FOOTNOTES:

What farther clishmaclaver might been said,What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to shed,No man can tell; but all before their sight,A fairy train appear’d in order bright:Adown the glitt’ring stream they featly danc’d;Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc’d:They footed owre the wat’ry glass so neat,The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:While arts of minstrelsy among them rung,And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.—O had M’Lauchlan,[67]thairm-inspiring Sage,Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage;Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs,The lover’s raptur’d joys or bleeding cares;How would his highland lug been nobler fir’d,And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d!No guess could tell what instrument appear’d,But all the soul of Music’s self was heard,Harmonious concert rung in every part,While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart.The Genius of the stream in front appears,A venerable Chief advanc’d in years;His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d,His manly leg with garter tangle bound.Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy,And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,Led yellow Autumn, wreath’d with nodding corn;Then Winter’s time-bleach’d looks did hoary show,By Hospitality with cloudless brow.Next follow’d Courage, with his martial stride,From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide;Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair:Learning and Worth in equal measures trodeFrom simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath,To rustic Agriculture did bequeathThe broken iron instruments of death;At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

The Genius of the stream in front appears,A venerable Chief advanc’d in years;His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d,His manly leg with garter tangle bound.Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy,And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,Led yellow Autumn, wreath’d with nodding corn;Then Winter’s time-bleach’d looks did hoary show,By Hospitality with cloudless brow.Next follow’d Courage, with his martial stride,From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide;Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair:Learning and Worth in equal measures trodeFrom simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath,To rustic Agriculture did bequeathThe broken iron instruments of death;At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

FOOTNOTES:[60]A noted tavern at the auld Brig end.[61]The two steeples.[62]The gos-hawk or falcon.[63]A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.[64]The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.[65]The source of the river Ayr.[66]A small landing-place above the large key.[67]A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.

[60]A noted tavern at the auld Brig end.

[61]The two steeples.

[62]The gos-hawk or falcon.

[63]A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.

[64]The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

[65]The source of the river Ayr.

[66]A small landing-place above the large key.

[67]A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.

[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by the following surly note:—“The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God’s world, Alexander Wood, surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with his lady’s name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?” This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 1834.]

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocksShun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains;Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;The hollow caves return a sullen moan.Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;Where to the whistling blast and waters’ roarPale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore.O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!A loss these evil days can ne’er repair!Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,Her doubtful balance ey’d, and sway’d her rod;Hearing the tidings of the fatal blowShe sunk, abandon’d to the wildest woe.Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:See from this cavern grim Oppression rise,And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes,Rousing elate in these degenerate times;View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:While subtile Litigation’s pliant tongueThe life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale,And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours th’ unpitied wail!Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign,Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,To mourn the woes my country must endure,That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;Where to the whistling blast and waters’ roarPale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!A loss these evil days can ne’er repair!Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,Her doubtful balance ey’d, and sway’d her rod;Hearing the tidings of the fatal blowShe sunk, abandon’d to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:See from this cavern grim Oppression rise,And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes,Rousing elate in these degenerate times;View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:While subtile Litigation’s pliant tongueThe life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale,And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours th’ unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign,Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,To mourn the woes my country must endure,That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

[John M’Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M’Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The littlePoem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in M’Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M’Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]

Sad thy tale, thou idle page,And rueful thy alarms:Death tears the brother of her loveFrom Isabella’s arms.Sweetly deck’d with pearly dewThe morning rose may blow;But cold successive noontide blastsMay lay its beauties low.Fair on Isabella’s mornThe sun propitious smil’d;But, long ere noon, succeeding cloudsSucceeding hopes beguil’d.Fate oft tears the bosom chordsThat nature finest strung:So Isabella’s heart was form’d,And so that heart was wrung.Were it in the poet’s power,Strong as he shares the griefThat pierces Isabella’s heart,To give that heart relief!Dread Omnipotence, alone,Can heal the wound He gave;Can point the brimful grief-worn eyesTo scenes beyond the grave.Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,And fear no withering blast;There Isabella’s spotless worthShall happy be at last.

