“O man! while in thy early years,How prodigal of time!Misspending all thy precious hours,Thy glorious youthful prime!Alternate follies take the sway;Licentious passions burn;Which tenfold force gives nature’s law,That man was made to mourn.“Look not alone on youthful prime,Or manhood’s active might;Man then is useful to his kind,Supported in his right:But see him on the edge of life,With cares and sorrows worn;Then age and want—oh! ill-match’d pair!—Show man was made to mourn.“A few seem favorites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest:Yet, think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest.But, oh! what crowds in every land,All wretched and forlorn!Thro’ weary life this lesson learn—That man was made to mourn.“Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn!“See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow-wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful, though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn.“If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave—By Nature’s law design’d—Why was an independent wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow mourn?“Yet, let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human-kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!“O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend—The kindest and the best!Welcome the hour, my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest!The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn!But, oh! a blest relief to thoseThat weary-laden mourn.”

“Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?”Began the rev’rend sage;“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,Or youthful pleasure’s rage?Or haply, prest with cares and woes,Too soon thou hast beganTo wander forth, with me to mournThe miseries of man.

“The sun that overhangs yon moors,Out-spreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to supportA haughty lordling’s pride:I’ve seen yon weary winter-sunTwice forty times return,And ev’ry time had added proofsThat man was made to mourn.

“O man! while in thy early years,How prodigal of time!Misspending all thy precious hours,Thy glorious youthful prime!Alternate follies take the sway;Licentious passions burn;Which tenfold force gives nature’s law,That man was made to mourn.

“Look not alone on youthful prime,Or manhood’s active might;Man then is useful to his kind,Supported in his right:But see him on the edge of life,With cares and sorrows worn;Then age and want—oh! ill-match’d pair!—Show man was made to mourn.

“A few seem favorites of fate,In pleasure’s lap carest:Yet, think not all the rich and greatAre likewise truly blest.But, oh! what crowds in every land,All wretched and forlorn!Thro’ weary life this lesson learn—That man was made to mourn.

“Many and sharp the num’rous illsInwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame!And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man’s inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn!

“See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,So abject, mean, and vile,Who begs a brother of the earthTo give him leave to toil;And see his lordly fellow-wormThe poor petition spurn,Unmindful, though a weeping wifeAnd helpless offspring mourn.

“If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave—By Nature’s law design’d—Why was an independent wishE’er planted in my mind?If not, why am I subject toHis cruelty or scorn?Or why has man the will and powerTo make his fellow mourn?

“Yet, let not this too much, my son,Disturb thy youthful breast;This partial view of human-kindIs surely not the best!The poor, oppressed, honest manHad never, sure, been born,Had there not been some recompenseTo comfort those that mourn!

“O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend—The kindest and the best!Welcome the hour, my aged limbsAre laid with thee at rest!The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,From pomp and pleasure torn!But, oh! a blest relief to thoseThat weary-laden mourn.”

[“I have been,” says Burns, in his common-place book, “taking a peep through, as Young finely says, ‘The dark postern of time long elapsed.’ ’Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!” The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.]

All hail! inexorable lord!At whose destruction-breathing word,The mightiest empires fall!Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,The ministers of grief and pain,A sullen welcome, all!With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye,I see each aimed dart;For one has cut my dearest tie,And quivers in my heart.Then low’ring and pouring,The storm no more I dread;Though thick’ning and black’ning,Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim pow’r, by life abhorr’d,While life a pleasure can afford,Oh! hear a wretch’s prayer!No more I shrink appall’d, afraid;I court, I beg thy friendly aid,To close this scene of care!When shall my soul, in silent peace,Resign life’s joyless day;My weary heart its throbbings cease,Cold mould’ring in the clay?No fear more, no tear more,To stain my lifeless face;Enclasped, and graspedWithin thy cold embrace!

[This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie’s Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the West.]

