FOOTNOTES:

From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs,That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,“An honest man’s the noblest work ofGod;”[53]And certes, in fair virtue’s heav’nly road,The cottage leaves the palace far behind;What is a lordship’s pomp? a cumbrous load,Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin’d!

XX.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toilBe blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!And, O! may heaven their simple lives preventFrom luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,A virtuous populace may rise the while,And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d Isle.

XXI.

O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tideThat stream’d through Wallace’s undaunted heart:Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,Or nobly die, the second glorious part,(The patriot’s God, peculiarly Thou art,His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert;But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

FOOTNOTES:[52]Pope.[53]Pope.

[52]Pope.

[53]Pope.

[This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet’s work. It cannot be regarded as one of his happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique rigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns had admitted “Death and Dr. Hornbook” into Creech’s edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.]

The man, in life wherever plac’d,Hath happiness in store,Who walks not in the wicked’s way,Nor learns their guilty lore!Nor from the seat of scornful prideCasts forth his eyes abroad,But with humility and aweStill walks before hisGod.That man shall flourish like the treesWhich by the streamlets grow;The fruitful top is spread on high,And firm the root below.But he whose blossom buds in guiltShall to the ground be cast,And, like the rootless stubble, tostBefore the sweeping blast.For why? thatGodthe good adoreHath giv’n them peace and rest,But hath decreed that wicked menShall ne’er be truly blest.

The man, in life wherever plac’d,Hath happiness in store,Who walks not in the wicked’s way,Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful prideCasts forth his eyes abroad,But with humility and aweStill walks before hisGod.

That man shall flourish like the treesWhich by the streamlets grow;The fruitful top is spread on high,And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guiltShall to the ground be cast,And, like the rootless stubble, tostBefore the sweeping blast.

For why? thatGodthe good adoreHath giv’n them peace and rest,But hath decreed that wicked menShall ne’er be truly blest.

[The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reasoning as the poem of “Man was made to Mourn.” These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and they might have been spared; for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary?]

O Thou, the first, the greatest friendOf all the human race!Whose strong right hand has ever beenTheir stay and dwelling place!Before the mountains heav’d their headsBeneath Thy forming hand,Before this ponderous globe itselfArose at Thy command;That Pow’r which rais’d and still upholdsThis universal frame,From countless, unbeginning timeWas ever still the same.Those mighty periods of yearsWhich seem to us so vast,Appear no more before Thy sightThan yesterday that’s past.Thou giv’st the word: Thy creature, man,Is to existence brought;Again thou say’st, “Ye sons of men,Return ye into nought!”Thou layest them, with all their cares,In everlasting sleep;As with a flood Thou tak’st them offWith overwhelming sweep.They flourish like the morning flow’r,In beauty’s pride array’d;But long ere night, cut down, it liesAll wither’d and decay’d.

O Thou, the first, the greatest friendOf all the human race!Whose strong right hand has ever beenTheir stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav’d their headsBeneath Thy forming hand,Before this ponderous globe itselfArose at Thy command;

That Pow’r which rais’d and still upholdsThis universal frame,From countless, unbeginning timeWas ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of yearsWhich seem to us so vast,Appear no more before Thy sightThan yesterday that’s past.

Thou giv’st the word: Thy creature, man,Is to existence brought;Again thou say’st, “Ye sons of men,Return ye into nought!”

Thou layest them, with all their cares,In everlasting sleep;As with a flood Thou tak’st them offWith overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow’r,In beauty’s pride array’d;But long ere night, cut down, it liesAll wither’d and decay’d.

[This was not the original title of this sweet poem: I have a copy in the handwriting of Burns entitled “The Gowan.” This more natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonable cause; and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burness and his poem “The Gowan,” in the first edition of his works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted with tillage—who think that in time and place reside the chief charms of verse; and who feel not the beauty of “The Daisy,” till they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who remember only what the genius loves to forget.]

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,Thou’s met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem:To spare thee now is past my pow’r,Thou bonnie gem.Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet,Wi’ spreckl’d breast,When upward-springing, blythe, to greetThe purpling east.Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce rear’d above the parent earthThy tender form.The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shieldBut thou, beneath the random bieldO’ clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!By love’s simplicity betray’d,And guileless trust,’Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laidLow i’ the dust.Such is the fate of simple bard,On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!Unskilful he to note the cardOf prudent lore,’Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,And whelm him o’er!Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,By human pride or cunning driv’nTo mis’ry’s brink,’Till wrenched of every stay but Heav’n,He, ruin’d, sink!Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,That fate is thine—no distant date;Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,Full on thy bloom,’Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,Shall be thy doom!