Sad thy tale, thou idle page,And rueful thy alarms:Death tears the brother of her loveFrom Isabella’s arms.

Sweetly deck’d with pearly dewThe morning rose may blow;But cold successive noontide blastsMay lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella’s mornThe sun propitious smil’d;But, long ere noon, succeeding cloudsSucceeding hopes beguil’d.

Fate oft tears the bosom chordsThat nature finest strung:So Isabella’s heart was form’d,And so that heart was wrung.

Were it in the poet’s power,Strong as he shares the griefThat pierces Isabella’s heart,To give that heart relief!

Dread Omnipotence, alone,Can heal the wound He gave;Can point the brimful grief-worn eyesTo scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,And fear no withering blast;There Isabella’s spotless worthShall happy be at last.

[Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the “sentimental sister Susie,” of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet’s correspondence.]

Again the silent wheels of timeTheir annual round have driv’n,And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heav’n.No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail:I send you more than India boastsIn Edwin’s simple tale.Our sex with guile and faithless loveIs charg’d, perhaps, too true;But may, dear maid, each lover proveAn Edwin still to you!

Again the silent wheels of timeTheir annual round have driv’n,And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heav’n.

No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail:I send you more than India boastsIn Edwin’s simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless loveIs charg’d, perhaps, too true;But may, dear maid, each lover proveAn Edwin still to you!

[Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were unstatesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration of “Chatham’s Boy,” called down on him the dusty indignation of the republican Ritson.]

When Guildford good our pilot stood,And did our hellim thraw, man,Ae night, at tea, began a plea,Within America, man:Then up they gat the maskin-pat,And in the sea did jaw, man;An’ did nae less in full Congress,Than quite refuse our law, man.

II.

Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,I wat he was na slaw, man;Down Lowrie’s burn he took a turn,And Carleton did ca’, man;But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,Montgomery-like did fa’, man,Wi’ sword in hand, before his band,Amang his en’mies a’, man.

III.

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,Was kept at Boston ha’, man;Till Willie Howe took o’er the knoweFor Philadelphia, man;Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sinGuid Christian blood to draw, man:But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,Sir-loin he hacked sma’, man.

IV.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,Till Fraser brave did fa’, man,Then lost his way, ae misty day,In Saratoga shaw, man.Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,An’ did the buckskins claw, man;But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save,He hung it to the wa’, man.

Then Montague, an’ Guilford, too,Began to fear a fa’, man;And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure,The German Chief to thraw, man;For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,Nae mercy had at a’, man;An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man.

VI.

Then Rockingham took up the game,Till death did on him ca’, man;When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,Conform to gospel law, man;Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise,They did his measures thraw, man,For North an’ Fox united stocks,An’ bore him to the wa’, man.

VII.

Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes,He swept the stakes awa’, man,Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race,Led him a sairfaux pas, man;The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads,On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man;An’ Scotland drew her pipe, an’ blew,“Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!”

VIII.

Behind the throne then Grenville’s gone,A secret word or twa, man;While slee Dundas arous’d the class,Be-north the Roman wa’, man:An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heavenly graith,(Inspired Bardies saw, man)Wi’ kindling eyes cry’d “Willie, rise!Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?”

IX.

But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co.,Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man,Till Suthron raise, and coost their claiseBehind him in a raw, man;An’ Caledon threw by the drone,An’ did her whittle draw, man;An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bloodTo make it guid in law, man.

[The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Erskine, and Robert Dundas: and their contention was, as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Faculty of Advocates: Erskine was successful. It is supposed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remembered “the incurable wound which his pride had got” in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Reliques of Burns.]

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,That Scot to Scot did carry;And dire the discord Langside saw,For beauteous, hapless Mary:But Scot with Scot ne’er met so hot,Or were more in fury seen, Sir,Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job—Who should be Faculty’s Dean, Sir.—

II.

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,Among the first was number’d;But pious Bob, ‘mid learning’s store,Commandment tenth remember’d.—Yet simple Bob the victory got,And won his heart’s desire;Which shows that heaven can boil the pot,Though the devil p—s in the fire.—

III.