O Goudie! terror of the Whigs,Dread of black coats and rev’rend wigs,Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,Girnin’, looks back,Wishin’ the ten Egyptian plaguesWad seize you quick.Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition,Waes me! she’s in a sad condition:Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,To see her water:Alas! there’s ground o’ great suspicionShe’ll ne’er get better.Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,But now she’s got an unco ripple;Haste, gie her name up i’ the chapel,Nigh unto death;See, how she fetches at the thrapple,An’ gasps for breath.Enthusiasm’s past redemption,Gaen in a gallopin’ consumption,Not a’ the quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption,Will ever mend her.Her feeble pulse gies strong presumptionDeath soon will end her.’Tis you and Taylor[44]are the chief,Wha are to blame for this mischief,But gin the Lord’s ain focks gat leave,A toom tar-barrel,An’ twa red peats wad send relief,An’ end the quarrel.

O Goudie! terror of the Whigs,Dread of black coats and rev’rend wigs,Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,Girnin’, looks back,Wishin’ the ten Egyptian plaguesWad seize you quick.

Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition,Waes me! she’s in a sad condition:Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,To see her water:Alas! there’s ground o’ great suspicionShe’ll ne’er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,But now she’s got an unco ripple;Haste, gie her name up i’ the chapel,Nigh unto death;See, how she fetches at the thrapple,An’ gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm’s past redemption,Gaen in a gallopin’ consumption,Not a’ the quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption,Will ever mend her.Her feeble pulse gies strong presumptionDeath soon will end her.

’Tis you and Taylor[44]are the chief,Wha are to blame for this mischief,But gin the Lord’s ain focks gat leave,A toom tar-barrel,An’ twa red peats wad send relief,An’ end the quarrel.

FOOTNOTES:[44]Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.

[44]Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.

April 1st, 1785.

(FIRST EPISTLE.)

[“The epistle to John Lapraik,” says Gilbert Burns, “was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour’s house; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well as women.”]

While briers an’ woodbines budding green,An’ paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en,An’ morning poussie whidden seen,Inspire my muse,This freedom in an unknown frien’I pray excuse.On Fasten-een we had a rockin’,To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’,And there was muckle fun an’ jokin’,Ye need na doubt;At length we had a hearty yokin’At sang about.There was ae sang, amang the rest,Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,That some kind husband had addrestTo some sweet wife;It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,A’ to the life.I’ve scarce heard aught describ’d sae weel,What gen’rous manly bosoms feel,Thought I, “Can this be Pope or Steele,Or Beattie’s wark?”They told me ’twas an odd kind chielAbout Muirkirk.It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t,And sae about him there I spier’t,Then a’ that ken’t him round declar’dHe had injine,That, nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,It was sae fine.That, set him to a pint of ale,An’ either douce or merry tale,Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel’,Or witty catches,’Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,He had few matches.Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith,Or die a cadger pownie’s deathAt some dyke-back,A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baithTo hear your crack.But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,Amaist as soon as I could spell,I to the crambo-jingle fell,Tho’ rude an’ rough,Yet crooning to a body’s sel’,Does weel eneugh.I am nae poet in a sense,But just a rhymer, like, by chance,An’ hae to learning nae pretence,Yet what the matter?Whene’er my Muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.Your critic-folk may cock their nose,And say, “How can you e’er propose,You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,To mak a sang?”But, by your leaves, my learned foes,Ye’re may-be wrang.What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools,Your Latin names for horns an’ stools;If honest nature made you fools,What sairs your grammars?Ye’d better taen up spades and shools,Or knappin-hammers.A set o’ dull, conceited hashes,Confuse their brains in college classes!They gang in stirks and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An’ syne they think to climb ParnassusBy dint o’ Greek!Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire!That’s a’ the learning I desire;Then though I drudge thro’ dub an’ mireAt pleugh or cart,My muse, though hamely in attire,May touch the heart.O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,Or Fergusson’s, the bauld and slee,Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,If I can hit it!That would be lear eneugh for me,If I could get it.Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few,Yet, if your catalogue be fou,I’se no insist,But gif ye want ae friend that’s true—I’m on your list.I winna blaw about mysel;As ill I like my fauts to tell;But friends an’ folk that wish me well,They sometimes roose me;Tho’ I maun own, as monie stillAs far abuse me.There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,At dance or fair;May be some ither thing they gie meThey weel can spare.But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair;I should be proud to meet you there!We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care,If we forgather,An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin’-wareWi’ ane anither.The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin’ water;Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,To cheer our heart;An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better,Before we part.Awa, ye selfish, warly race,Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace,Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give placeTo catch-the-plack!I dinna like to see your face,Nor hear your crack.But ye whom social pleasure charms,Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,Who hold your being on the terms,“Each aid the others,”Come to my bowl, come to my arms,My friends, my brothers!But, to conclude my lang epistle,As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle;Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,Who am, most fervent,While I can either sing or whissle,Your friend and servant.

