FOOTNOTES:

I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,What way poor bodies liv’d ava.Our laird gets in his racked rents,His coals, his kain, and a’ his stents;He rises when he likes himsel’;His flunkies answer at the bell;He ca’s his coach, he ca’s his horse;He draws a bonnie silken purseAs lang’s my tail, whare, through the steeks,The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.Frae morn to e’en its nought but toiling,At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;An’ though the gentry first are stechin,Yet even the ha’ folk fill their pechanWi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,Poor worthless elf, eats a dinner,Better than ony tenant manHis honour has in a’ the lan’;An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,I own it’s past my comprehension.

I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,What way poor bodies liv’d ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents,His coals, his kain, and a’ his stents;He rises when he likes himsel’;His flunkies answer at the bell;He ca’s his coach, he ca’s his horse;He draws a bonnie silken purseAs lang’s my tail, whare, through the steeks,The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e’en its nought but toiling,At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;An’ though the gentry first are stechin,Yet even the ha’ folk fill their pechanWi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,Poor worthless elf, eats a dinner,Better than ony tenant manHis honour has in a’ the lan’;An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,I own it’s past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they’re fash’t eneughA cotter howkin in a sheugh,Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke,Baring a quarry, and sic like;Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,An’ nought but his han’ darg, to keepThem right and tight in thack an’ rape.An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters,Ye maist wad think a wee touch langerAn’ they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger;But, how it comes, I never kenn’d yet,They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented:An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,Are bred in sic a way as this is.

An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters,Ye maist wad think a wee touch langerAn’ they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger;But, how it comes, I never kenn’d yet,They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented:An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then to see how ye’re negleckit,How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit!L—d, man, our gentry care as littleFor delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;They gang as saucy by poor folk,As I wad by a stinking brock.I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day,An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash,How they maun thole a factor’s snash:He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear,He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear;While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble,An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!I see how folk live that hae riches;But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day,An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash,How they maun thole a factor’s snash:He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear,He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear;While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble,An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!

I see how folk live that hae riches;But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

LUATH.

They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think;Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink:They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,The view o’t gies them little fright.Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided,They’re ay in less or mair provided;An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.The dearest comfort o’ their lives,Their grushie weans, an’ faithfu’ wives;The prattling things are just their pride,That sweetens a’ their fire-side;An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappyCan mak’ the bodies unco happy;They lay aside their private cares,To mind the Kirk and State affairs:They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests;Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts;Or tell what new taxation’s comin’,And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,They get the jovial, ranting kirns,When rural life, o’ ev’ry station,Unite in common recreation;Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social MirthForgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.That merry day the year begins,They bar the door on frosty win’s;The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill,Are handed round wi’ right guid will;The cantie auld folks crackin’ crouse,The young anes rantin’ thro’ the house,—My heart has been sae fain to see them,That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,Sic game is now owre aften play’d.There’s monie a creditable stockO’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,Are riven out baith root and branch,Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel’ the fasterIn favour wi’ some gentle master,Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin’,For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’—

The dearest comfort o’ their lives,Their grushie weans, an’ faithfu’ wives;The prattling things are just their pride,That sweetens a’ their fire-side;An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappyCan mak’ the bodies unco happy;They lay aside their private cares,To mind the Kirk and State affairs:They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests;Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts;Or tell what new taxation’s comin’,And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.

As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,They get the jovial, ranting kirns,When rural life, o’ ev’ry station,Unite in common recreation;Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social MirthForgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.

That merry day the year begins,They bar the door on frosty win’s;The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill,Are handed round wi’ right guid will;The cantie auld folks crackin’ crouse,The young anes rantin’ thro’ the house,—My heart has been sae fain to see them,That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.

Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,Sic game is now owre aften play’d.There’s monie a creditable stockO’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,Are riven out baith root and branch,Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel’ the fasterIn favour wi’ some gentle master,Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin’,For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’—

CÆSAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it!For Britain’s guid! guid faith, I doubt it!Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,An’ saying, aye or no’s they bid him,At operas an’ plays parading,Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;Or may be, in a frolic daft,To Hague or Calais takes a waft,To mak a tour, an’ tak’ a whirl,To learnbon ton, an’ see the worl’.There, at Vienna or Versailles,He rives his father’s auld entails;Or by Madrid he takes the rout,To thrum guitars, an’ fecht wi’ nowt;Or down Italian vista startles,Wh—re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtlesThen bouses drumly German water,To mak’ himsel’ look fair and fatter,An’ clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of carnival signoras.For Britain’s guid!—for her destructionWi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.