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,Thou’s met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem:To spare thee now is past my pow’r,Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet,Wi’ spreckl’d breast,When upward-springing, blythe, to greetThe purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce rear’d above the parent earthThy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shieldBut thou, beneath the random bieldO’ clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!By love’s simplicity betray’d,And guileless trust,’Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laidLow i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!Unskilful he to note the cardOf prudent lore,’Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,By human pride or cunning driv’nTo mis’ry’s brink,’Till wrenched of every stay but Heav’n,He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,That fate is thine—no distant date;Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,Full on thy bloom,’Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,Shall be thy doom!

[Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter’s Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liverpool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The poet has been charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than truth to his “Andrew dear;” but surely to conceal one’s own thoughts and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hypocritical: it is, in fact, a version of the celebrated precept of prudence, “Thoughts close and looks loose.” Whether he profited by all the counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was much respected—his name embalmed, like that of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is not likely soon to perish.]

I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,A something to have sent you,Though it should serve nae ither endThan just a kind memento;But how the subject-theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang,Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

II.

Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad,And, Andrew dear, believe me,Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,And muckle they may grieve ye:For care and trouble set your thought,Ev’n when your end’s attain’d;And a’ your views may come to nought,Where ev’ry nerve is strained.

III.

I’ll no say men are villains a’;The real, harden’d wicked,Wha hae nae check but human law,Are to a few restricked;But, och! mankind are unco weak,An’ little to be trusted;If self the wavering balance shake,It’s rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa’ in Fortune’s strife,Their fate we should na censure,For still th’ important end of lifeThey equally may answer;A man may hae an honest heart,Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;A man may tak a neebor’s part,Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Ay free, aff han’ your story tell,When wi’ a bosom crony;But still keep something to yoursel’Ye scarcely tell to ony.Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye canFrae critical dissection;But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.

VI.

The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love,Luxuriantly indulge it;But never tempt th’ illicit rove,Tho’ naething should divulge it:I waive the quantum o’ the sin,The hazard of concealing;But, och! it hardens a’ within,And petrifies the feeling!

VII.

To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,Assiduous wait upon her;And gather gear by ev’ry wileThat’s justified by honour;Not for to hide it in a hedge,Nor for a train-attendant;But for the glorious privilegeOf being independent.

VIII.

The fear o’ Hell’s a hangman’s whip,To haud the wretch in order;But where ye feel your honour grip,Let that ay be your border:Its slightest touches, instant pause—Debar a’ side pretences;And resolutely keep its laws,Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revereMust sure become the creature;But still the preaching cant forbear,And ev’n the rigid feature:Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,Be complaisance extended;An Atheist laugh’s a poor exchangeFor Deity offended!

When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,Religion may be blinded;Or if she gie a random sting,It may be little minded;But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n,A conscience but a canker—A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’nIs sure a noble anchor!

XI.

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!Your heart can ne’er be wanting!May prudence, fortitude, and truthErect your brow undaunting!In ploughman phrase, ‘God send you speed,’Still daily to grow wiser:And may you better reck the redeThan ever did th’ adviser!

[A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it course and vulgar—those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.]

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!Your impudence protects you sairly:I canna say by ye strunt rarely,Owre gauze and lace;Tho’ faith, I fear, ye dine but sparelyOn sic a place.Ye ugly, creepin’, blastit wonner,Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,How dare you set your fit upon her,Sae fine a lady!Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinnerOn some poor body.Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattleWi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,In shoals and nations;Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettleYour thick plantations.Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,Below the fatt’rells, snug an’ tight;Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right’Till ye’ve got on it,The vera topmost, tow’ring heightO’ Miss’s bonnet.My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,As plump an’ gray as onie grozet;O for some rank, mercurial rozet,Or fell, red smeddum,I’d gie you sic a hearty doze o’t,Wad dross your droddum!I wad na been surpris’d to spyYou on an auld wife’s flainen toy;Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,On’s wyliecoat;But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie!How daur ye do’t?O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,An’ set your beauties a’ abread!Ye little ken what cursed speedThe blastie’s makin’!Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,Are notice takin’!O wad some Power the giftie gie usTo see oursels as others see us!It wad frae monie a blunder free usAn’ foolish notion;What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,And ev’n devotion!