While briers an’ woodbines budding green,An’ paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en,An’ morning poussie whidden seen,Inspire my muse,This freedom in an unknown frien’I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin’,To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’,And there was muckle fun an’ jokin’,Ye need na doubt;At length we had a hearty yokin’At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,That some kind husband had addrestTo some sweet wife;It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,A’ to the life.

I’ve scarce heard aught describ’d sae weel,What gen’rous manly bosoms feel,Thought I, “Can this be Pope or Steele,Or Beattie’s wark?”They told me ’twas an odd kind chielAbout Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t,And sae about him there I spier’t,Then a’ that ken’t him round declar’dHe had injine,That, nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale,An’ either douce or merry tale,Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel’,Or witty catches,’Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith,Or die a cadger pownie’s deathAt some dyke-back,A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baithTo hear your crack.

But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,Amaist as soon as I could spell,I to the crambo-jingle fell,Tho’ rude an’ rough,Yet crooning to a body’s sel’,Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet in a sense,But just a rhymer, like, by chance,An’ hae to learning nae pretence,Yet what the matter?Whene’er my Muse does on me glance,I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,And say, “How can you e’er propose,You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,To mak a sang?”But, by your leaves, my learned foes,Ye’re may-be wrang.

What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools,Your Latin names for horns an’ stools;If honest nature made you fools,What sairs your grammars?Ye’d better taen up spades and shools,Or knappin-hammers.

A set o’ dull, conceited hashes,Confuse their brains in college classes!They gang in stirks and come out asses,Plain truth to speak;An’ syne they think to climb ParnassusBy dint o’ Greek!

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire!That’s a’ the learning I desire;Then though I drudge thro’ dub an’ mireAt pleugh or cart,My muse, though hamely in attire,May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,Or Fergusson’s, the bauld and slee,Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,If I can hit it!That would be lear eneugh for me,If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few,Yet, if your catalogue be fou,I’se no insist,But gif ye want ae friend that’s true—I’m on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;As ill I like my fauts to tell;But friends an’ folk that wish me well,They sometimes roose me;Tho’ I maun own, as monie stillAs far abuse me.

There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,At dance or fair;May be some ither thing they gie meThey weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair;I should be proud to meet you there!We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care,If we forgather,An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin’-wareWi’ ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin’ water;Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,To cheer our heart;An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better,Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish, warly race,Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace,Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give placeTo catch-the-plack!I dinna like to see your face,Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms,Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,Who hold your being on the terms,“Each aid the others,”Come to my bowl, come to my arms,My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle;Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,Who am, most fervent,While I can either sing or whissle,Your friend and servant.

(SECOND EPISTLE.)

[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic worshipper of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, beginning

“When I upon thy bosom lean.”

He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled power of soul.]

April 21st, 1785.