There, at Vienna or Versailles,He rives his father’s auld entails;Or by Madrid he takes the rout,To thrum guitars, an’ fecht wi’ nowt;Or down Italian vista startles,Wh—re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtlesThen bouses drumly German water,To mak’ himsel’ look fair and fatter,An’ clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of carnival signoras.For Britain’s guid!—for her destructionWi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.

LUATH.

Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gateThey waste sae mony a braw estate!Are we sae foughten an’ harass’dFor gear to gang that gate at last!O, would they stay aback frae courts,An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports,It wad for ev’ry ane be better,The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies,Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows;Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer,Or speakin’ lightly o’ their limmer,Or shootin’ o’ a hare or moor-cock,The ne’er a bit they’re ill to poor folk.But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?Nae cauld or hunger e’er can steer them,The vera thought o’t need na fear them.

Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gateThey waste sae mony a braw estate!Are we sae foughten an’ harass’dFor gear to gang that gate at last!

O, would they stay aback frae courts,An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports,It wad for ev’ry ane be better,The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies,Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows;Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer,Or speakin’ lightly o’ their limmer,Or shootin’ o’ a hare or moor-cock,The ne’er a bit they’re ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?Nae cauld or hunger e’er can steer them,The vera thought o’t need na fear them.

CÆSAR.

L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ‘em.It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,Thro’ winters cauld, or simmer’s heat;They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes:But human bodies are sic fools,For a’ their colleges and schools,That when nae real ills perplex them,They mak enow themsels to vex them;An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them,In like proportion, less will hurt them.A country fellow at the pleugh,His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh;A country girl at her wheel,Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel:But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark are curst.They loiter, lounging, lank, an’ lazy;Tho’ deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless;Their nights unquiet, lang an’ restless;An’ even their sports, their balls an’ races,Their galloping thro’ public places,There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,The joy can scarcely reach the heart.The men cast out in party matches,Then sowther a’ in deep debauches;Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink and wh-ring,Niest day their life is past enduring.The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,As great and gracious a’ as sisters;But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,They’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither.Whyles, o’er the wee bit cup an’ platie,They sip the scandal potion pretty;Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuksPore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard,An’ cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard.There’s some exception, man an’ woman;But this is Gentry’s life in common.By this, the sun was out o’ sight,An’ darker gloaming brought the night:The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;When up they gat, and shook their lugs,Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs;An’ each took aff his several way,Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ‘em.

It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,Thro’ winters cauld, or simmer’s heat;They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes:But human bodies are sic fools,For a’ their colleges and schools,That when nae real ills perplex them,They mak enow themsels to vex them;An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them,In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A country fellow at the pleugh,His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh;A country girl at her wheel,Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel:But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark are curst.They loiter, lounging, lank, an’ lazy;Tho’ deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless;Their nights unquiet, lang an’ restless;An’ even their sports, their balls an’ races,Their galloping thro’ public places,There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,The joy can scarcely reach the heart.The men cast out in party matches,Then sowther a’ in deep debauches;Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink and wh-ring,Niest day their life is past enduring.The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,As great and gracious a’ as sisters;But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,They’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither.Whyles, o’er the wee bit cup an’ platie,They sip the scandal potion pretty;Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuksPore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard,An’ cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard.

There’s some exception, man an’ woman;But this is Gentry’s life in common.

By this, the sun was out o’ sight,An’ darker gloaming brought the night:The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;When up they gat, and shook their lugs,Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs;An’ each took aff his several way,Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

FOOTNOTES:[59]Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s Fingal.

[59]Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s Fingal.

[“The first time I saw Robert Burns,” says Dugald Stewart, “was on the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his work was known to the public.” Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary’s Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.]