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!Your impudence protects you sairly:I canna say by ye strunt rarely,Owre gauze and lace;Tho’ faith, I fear, ye dine but sparelyOn sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin’, blastit wonner,Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,How dare you set your fit upon her,Sae fine a lady!Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinnerOn some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattleWi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,In shoals and nations;Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettleYour thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,Below the fatt’rells, snug an’ tight;Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right’Till ye’ve got on it,The vera topmost, tow’ring heightO’ Miss’s bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,As plump an’ gray as onie grozet;O for some rank, mercurial rozet,Or fell, red smeddum,I’d gie you sic a hearty doze o’t,Wad dross your droddum!

I wad na been surpris’d to spyYou on an auld wife’s flainen toy;Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,On’s wyliecoat;But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie!How daur ye do’t?

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,An’ set your beauties a’ abread!Ye little ken what cursed speedThe blastie’s makin’!Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,Are notice takin’!

O wad some Power the giftie gie usTo see oursels as others see us!It wad frae monie a blunder free usAn’ foolish notion;What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,And ev’n devotion!

[The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree “Brutes!—damned brutes.” “I dreamed that I was dead,” said the rustic satirist to his superior, “and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship’s friends gang, I chappit, and ‘Wha are ye, and where d’ye come frae?’ Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship’s land. ‘Awa wi’ you,’ cried Satan, ye canna come here: hell’s fou o’ his lordship’s damned brutes already.’”]

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin’!There’s monie godly folks are thinkin’,Your dreams[54]an’ tricksWill send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin’Straught to auld Nick’s.Ye hae sae monie cracks an’ cants,And in your wicked, dru’ken rants,Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts,An’ fill them fou;And then their failings, flaws, an’ wants,Are a’ seen through.Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!That holy robe, O dinna tear it!Spare’t for their sakes wha aften wear it,The lads in black!But your curst wit, when it comes near it,Rives’t aff their back.Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing,It’s just the blue-gown badge and claithingO’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naethingTo ken them by,Frae ony unregenerate heathen,Like you or I.I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware,A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair;Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,I will expectYon sang,[55]ye’ll sen’t wi cannie care,And no neglect.Tho’ faith, sma’ heart hae I to sing!My muse dow scarcely spread her wing!I’ve play’d mysel’ a bonnie spring,An’ danc’d my fill!I’d better gaen an’ sair’t the king,At Bunker’s Hill.’Twas ae night lately, in my fun,I gaed a roving wi’ the gun,An’ brought a paitrick to the grun’,A bonnie hen,And, as the twilight was begun,Thought nane wad ken.The poor wee thing was little hurt;I straikit it a wee for sport,Ne’er thinkin’ they wad fash me for’t;But, deil-ma-care!Somebody tells the poacher-courtThe hale affair.Some auld us’d hands had taen a note,That sic a hen had got a shot;I was suspected for the plot;I scorn’d to lie;So gat the whissle o’ my groat,An’ pay’t the fee.But, by my gun, o’ guns the wale,An’ by my pouther an’ my hail,An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail,I vow an’ swear!The game shall pay o’er moor an’ dale,For this niest year.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an’ cants,And in your wicked, dru’ken rants,Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts,An’ fill them fou;And then their failings, flaws, an’ wants,Are a’ seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!That holy robe, O dinna tear it!Spare’t for their sakes wha aften wear it,The lads in black!But your curst wit, when it comes near it,Rives’t aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing,It’s just the blue-gown badge and claithingO’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naethingTo ken them by,Frae ony unregenerate heathen,Like you or I.

I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware,A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair;Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,I will expectYon sang,[55]ye’ll sen’t wi cannie care,And no neglect.

Tho’ faith, sma’ heart hae I to sing!My muse dow scarcely spread her wing!I’ve play’d mysel’ a bonnie spring,An’ danc’d my fill!I’d better gaen an’ sair’t the king,At Bunker’s Hill.

’Twas ae night lately, in my fun,I gaed a roving wi’ the gun,An’ brought a paitrick to the grun’,A bonnie hen,And, as the twilight was begun,Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;I straikit it a wee for sport,Ne’er thinkin’ they wad fash me for’t;But, deil-ma-care!Somebody tells the poacher-courtThe hale affair.

Some auld us’d hands had taen a note,That sic a hen had got a shot;I was suspected for the plot;I scorn’d to lie;So gat the whissle o’ my groat,An’ pay’t the fee.