While new-ca’d ky, rowte at the stake,An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik,This hour on e’enin’s edge I takeTo own I’m debtor,To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,For his kind letter.Forjesket sair, wi’ weary legs,Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs,Or dealing thro’ amang the naigsTheir ten hours’ bite,My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,I would na write.The tapetless ramfeezl’d hizzie,She’s saft at best, and something lazy,Quo’ she, “Ye ken, we’ve been sae busy,This month’ an’ mair,That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,An’ something sair.”Her dowff excuses pat me mad:“Conscience,” says I, “ye thowless jad!I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud,This vera night;So dinna ye affront your trade,But rhyme it right.“Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts,Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes,Roose you sae weel for your deserts,In terms sae friendly,Yet ye’ll neglect to show your parts,An’ thank him kindly?”Sae I gat paper in a blinkAn’ down gaed stumpie in the ink:Quoth I, “Before I sleep a wink,I vow I’ll close it;An’ if ye winna mak it clink,By Jove I’ll prose it!”Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whetherIn rhyme or prose, or baith thegither,Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,Let time mak proof;But I shall scribble down some bletherJust clean aff-loof.My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp,Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp;Come, kittle up your moorland-harpWi’ gleesome touch!Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp;She’s but a b—tch.She’s gien me monie a jirt an’ fleg,Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig;But, by the L—d, tho’ I should begWi’ lyart pow,I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg,As lang’s I dow!Now comes the sax an’ twentieth simmer,I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer,Still persecuted by the limmerFrae year to year;But yet despite the kittle kimmer,I, Rob, am here.Do ye envy the city gent,Behint a kist to lie and sklent,Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent.And muckle wame,In some bit brugh to representA bailie’s name?Or is’t the paughty, feudal Thane,Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane,Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,But lordly stalks,While caps and bonnets aff are taen,As by he walks!“O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift,Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,Thro’ Scotland wide;Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift,In a’ their pride!”Were this the charter of our state,“On pain’ o’ hell be rich an’ great,”Damnation then would be our fate,Beyond remead;But, thanks to Heav’n, that’s no the gateWe learn our creed.For thus the royal mandate ran,When first the human race began,“The social, friendly, honest man,Whate’er he be,’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,An’ none but he!”O mandate, glorious and divine!The followers o’ the ragged Nine,Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shineIn glorious light,While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s lineAre dark as night.Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,Their worthless nievfu’ of a soulMay in some future carcase howlThe forest’s fright;Or in some day-detesting owlMay shun the light.Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,To reach their native kindred skies,And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ joys,In some mild sphere,Still closer knit in friendship’s tiesEach passing year!

While new-ca’d ky, rowte at the stake,An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik,This hour on e’enin’s edge I takeTo own I’m debtor,To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, wi’ weary legs,Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs,Or dealing thro’ amang the naigsTheir ten hours’ bite,My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl’d hizzie,She’s saft at best, and something lazy,Quo’ she, “Ye ken, we’ve been sae busy,This month’ an’ mair,That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,An’ something sair.”

Her dowff excuses pat me mad:“Conscience,” says I, “ye thowless jad!I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud,This vera night;So dinna ye affront your trade,But rhyme it right.

“Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts,Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes,Roose you sae weel for your deserts,In terms sae friendly,Yet ye’ll neglect to show your parts,An’ thank him kindly?”

Sae I gat paper in a blinkAn’ down gaed stumpie in the ink:Quoth I, “Before I sleep a wink,I vow I’ll close it;An’ if ye winna mak it clink,By Jove I’ll prose it!”

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whetherIn rhyme or prose, or baith thegither,Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,Let time mak proof;But I shall scribble down some bletherJust clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp,Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp;Come, kittle up your moorland-harpWi’ gleesome touch!Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp;She’s but a b—tch.

She’s gien me monie a jirt an’ fleg,Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig;But, by the L—d, tho’ I should begWi’ lyart pow,I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg,As lang’s I dow!

Now comes the sax an’ twentieth simmer,I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer,Still persecuted by the limmerFrae year to year;But yet despite the kittle kimmer,I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent,Behint a kist to lie and sklent,Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent.And muckle wame,In some bit brugh to representA bailie’s name?

Or is’t the paughty, feudal Thane,Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane,Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,But lordly stalks,While caps and bonnets aff are taen,As by he walks!

“O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift,Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,Thro’ Scotland wide;Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift,In a’ their pride!”

Were this the charter of our state,“On pain’ o’ hell be rich an’ great,”Damnation then would be our fate,Beyond remead;But, thanks to Heav’n, that’s no the gateWe learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran,When first the human race began,“The social, friendly, honest man,Whate’er he be,’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,An’ none but he!”

O mandate, glorious and divine!The followers o’ the ragged Nine,Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shineIn glorious light,While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s lineAre dark as night.

Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,Their worthless nievfu’ of a soulMay in some future carcase howlThe forest’s fright;Or in some day-detesting owlMay shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,To reach their native kindred skies,And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ joys,In some mild sphere,Still closer knit in friendship’s tiesEach passing year!