This wot ye all whom it concerns,I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,October twenty-third,A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day,Sae far I sprachled up the brae,I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.I’ve been at druken writers’ feasts,Nay, been bitch-fou’ ‘mang godly priests,Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken:I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum,When mighty squireships of the quorumTheir hydra drouth did sloken.But wi’ a Lord—stand out, my shin!A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son!—Up higher yet, my bonnet!And sic a Lord!—lang Scotch ells twa,Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’,As I look o’er my sonnet.But, oh! for Hogarth’s magic pow’r!To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r,And how he star’d and stammer’d,When goavan, as if led wi’ branks,An’ stumpan on his ploughman shanks,He in the parlour hammer’d.I sidling shelter’d in a nook,An’ at his lordship steal’t a look,Like some portentous omen;Except good sense and social glee,An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty,I marked nought uncommon.I watch’d the symptoms o’ the great,The gentle pride, the lordly state,The arrogant assuming;The fient a pride, nae pride had he,Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,Mair than an honest ploughman.Then from his lordship I shall learn,Henceforth to meet with unconcernOne rank as weel’s another;Nae honest worthy man need careTo meet with noble youthful Daer,For he but meets a brother.

This wot ye all whom it concerns,I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,October twenty-third,A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day,Sae far I sprachled up the brae,I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.

I’ve been at druken writers’ feasts,Nay, been bitch-fou’ ‘mang godly priests,Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken:I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum,When mighty squireships of the quorumTheir hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi’ a Lord—stand out, my shin!A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son!—Up higher yet, my bonnet!And sic a Lord!—lang Scotch ells twa,Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’,As I look o’er my sonnet.

But, oh! for Hogarth’s magic pow’r!To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r,And how he star’d and stammer’d,When goavan, as if led wi’ branks,An’ stumpan on his ploughman shanks,He in the parlour hammer’d.

I sidling shelter’d in a nook,An’ at his lordship steal’t a look,Like some portentous omen;Except good sense and social glee,An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty,I marked nought uncommon.

I watch’d the symptoms o’ the great,The gentle pride, the lordly state,The arrogant assuming;The fient a pride, nae pride had he,Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his lordship I shall learn,Henceforth to meet with unconcernOne rank as weel’s another;Nae honest worthy man need careTo meet with noble youthful Daer,For he but meets a brother.

[“I enclose you two poems,” said Burns to his friend Chalmers, “which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, ‘Fair B——,’ is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton’s Eve, on the first day of her existence.” Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The “Address” was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet’s hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.]

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,Where once beneath a monarch’s feetSat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide,As busy Trade his labour plies;There Architecture’s noble prideBids elegance and splendour rise;Here Justice, from her native skies,High wields her balance and her rod;There Learning, with his eagle eyes,Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,With open arms the stranger hail;Their views enlarg’d, their liberal mind,Above the narrow, rural vale;Attentive still to sorrow’s wail,Or modest merit’s silent claim;And never may their sources fail!And never envy blot their name!

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,Gay as the gilded summer sky,Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine;I see the Sire of Love on high,And own his work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar,Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms,And mark’d with many a seamy scar:The pond’rous wall and massy bar,Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,Have oft withstood assailing war,And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,I view that noble, stately dome,Where Scotia’s kings of other years,Fam’d heroes! had their royal home:Alas, how chang’d the times to come!Their royal name low in the dust!Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam,Tho’ rigid law cries out, ’twas just!

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,Whose ancestors, in days of yore,Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gapsOld Scotia’s bloody lion bore:Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,Haply, my sires have left their shed,And fac’d grim danger’s loudest roar,Bold-following where your fathers led!

VIII.

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,Where once beneath a monarch’s feetSat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,As on the hanks of Ayr I stray’d,And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.]

Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!Though fortune’s road be rough an’ hillyTo every fiddling, rhyming billie,We never heed,But tak’ it like the unback’d filly,Proud o’ her speed.When idly goavan whyles we saunterYirr, fancy barks, awa’ we canterUphill, down brae, till some mishanter,Some black bog-hole,Arrests us, then the scathe an’ banterWe’re forced to thole.Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,To cheer you through the weary widdleO’ this wild warl’,Until you on a crummock driddleA gray-hair’d carl.Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune,And screw your temper pins aboonA fifth or mair,The melancholious, lazy croonO’ cankrie care.May still your life from day to dayNae “lente largo” in the play,But “allegretto forte” gayHarmonious flow:A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—Encore! Bravo!A blessing on the cheery gangWha dearly like a jig or sang,An’ never think o’ right an’ wrangBy square an’ rule,But as the clegs o’ feeling stangAre wise or fool.My hand-waled curse keep hard in chaseThe harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,Wha count on poortith as disgrace—Their tuneless hearts!May fireside discords jar a baseTo a’ their parts!But come, your hand, my careless brither,I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither,An’ that there is I’ve little switherAbout the matter;We check for chow shall jog thegither,I’se ne’er bid better.We’ve faults and failings—granted clearly,We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,Eve’s bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerlyFor our grand fa’;But stilt, but still, I like them dearly—God bless them a’!Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers,When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers,The witching curs’d delicious blinkersHae put me hyte,And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,Wi’ girnan spite.But by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin’—An’ every star within my hearin’!An’ by her een wha was a dear ane!I’ll ne’er forget;I hope to gie the jads a clearin’In fair play yet.My loss I mourn, but not repent it,I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it,Ance to the Indies I were wonted,Some cantraip hour,By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted,Then,vive l’amour!Faites mes baisemains respectueuse,To sentimental sister Susie,An’ honest Lucky; no to roose you,Ye may be proud,That sic a couple fate allows yeTo grace your blood.Nae mair at present can I measure,An’ trowth my rhymin’ ware’s nae treasure;But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure,Be’t light, be’t dark,Sir Bard will do himself the pleasureTo call at Park.

Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!Though fortune’s road be rough an’ hillyTo every fiddling, rhyming billie,We never heed,But tak’ it like the unback’d filly,Proud o’ her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunterYirr, fancy barks, awa’ we canterUphill, down brae, till some mishanter,Some black bog-hole,Arrests us, then the scathe an’ banterWe’re forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,To cheer you through the weary widdleO’ this wild warl’,Until you on a crummock driddleA gray-hair’d carl.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune,And screw your temper pins aboonA fifth or mair,The melancholious, lazy croonO’ cankrie care.

May still your life from day to dayNae “lente largo” in the play,But “allegretto forte” gayHarmonious flow:A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gangWha dearly like a jig or sang,An’ never think o’ right an’ wrangBy square an’ rule,But as the clegs o’ feeling stangAre wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chaseThe harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,Wha count on poortith as disgrace—Their tuneless hearts!May fireside discords jar a baseTo a’ their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither,I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither,An’ that there is I’ve little switherAbout the matter;We check for chow shall jog thegither,I’se ne’er bid better.

We’ve faults and failings—granted clearly,We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,Eve’s bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerlyFor our grand fa’;But stilt, but still, I like them dearly—God bless them a’!

Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers,When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers,The witching curs’d delicious blinkersHae put me hyte,And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,Wi’ girnan spite.

But by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin’—An’ every star within my hearin’!An’ by her een wha was a dear ane!I’ll ne’er forget;I hope to gie the jads a clearin’In fair play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it,I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it,Ance to the Indies I were wonted,Some cantraip hour,By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted,Then,vive l’amour!

Faites mes baisemains respectueuse,To sentimental sister Susie,An’ honest Lucky; no to roose you,Ye may be proud,That sic a couple fate allows yeTo grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure,An’ trowth my rhymin’ ware’s nae treasure;But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure,Be’t light, be’t dark,Sir Bard will do himself the pleasureTo call at Park.

Robert Burns.

Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.

[Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causeway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr: he wrote it for the second edition of his poems, and in compliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. Ballantyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: others of his friends figure in the scene: Montgomery’s courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.]