But, by my gun, o’ guns the wale,An’ by my pouther an’ my hail,An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail,I vow an’ swear!The game shall pay o’er moor an’ dale,For this niest year.

As soon’s the clockin-time is by,An’ the wee pouts begun to cry,L—d, I’se hae sportin’ by an’ by,For my gowd guinea;Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kyeFor’t, in Virginia.Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!’Twas neither broken wing nor limb,But twa-three draps about the wameScarce thro’ the feathers;An’ baith a yellow George to claim,An’ thole their blethers!It pits me ay as mad’s a hare;So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;But pennyworths again is fair,When time’s expedient:Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,Your most obedient.

As soon’s the clockin-time is by,An’ the wee pouts begun to cry,L—d, I’se hae sportin’ by an’ by,For my gowd guinea;Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kyeFor’t, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!’Twas neither broken wing nor limb,But twa-three draps about the wameScarce thro’ the feathers;An’ baith a yellow George to claim,An’ thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad’s a hare;So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;But pennyworths again is fair,When time’s expedient:Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,Your most obedient.

FOOTNOTES:[54]A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.[55]A song he had promised the author.

[54]A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.

[55]A song he had promised the author.

[Burns in this Poem, as well as in others, speaks openly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the confessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself to task. It was written when “Hungry ruin had him in the wind,” and emigration to the West Indies was the only refuge which he could think of, or his friends suggest, from the persecutions of fortune.]

A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink,A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,A’ ye wha live and never think,Come, mourn wi’ me!Our billie’s gien us a’ a jink,An’ owre the sea.Lament him a’ ye rantin’ core,Wha dearly like a random-splore,Nae mair he’ll join the merry roarIn social key;For now he’s taen anither shore,An’ owre the sea!The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,And in their dear petitions place him;The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him,Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss himThat’s owre the sea!O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!Hadst thou taen’ aff some drowsy bummleWha can do nought but fyke and fumble,’Twad been nae plea,But he was gleg as onie wumble,That’s owre the sea!Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,In flinders flee;He was her laureate monie a year,That’s owre the sea!He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-westLang mustering up a bitter blast;A jillet brak his heart at last,Ill may she be!So, took a birth afore the mast,An’ owre the sea.To tremble under fortune’s cummock,On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,Could ill agree;So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock,An’ owre the sea.He ne’er was gien to great misguiding,Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding:He dealt it free;The muse was a’ that he took pride in,That’s owre the sea.Jamaica bodies, use him weel,An’ hap him in a cozie biel;Ye’ll find him ay a dainty chiel,And fou o’ glee;He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,That’s owre the sea.Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!Your native soil was right ill-willie;But may ye flourish like a lily,Now bonnilie!I’ll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,Tho’ owre the sea!

A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink,A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,A’ ye wha live and never think,Come, mourn wi’ me!Our billie’s gien us a’ a jink,An’ owre the sea.

Lament him a’ ye rantin’ core,Wha dearly like a random-splore,Nae mair he’ll join the merry roarIn social key;For now he’s taen anither shore,An’ owre the sea!

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,And in their dear petitions place him;The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him,Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss himThat’s owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!Hadst thou taen’ aff some drowsy bummleWha can do nought but fyke and fumble,’Twad been nae plea,But he was gleg as onie wumble,That’s owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,In flinders flee;He was her laureate monie a year,That’s owre the sea!

He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-westLang mustering up a bitter blast;A jillet brak his heart at last,Ill may she be!So, took a birth afore the mast,An’ owre the sea.

To tremble under fortune’s cummock,On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,Could ill agree;So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock,An’ owre the sea.

He ne’er was gien to great misguiding,Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding:He dealt it free;The muse was a’ that he took pride in,That’s owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,An’ hap him in a cozie biel;Ye’ll find him ay a dainty chiel,And fou o’ glee;He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,That’s owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!Your native soil was right ill-willie;But may ye flourish like a lily,Now bonnilie!I’ll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,Tho’ owre the sea!

“The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?Or what does he regard his single woes?But when, alas! he multiplies himself,To dearer selves, to the lov’d tender fair,The those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,To helpless children! then, O then! he feelsThe point of misery fest’ring in his heart,And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.Such, such am I! undone.”

Thomson.

[In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the lines to the Scottish bard, are not permitted to mingle, Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any claim. He seems to have looked on the sea as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.]

Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains,Far dearer than the torrid plainsWhere rich ananas blow!Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!A brother’s sigh! a sister’s tear!My Jean’s heart-rending throe!Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereftOf my parental care,A faithful brother I have left,My part in him thou’lt share!Adieu too, to you too,My Smith, my bosom frien’;When kindly you mind me,O then befriend my Jean!

II.

What bursting anguish tears my heart!From thee, my Jeany, must I part!Thou weeping answ’rest—“No!”Alas! misfortune stares my face,And points to ruin and disgrace,I for thy sake must go!Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,A grateful, warm adieu;I, with a much-indebted tear,Shall still remember you!All-hail then, the gale then,Wafts me from thee, dear shore!It rustles, and whistlesI’ll never see thee more!

[This is another of the poet’s lamentations, at the prospect of “torrid climes” and the roars of the Atlantic. To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise; and the land of dread, Jamaica! I found these lines copied by the poet into a volume which he presented to Dr. Geddes: they were addressed, it is thought, to the “Dear E.” of his earliest correspondence.]

Once fondly lov’d and still remember’d dear;Sweet early object of my youthful vows!Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,—Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows.And when you read the simple artless rhymes,One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,—Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar.

Once fondly lov’d and still remember’d dear;Sweet early object of my youthful vows!Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,—Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows.

And when you read the simple artless rhymes,One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,—Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar.

[The gentleman to whom these manly lines are addressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous nature: he was one of the first of the gentry of the west to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive days; for having, without the fear of God’s servant before him, profanely said damn it, in his presence, and far having gallopped on Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother of the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as well as of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edition, but not as an express dedication.]

Expect na, Sir, in this narration,A fleechin’, fleth’rin dedication,To roose you up, an’ ca’ you guid,An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid,Because ye’re surnam’d like his Grace;Perhaps related to the race;Then when I’m tir’d—and sae are ye,Wi’ monie a fulsome, sinfu’ lie,Set up a face, how I stop short,For fear your modesty be hurt.This may do—maun do, Sir, wi’ them whaMaun please the great folk for a wamefou;For me! sae laigh I needna bow,For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;And when I downa yoke a naig,Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;Sae I shall say, an’ that’s nae flatt’rin’,It’s just sic poet, an’ sic patron.The Poet, some guid angel help him,Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him,He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet,But only—he’s no just begun yet.The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,I winna lie, come what will o’ me,)On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be,He’s just—nae better than he should be.I readily and freely grant,He downa see a poor man want;What’s no his ain, he winna tak it;What ance he says, he winna break it;Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t,’Till aft his guidness is abus’d;And rascals whyles that do him wrang,E’en that, he does na mind it lang:As master, landlord, husband, father,He does na fail his part in either.But then, nae thanks to him for a’ that;Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that;It’s naething but a milder feature,Of our poor sinfu’, corrupt nature:Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works,‘Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,Wha never heard of orthodoxy.That he’s the poor man’s friend in need,The gentleman in word and deed,It’s no thro’ terror of damnation;It’s just a carnal inclination.Morality, thou deadly bane,Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain!Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust isIn moral mercy, truth and justice!No—stretch a point to catch a plack;Abuse a brother to his back;Steal thro’ a winnock frae a whore,But point the rake that taks the door;Be to the poor like onie whunstane,And haud their noses to the grunstane,Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving;No matter—stick to sound believing.Learn three-mile pray’rs an’ half-mile graces,Wi’ weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces;Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan,And damn a’ parties but your own;I’ll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver,A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin,For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin’!Ye sons of heresy and error,Ye’ll some day squeal in quaking terror!When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,And in the fire throws the sheath;When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,Just frets ’till Heav’n commission gies him:While o’er the harp pale Mis’ry moans,And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones,Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!Your pardon, Sir, for this digression.I maist forgat my dedication;But when divinity comes cross meMy readers still are sure to lose me.So, Sir, ye see ’twas nae daft vapour,But I maturely thought it proper,When a’ my works I did review,To dedicate them, Sir, to you:Because (ye need na tak it ill)I thought them something like yoursel’.Then patronize them wi’ your favour,And your petitioner shall ever—I had amaist said, ever pray,But that’s a word I need na say:For prayin’ I hae little skill o’t;I’m baith dead sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t;But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r,That kens or hears about you, Sir—“May ne’er misfortune’s gowling bark,Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the Clerk!May ne’er his gen’rous, honest heart,For that same gen’rous spirit smart!May Kennedy’s far-honour’d nameLang beet his hymeneal flame,Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,Are frae their nuptial labours risen:Five bonnie lasses round their table,And seven braw fellows, stout an’ ableTo serve their king and country weel,By word, or pen, or pointed steel!May health and peace, with mutual rays,Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days;’Till his wee curlie John’s-ier-oe,When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,The last, sad, mournful rites bestow.”I will not wind a lang conclusion,With complimentary effusion:But whilst your wishes and endeavoursAre blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours,I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,Your much indebted, humble servant.But if (which pow’rs above prevent)That iron-hearted carl, Want,Attended in his grim advancesBy sad mistakes and black mischances,While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,Make you as poor a dog as I am,Your humble servant then no more;For who would humbly serve the poor!But by a poor man’s hope in Heav’n!While recollection’s pow’r is given,If, in the vale of humble life,The victim sad of fortune’s strife,I, thro’ the tender gushing tear,Should recognise my Master dear,If friendless, low, we meet together,Then Sir, your hand—my friend and brother.