Squire Hal besides had in this casePretensions rather brassy,For talents to deserve a placeAre qualifications saucy;So, their worships of the Faculty,Quite sick of merit’s rudeness,Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see,To their gratis grace and goodness.—

IV.

As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sightOf a son of Circumcision,So may be, on this Pisgah height,Bob’s purblind, mental vision:Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be open’d yetTill for eloquence you hail him,And swear he has the angel metThat met the Ass of Balaam.

[To Mrs. M’Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the drinking-glasses alluded to in the verses: they are, it seems, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high festival, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a draught from them of “The blood of Shiraz’ scorched vine.”]

Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul,And Queen of Poetesses;Clarinda, take this little boon,This humble pair of glasses.And fill them high with generous juice,As generous as your mind;And pledge me in the generous toast—“The whole of human kind!”“To those who love us!”—second fill;But not to those whom we love;Lest we love those who love not us!—A third—“to thee and me, love!”

Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul,And Queen of Poetesses;Clarinda, take this little boon,This humble pair of glasses.

And fill them high with generous juice,As generous as your mind;And pledge me in the generous toast—“The whole of human kind!”

“To those who love us!”—second fill;But not to those whom we love;Lest we love those who love not us!—A third—“to thee and me, love!”

[This is the lady of the drinking-glasses; the Mrs. Mac of many a toast among the poet’s acquaintances. She was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the poet’s death, appeared in print without her permission: she obtained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the case of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.]

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,The measur’d time is run!The wretch beneath the dreary poleSo marks his latest sun.To what dark cave of frozen nightShall poor Sylvander hie;Depriv’d of thee, his life and light,The sun of all his joy.We part—but, by these precious dropsThat fill thy lovely eyes!No other light shall guide my stepsTill thy bright beams arise.She, the fair sun of all her sex,Has blest my glorious day;And shall a glimmering planet fixMy worship to its ray?

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,The measur’d time is run!The wretch beneath the dreary poleSo marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen nightShall poor Sylvander hie;Depriv’d of thee, his life and light,The sun of all his joy.

We part—but, by these precious dropsThat fill thy lovely eyes!No other light shall guide my stepsTill thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,Has blest my glorious day;And shall a glimmering planet fixMy worship to its ray?

[Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the portrait and Poems of the ill-fated Fergusson, we have not been told. The verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787.]

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas’d,And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!O thou my elder brother in misfortune,By far my elder brother in the muses,With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!Why is the bard unpitied by the world,Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

[The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had other claims on Burns: he had been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 1802.]

When by a generous Public’s kind acclaim,That dearest meed is granted—honest fame;Whenhereyour favour is the actor’s lot,Nor even themaninprivate lifeforgot;What breast so dead to heavenly virtue’s glow,But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe?Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,It needs no Siddons’ powers in Southerne’s song;But here an ancient nation fam’d afar,For genius, learning high, as great in war—Hail,Caledonia, name for ever dear!Before whose sons I’m honoured to appear!Where every science—every nobler art—That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,Is known; as grateful nations oft have foundFar as the rude barbarian marks the bound.Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam;Here History paints, with elegance and force,The tide of Empires’ fluctuating course;Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,And Harley[68]rouses all the god in man.When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite,With manly lore, or female beauty bright,(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,Can only charm as in the second place,)Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,As on this night, I’ve met these judges here!But still the hope Experience taught to live,Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive.Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet,With decency and law beneath his feet:Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name;LikeCaledonians, you applaud or blame.O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving handHas oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land!Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire:May every son be worthy of his sire;Firm may she rise with generous disdainAt Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain;Still self-dependent in her native shore,Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar,Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,It needs no Siddons’ powers in Southerne’s song;But here an ancient nation fam’d afar,For genius, learning high, as great in war—Hail,Caledonia, name for ever dear!Before whose sons I’m honoured to appear!Where every science—every nobler art—That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,Is known; as grateful nations oft have foundFar as the rude barbarian marks the bound.Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam;Here History paints, with elegance and force,The tide of Empires’ fluctuating course;Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,And Harley[68]rouses all the god in man.When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite,With manly lore, or female beauty bright,(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,Can only charm as in the second place,)Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,As on this night, I’ve met these judges here!But still the hope Experience taught to live,Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive.Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet,With decency and law beneath his feet:Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name;LikeCaledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving handHas oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land!Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire:May every son be worthy of his sire;Firm may she rise with generous disdainAt Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain;Still self-dependent in her native shore,Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar,Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

FOOTNOTES:[68]The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie.