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough;The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush:The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,Or deep-ton’d plovers, gray, wild-whistling o’er the hill;Shall he, nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed,To hardy independence bravely bred,By early poverty to hardship steel’d,And train’d to arms in stern misfortune’s field—Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?Or labour hard the panegyric close,With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings,He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward!Still, if some patron’s gen’rous care he trace,Skill’d in the secret to bestow with grace;When Ballantyne befriends his humble name,And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

’Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaithOf coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath;The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils,Unnumber’d buds, an’ flow’rs delicious spoils,Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,Are doom’d by man, that tyrant o’er the weak,The death o’ devils smoor’d wi’ brimstone reekThe thundering guns are heard on ev’ry side,The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie,Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds,And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!)Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs;Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,Except, perhaps, the robin’s whistling glee,Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree:The hoary morns precede the sunny days,Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays.’Twas in that season, when a simple bard,Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward,Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,By whim inspired, or haply prest wi’ care,He left his bed, and took his wayward rout,And down by Simpson’s[60]wheel’d the left about:(Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate,To witness what I after shall narrate;Or whether, rapt in meditation high,He wander’d out he knew not where nor why)The drowsy Dungeon-clock,[61]had number’d two,And Wallace Tow’r[61]had sworn the fact was true:The tide-swol’n Firth, with sullen sounding roar,Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore.All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e:The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree:The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,Crept, gently-crusting, o’er the glittering stream.—When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard,The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air,Swift as the gos[62]drives on the wheeling hare;Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,The ither flutters o’er the rising piers:Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry’dThe Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside.(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk;Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them,And ev’n the vera deils they brawly ken them.)Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race,The very wrinkles gothic in his face:He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang,Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,That he at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got;In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead,Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head.The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,Spying the time-worn flaws in ev’ry arch;—It chanc’d his new-come neebor took his e’e,And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he!Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,He, down the water, gies him this guid-e’en:—

When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard,The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air,Swift as the gos[62]drives on the wheeling hare;Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,The ither flutters o’er the rising piers:Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry’dThe Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside.(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk;Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them,And ev’n the vera deils they brawly ken them.)Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race,The very wrinkles gothic in his face:He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang,Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,That he at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got;In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead,Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head.The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,Spying the time-worn flaws in ev’ry arch;—It chanc’d his new-come neebor took his e’e,And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he!Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,He, down the water, gies him this guid-e’en:—

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na’, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheep-shank,Ance ye were streekit o’er frae bank to bank!But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,Tho’ faith, that day I doubt ye’ll never see;There’ll be, if that date come, I’ll wad a boddle,Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

NEW BRIG.

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense,Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense;Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet—Your ruin’d formless bulk o’ stane en’ lime,Compare wi’ bonnie Brigs o’ modern time?There’s men o’ taste wou’d tak the Ducat-stream,[63]Tho’ they should cast the vera sark and swim,Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the viewOf sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride!—This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide;And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn,I’ll be a Brig, when ye’re a shapeless cairn!As yet ye little ken about the matter,But twa-three winters will inform ye better.When heavy, dark, continued a’-day rains,Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains;When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil,Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,Or haunted Garpal[64]draws his feeble source,Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes,In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;While crashing ice born on the roaring speat,Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate;And from Glenbuck,[65]down to the Ratton-key,[66]Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d tumbling sea—Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,That Architecture’s noble art is lost!

NEW BRIG.

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t!The L—d be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t!Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,Hanging with threat’ning jut like precipices;O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves;Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest,With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream,The craz’d creations of misguided whim;Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee,And still the second dread command be free,Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea.Mansions that would disgrace the building tasteOf any mason reptile, bird or beast;Fit only for a doited monkish race,Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace;Or cuifs of later times wha held the notionThat sullen gloom was sterling true devotion;Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection!And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!

AULD BRIG.

O ye, my dear-remember’d ancient yealings,Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie,Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil ay;Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners,To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners:Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town;Ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown,Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters;And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers;A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo,Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,To see each melancholy alteration;And, agonizing, curse the time and placeWhen ye begat the base, degen’rate race!Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory,In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story!Nae langer thrifty citizens an’ douce,Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house;But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry,The herryment and ruin of the country;Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers,Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on d—d new Brigs and Harbours!

NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough,And muckle mair than ye can mak to through;As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,Corbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle:But under favour o’ your langer beard,Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d:To liken them to your auld-warld squad,I must needs say, comparisons are odd.In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handleTo mouth ‘a citizen,’ a term o’ scandal;Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;Men wha grew wise priggin’ owre hops an’ raisins,Or gather’d lib’ral views in bonds and seisins,If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,Had shor’d them with a glimmer of his lamp,And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them,Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them

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