This may do—maun do, Sir, wi’ them whaMaun please the great folk for a wamefou;For me! sae laigh I needna bow,For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;And when I downa yoke a naig,Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;Sae I shall say, an’ that’s nae flatt’rin’,It’s just sic poet, an’ sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him,He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet,But only—he’s no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,I winna lie, come what will o’ me,)On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be,He’s just—nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,He downa see a poor man want;What’s no his ain, he winna tak it;What ance he says, he winna break it;Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t,’Till aft his guidness is abus’d;And rascals whyles that do him wrang,E’en that, he does na mind it lang:As master, landlord, husband, father,He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a’ that;Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that;It’s naething but a milder feature,Of our poor sinfu’, corrupt nature:Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works,‘Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he’s the poor man’s friend in need,The gentleman in word and deed,It’s no thro’ terror of damnation;It’s just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain!Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust isIn moral mercy, truth and justice!

No—stretch a point to catch a plack;Abuse a brother to his back;Steal thro’ a winnock frae a whore,But point the rake that taks the door;Be to the poor like onie whunstane,And haud their noses to the grunstane,Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving;No matter—stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray’rs an’ half-mile graces,Wi’ weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces;Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan,And damn a’ parties but your own;I’ll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver,A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin,For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin’!Ye sons of heresy and error,Ye’ll some day squeal in quaking terror!When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,And in the fire throws the sheath;When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,Just frets ’till Heav’n commission gies him:While o’er the harp pale Mis’ry moans,And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones,Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression.I maist forgat my dedication;But when divinity comes cross meMy readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see ’twas nae daft vapour,But I maturely thought it proper,When a’ my works I did review,To dedicate them, Sir, to you:Because (ye need na tak it ill)I thought them something like yoursel’.

Then patronize them wi’ your favour,And your petitioner shall ever—I had amaist said, ever pray,But that’s a word I need na say:For prayin’ I hae little skill o’t;I’m baith dead sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t;But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r,That kens or hears about you, Sir—

“May ne’er misfortune’s gowling bark,Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the Clerk!May ne’er his gen’rous, honest heart,For that same gen’rous spirit smart!May Kennedy’s far-honour’d nameLang beet his hymeneal flame,Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,Are frae their nuptial labours risen:Five bonnie lasses round their table,And seven braw fellows, stout an’ ableTo serve their king and country weel,By word, or pen, or pointed steel!May health and peace, with mutual rays,Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days;’Till his wee curlie John’s-ier-oe,When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,The last, sad, mournful rites bestow.”

I will not wind a lang conclusion,With complimentary effusion:But whilst your wishes and endeavoursAre blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours,I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which pow’rs above prevent)That iron-hearted carl, Want,Attended in his grim advancesBy sad mistakes and black mischances,While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,Make you as poor a dog as I am,Your humble servant then no more;For who would humbly serve the poor!But by a poor man’s hope in Heav’n!While recollection’s pow’r is given,If, in the vale of humble life,The victim sad of fortune’s strife,I, thro’ the tender gushing tear,Should recognise my Master dear,If friendless, low, we meet together,Then Sir, your hand—my friend and brother.

[Cromek found these verses among the loose papers of Burns, and printed them in the Reliques. They contain a portion of the character of the poet, record his habitual carelessness in worldly affairs, and his desire to be distinguished.]

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