(THIRD EPISTLE.)

[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, “tapetless,” “ramfeezled,” and “forjesket,” as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]

Sept.13th, 1785.

Guid speed an’ furder to you, Johnny,Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonny;Now when ye’re nickan down fu’ cannyThe staff o’ bread,May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’yTo clear your head.May Boreas never thresh your rigs,Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggsLike drivin’ wrack;But may the tapmast grain that wagsCome to the sack.I’m bizzie too, an’ skelpin’ at it,But bitter, daudin’ showers hae wat it,Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat itWi’ muckle wark,An’ took my jocteleg an’ whatt it,Like ony clark.It’s now twa month that I’m your debtorFor your braw, nameless, dateless letter,Abusin’ me for harsh ill natureOn holy men,While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better,But mair profane.But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,Let’s sing about our noble sel’s;We’ll cry nae jads frae heathen hillsTo help, or roose us,But browster wives an’ whiskey stills,They are the muses.Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat itAn’ if ye mak’ objections at it,Then han’ in nieve some day we’ll knot it,An’ witness take,An’ when wi’ Usquabae we’ve wat itIt winna break.But if the beast and branks be spar’dTill kye be gaun without the herd,An’ a’ the vittel in the yard,An’ theekit right,I mean your ingle-side to guardAe winter night.Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitæShall make us baith sae blythe an’ witty,Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty,An’ be as canty,As ye were nine year less than thretty,Sweet ane an’ twenty!But stooks are cowpet wi’ the blast,An’ now the sin keeks in the west,Then I maun rin amang the restAn’ quat my chanter;Sae I subscribe myself in haste,Yours, Rab the Ranter.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggsLike drivin’ wrack;But may the tapmast grain that wagsCome to the sack.

I’m bizzie too, an’ skelpin’ at it,But bitter, daudin’ showers hae wat it,Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat itWi’ muckle wark,An’ took my jocteleg an’ whatt it,Like ony clark.

It’s now twa month that I’m your debtorFor your braw, nameless, dateless letter,Abusin’ me for harsh ill natureOn holy men,While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better,But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,Let’s sing about our noble sel’s;We’ll cry nae jads frae heathen hillsTo help, or roose us,But browster wives an’ whiskey stills,They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat itAn’ if ye mak’ objections at it,Then han’ in nieve some day we’ll knot it,An’ witness take,An’ when wi’ Usquabae we’ve wat itIt winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar’dTill kye be gaun without the herd,An’ a’ the vittel in the yard,An’ theekit right,I mean your ingle-side to guardAe winter night.

Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-vitæShall make us baith sae blythe an’ witty,Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty,An’ be as canty,As ye were nine year less than thretty,Sweet ane an’ twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi’ the blast,An’ now the sin keeks in the west,Then I maun rin amang the restAn’ quat my chanter;Sae I subscribe myself in haste,Yours, Rab the Ranter.

[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet’s comrades;—of verses which rose not above the barren level of mediocrity: “one of his poems,” says Chambers, “was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul.” In his verses to Burns, under the name of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are intended to be laughable as well as monitory.]

May, 1785.