[68]The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie.

[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call “The Poet’s Progress.” He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. “The Fragment forms,” said he, “the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching.” It is probable that the professor’s response was not favourable for we hear no more of the Poem.]

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,And still his precious self his dear delight;Who loves his own smart shadow in the streetsBetter than e’er the fairest she he meets:A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,Learn’d vive la bagatelle, et vive l’amour:So travell’d monkeys their grimace improve,Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies’ love.Much specious lore, but little understood;Veneering oft outshines the solid wood:His solid sense—by inches you must tell.But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

[The lady to whom this epistle is addressed was a painter and a poetess: her pencil sketches are said to have been beautiful; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. Taste and poetry belonged to her family; she was the niece of Mrs. Cockburn, authoress of a beautiful variation of The Flowers of the Forest.]

I mind it weel in early date,When I was beardless, young and blate,An’ first could thresh the barn;Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;An’ tho’ forfoughten sair enough,Yet unco proud to learn:When first amang the yellow cornA man I reckon’d was,An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry mornCould rank my rig and lass,Still shearing, and clearing,The tither stooked raw,Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,Wearing the day awa.E’en then, a wish, I mind its pow’r,A wish that to my latest hourShall strongly heave my breast,That I for poor auld Scotland’s sakeSome usefu’ plan or beuk could make,Or sing a sang at least.The rough burr-thistle, spreading wideAmang the bearded bear,I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,An’ spar’d the symbol dear:No nation, no station,My envy e’er could raise,A Scot still, but blot still,I knew nae higher praise.But still the elements o’ sangIn formless jumble, right an’ wrang,Wild floated in my brain;’Till on that har’st I said before,My partner in the merry core,She rous’d the forming strain:I see her yet, the sonsie quean,That lighted up her jingle,Her witching smile, her pauky eenThat gart my heart-strings tingle:I fired, inspired,At every kindling keek,But bashing and dashingI feared aye to speak.Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,Wi’ merry dance in winter days,An’ we to share in common:The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,The saul o’ life, the heaven below,Is rapture-giving woman.Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,Be mindfu’ o’ your mither:She, honest woman, may think shameThat ye’re connected with her.Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae menThat slight the lovely dears;To shame ye, disclaim ye,Ilk honest birkie swears.For you, no bred to barn and byre,Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,Thanks to you for your line:The marled plaid ye kindly spare,By me should gratefully be ware;’Twad please me to the nine.I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap,Douce hingin’ owre my curpleThan ony ermine ever lap,Or proud imperial purple.Fareweel then, lang heel then,An’ plenty be your fa’;May losses and crossesNe’er at your hallan ca’.

E’en then, a wish, I mind its pow’r,A wish that to my latest hourShall strongly heave my breast,That I for poor auld Scotland’s sakeSome usefu’ plan or beuk could make,Or sing a sang at least.The rough burr-thistle, spreading wideAmang the bearded bear,I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,An’ spar’d the symbol dear:No nation, no station,My envy e’er could raise,A Scot still, but blot still,I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o’ sangIn formless jumble, right an’ wrang,Wild floated in my brain;’Till on that har’st I said before,My partner in the merry core,She rous’d the forming strain:I see her yet, the sonsie quean,That lighted up her jingle,Her witching smile, her pauky eenThat gart my heart-strings tingle:I fired, inspired,At every kindling keek,But bashing and dashingI feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,Wi’ merry dance in winter days,An’ we to share in common:The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,The saul o’ life, the heaven below,Is rapture-giving woman.Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,Be mindfu’ o’ your mither:She, honest woman, may think shameThat ye’re connected with her.Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae menThat slight the lovely dears;To shame ye, disclaim ye,Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,Thanks to you for your line:The marled plaid ye kindly spare,By me should gratefully be ware;’Twad please me to the nine.I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap,Douce hingin’ owre my curpleThan ony ermine ever lap,Or proud imperial purple.Fareweel then, lang heel then,An’ plenty be your fa’;May losses and crossesNe’er at your hallan ca’.

[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his bookseller. Creech was a person of education and taste; he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and parsimonious, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.]

Selkirk, 13May, 1787.

Auld chukie Reekie’s[69]sair distrest,Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,Nae joy her bonnie buskit nestCan yield ava,Her darling bird that she lo’es best,Willie’s awa!O Willie was a witty wight,And had o’ things an unco slight;Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,An’ trig an’ braw:But now they’ll busk her like a fright,Willie’s awa!The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d;The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d;They durst nae mair than he allow’d,That was a law;We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd,Willie’s awa!Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,Frae colleges and boarding-schools,May sprout like simmer puddock stoolsIn glen or shaw;He wha could brush them down to mools,Willie’s awa!The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chaumer[70]May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ clamour;He was a dictionar and grammarAmang them a’;I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer,Willie’s awa!Nae mair we see his levee doorPhilosophers and poets pour,[71]And toothy critics by the scoreIn bloody raw!The adjutant o’ a’ the core,Willie’s awa!Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face,Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace;Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a braceAs Rome n’er saw;They a’ maun meet some ither place,Willie’s awa!Poor Burns—e’en Scotch drink canna quicken,He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken,Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckinBy hoodie-craw;Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’,Willie’s awa!Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum,And Calvin’s fock are fit to fell him;And self-conceited critic skellumHis quill may draw;He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,Willie’s awa!Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped,And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,And Ettrick banks now roaring red,While tempests blaw;But every joy and pleasure’s fled,Willie’s awa!May I be slander’s common speech;A text for infamy to preach;And lastly, streekit out to bleachIn winter snaw;When I forget thee! Willie Creech,Tho’ far awa!May never wicked fortune touzle him!May never wicked man bamboozle him!Until a pow as auld’s MethusalemHe canty claw!Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,Fleet wing awa!

Auld chukie Reekie’s[69]sair distrest,Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,Nae joy her bonnie buskit nestCan yield ava,Her darling bird that she lo’es best,Willie’s awa!

O Willie was a witty wight,And had o’ things an unco slight;Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,An’ trig an’ braw:But now they’ll busk her like a fright,Willie’s awa!

The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d;The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d;They durst nae mair than he allow’d,That was a law;We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd,Willie’s awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,Frae colleges and boarding-schools,May sprout like simmer puddock stoolsIn glen or shaw;He wha could brush them down to mools,Willie’s awa!

The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chaumer[70]May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ clamour;He was a dictionar and grammarAmang them a’;I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer,Willie’s awa!

Nae mair we see his levee doorPhilosophers and poets pour,[71]And toothy critics by the scoreIn bloody raw!The adjutant o’ a’ the core,Willie’s awa!

Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face,Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace;Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a braceAs Rome n’er saw;They a’ maun meet some ither place,Willie’s awa!

Poor Burns—e’en Scotch drink canna quicken,He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken,Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckinBy hoodie-craw;Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’,Willie’s awa!

Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum,And Calvin’s fock are fit to fell him;And self-conceited critic skellumHis quill may draw;He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,Willie’s awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped,And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,And Ettrick banks now roaring red,While tempests blaw;But every joy and pleasure’s fled,Willie’s awa!

May I be slander’s common speech;A text for infamy to preach;And lastly, streekit out to bleachIn winter snaw;When I forget thee! Willie Creech,Tho’ far awa!

May never wicked fortune touzle him!May never wicked man bamboozle him!Until a pow as auld’s MethusalemHe canty claw!Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,Fleet wing awa!

FOOTNOTES:[69]Edinburgh.[70]The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary.[71]Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech’s house at breakfast.

[69]Edinburgh.

[70]The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary.

[71]Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech’s house at breakfast.

[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: “he threw himself,” said the Professor, “on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed.” His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]

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