I gat your letter, winsome Willie;Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,An’ unco vain,Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie,Your flatterin’ strain.But I’se believe ye kindly meant it,I sud be laith to think ye hintedIronic satire, sidelins sklentedOn my poor Musie;Tho’ in sic phraisin’ terms ye’ve penn’d it,I scarce excuse ye.My senses wad be in a creel,Should I but dare a hope to speel,Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,The braes o’ fame;Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,A deathless name.(O Fergusson! thy glorious partsIll suited law’s dry, musty arts!My curse upon your whunstane hearts,Ye Enbrugh gentry!The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartesWad stow’d his pantry!)Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,Or lasses gie my heart a screed,As whiles they’re like to be my dead(O sad disease!)I kittle up my rustic reed,It gies me ease.Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain,She’s gotten poets o’ her ain,Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,But tune their lays,Till echoes a’ resound againHer weel-sung praise.Nae poet thought her worth his while,To set her name in measur’d stile;She lay like some unkenn’d-of isleBeside New-Holland,Or whare wild-meeting oceans boilBesouth Magellan.Ramsay an’ famous FergussonGied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune,Owre Scotland rings,While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon,Nae body sings.Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line!But, Willie, set your fit to mine,An’ cock your crest,We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shineUp wi’ the best.We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,Her moor’s red-brown wi’ heather bells,Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells,Where glorious WallaceAft bure the gree, as story tells,Frae southron billies.At Wallace’ name, what Scottish bloodBut boils up in a spring-tide flood!Oft have our fearless fathers strodeBy Wallace’ side,Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,Or glorious dy’d.O sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,When lintwhites chant amang the buds,And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whidsTheir loves enjoy,While thro’ the braes the cushat croodsWith wailfu’ cry!Ev’n winter bleak has charms to meWhen winds rave thro’ the naked tree;Or frosts on hills of OchiltreeAre hoary gray:Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,Dark’ning the day.O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ formsTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!Whether the summer kindly warms,Wi’ life an’ light,Or winter howls, in gusty storms,The lang, dark night!The muse, nae Poet ever fand her,’Till by himsel’ he learn’d to wander,Adown some trotting burn’s meander,An’ no think lang;O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponderA heart-felt sang!The warly race may drudge an’ drive,Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an’ strive,Let me fair Nature’s face descrive,And I, wi’ pleasure,Shall let the busy, grumbling hiveBum owre their treasure.Fareweel, my “rhyme-composing brither!”We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither:Now let us lay our heads thegither,In love fraternal;May envy wallop in a tether,Black fiend, infernal!While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes;While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies;While terra firma, on her axesDiurnal turns,Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,In Robert Burns.

I gat your letter, winsome Willie;Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,An’ unco vain,Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie,Your flatterin’ strain.

But I’se believe ye kindly meant it,I sud be laith to think ye hintedIronic satire, sidelins sklentedOn my poor Musie;Tho’ in sic phraisin’ terms ye’ve penn’d it,I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,Should I but dare a hope to speel,Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,The braes o’ fame;Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious partsIll suited law’s dry, musty arts!My curse upon your whunstane hearts,Ye Enbrugh gentry!The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartesWad stow’d his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,Or lasses gie my heart a screed,As whiles they’re like to be my dead(O sad disease!)I kittle up my rustic reed,It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain,She’s gotten poets o’ her ain,Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,But tune their lays,Till echoes a’ resound againHer weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while,To set her name in measur’d stile;She lay like some unkenn’d-of isleBeside New-Holland,Or whare wild-meeting oceans boilBesouth Magellan.

Ramsay an’ famous FergussonGied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune,Owre Scotland rings,While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon,Nae body sings.

Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line!But, Willie, set your fit to mine,An’ cock your crest,We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shineUp wi’ the best.

We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,Her moor’s red-brown wi’ heather bells,Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells,Where glorious WallaceAft bure the gree, as story tells,Frae southron billies.

At Wallace’ name, what Scottish bloodBut boils up in a spring-tide flood!Oft have our fearless fathers strodeBy Wallace’ side,Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,Or glorious dy’d.

O sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,When lintwhites chant amang the buds,And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whidsTheir loves enjoy,While thro’ the braes the cushat croodsWith wailfu’ cry!

Ev’n winter bleak has charms to meWhen winds rave thro’ the naked tree;Or frosts on hills of OchiltreeAre hoary gray:Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,Dark’ning the day.

O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ formsTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!Whether the summer kindly warms,Wi’ life an’ light,Or winter howls, in gusty storms,The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae Poet ever fand her,’Till by himsel’ he learn’d to wander,Adown some trotting burn’s meander,An’ no think lang;O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponderA heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an’ drive,Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an’ strive,Let me fair Nature’s face descrive,And I, wi’ pleasure,Shall let the busy, grumbling hiveBum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, my “rhyme-composing brither!”We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither:Now let us lay our heads thegither,In love fraternal;May envy wallop in a tether,Black fiend, infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes;While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies;While terra firma, on her axesDiurnal turns,Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,In Robert Burns.

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