FOOTNOTES:

I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth,I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.Old Loda,[108]still rueing the arm of Fingal,The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—“This whistle’s your challenge—to Scotland get o’er,And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!”

I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth,I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda,[108]still rueing the arm of Fingal,The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—“This whistle’s your challenge—to Scotland get o’er,And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!”

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,What champions ventur’d, what champions fell;The son of great Loda was conqueror still,And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill.Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war,He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he.Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d;Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,The jovial contest again have renew’d.Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins;And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,And once more, in claret, try which was the man.“By the gods of the ancients!” Glenriddel replies,“Before I surrender so glorious a prize,I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,[109]And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe—or his friend,Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die or he’d yield.To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;Bur for wine and for welcome not more known to fameThan the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.A bard was selected to witness the fray,And tell future ages the feats of the day;A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been.The dinner being over, the claret they ply,And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy;In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er;Bright Phœbus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core,And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn,Till Cynthia hinted he’d find them next morn.Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red,And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did.Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautions and sage,No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine!He left the foul business to folks less divine.The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend?Though fate said—a hero shall perish in light;So up rose bright Phœbus—and down fell the knight.Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink;—“Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink;But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!“Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,What champions ventur’d, what champions fell;The son of great Loda was conqueror still,And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war,He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d;Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,The jovial contest again have renew’d.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins;And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

“By the gods of the ancients!” Glenriddel replies,“Before I surrender so glorious a prize,I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,[109]And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe—or his friend,Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die or he’d yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;Bur for wine and for welcome not more known to fameThan the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,And tell future ages the feats of the day;A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy;In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er;Bright Phœbus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core,And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn,Till Cynthia hinted he’d find them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red,And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautions and sage,No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine!He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend?Though fate said—a hero shall perish in light;So up rose bright Phœbus—and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink;—“Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink;But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!

“Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”

FOOTNOTES:[108]See Ossian’s Carie-thura.[109]See Johnson’s Tour to the Hebrides

[108]See Ossian’s Carie-thura.

[109]See Johnson’s Tour to the Hebrides

[This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly Burnet, as Burns loved to call her, was daughter to the odd and the elegant, the clever and the whimsical Lord Monboddo. “In domestic circumstances,” says Robert Chambers, “Monboddo was particularly unfortunate. His wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His son, a promising boy, in whose education he took great delight, was likewise snatched from his affections by a premature death; and his second daughter, in personal loveliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off by consumption, when only twenty-five years old.” Her name was Elizabeth.]

Life ne’er exulted in so rich a prizeAs Burnet, lovely from her native skies;Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow,As that which laid th’ accomplish’d Burnet low.Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?In richest ore the brightest jewel set!In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.In vain ye flaunt in summer’s pride, ye groves;Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,Ye cease to charm—Eliza is no more!Ye heathy wastes, immix’d with reedy fens;Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor’d;Ye rugged cliffs, o’erhanging dreary glens,To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.Princes, whose cumb’rous pride was all their worth,Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,And not a muse in honest grief bewail?We saw thee shine in youth and beauty’s pride,And virtue’s light, that beams beyond the spheres;But like the sun eclips’d at morning tide,Thou left’st us darkling in a world of tears.The parent’s heart that nestled fond in thee,That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;So leck’d the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;So from it ravish’d, leaves it bleak and bare.

Life ne’er exulted in so rich a prizeAs Burnet, lovely from her native skies;Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow,As that which laid th’ accomplish’d Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?In richest ore the brightest jewel set!In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer’s pride, ye groves;Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,Ye cease to charm—Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immix’d with reedy fens;Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor’d;Ye rugged cliffs, o’erhanging dreary glens,To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes, whose cumb’rous pride was all their worth,Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,And not a muse in honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty’s pride,And virtue’s light, that beams beyond the spheres;But like the sun eclips’d at morning tide,Thou left’st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent’s heart that nestled fond in thee,That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;So leck’d the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;So from it ravish’d, leaves it bleak and bare.

[Burns lamented the death of this kind and accomplished nobleman with melancholy sincerity: he moreover named one of his sons for him: he went into mourning when he heard of his death, and he sung of his merits in a strain not destined soon to lose the place it has taken among the verses which record the names of the noble and the generous. He died January 30, 1791, in the forty-second year of his age. James Cunningham was succeeded in his title by his brother, and with him expired, in 1796, the last of a race, whose name is intimately connected with the History of Scotland, from the days of Malcolm Canmore.]

The wind blew hollow frae the hills,By fits the sun’s departing beamLook’d on the fading yellow woodsThat wav’d o’er Lugar’s winding stream:Beneath a craggy steep, a bard,Laden with years and meikle pain,In loud lament bewail’d his lord,Whom death had all untimely ta’en.

II.

He lean’d him to an ancient aik,Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years;His locks were bleached white with time,His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears;And as he touch’d his trembling harp,And as he tun’d his doleful sang,The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves,To echo bore the notes alang.

III.

“Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,The reliques of the vernal quire!Ye woods that shed on a’ the windsThe honours of the aged year!A few short months, and glad and gay,Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e;But nocht in all revolving timeCan gladness bring again to me.

IV.

“I am a bending aged tree,That long has stood the wind and rain;But now has come a cruel blast,And my last hold of earth is gane:Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring,Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;But I maun lie before the storm,And ithers plant them in my room.

“I’ve seen sae mony changefu’ years,On earth I am a stranger grown;I wander in the ways of men,Alike unknowing and unknown:Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,I bear alane my lade o’ care,For silent, low, on beds of dust,Lie a’ that would my sorrows share.

VI.

“And last (the sum of a’ my griefs!)My noble master lies in clay;The flow’r amang our barons bold,His country’s pride! his country’s stay—In weary being now I pine,For a’ the life of life is dead,And hope has left my aged ken,On forward wing for ever fled.

VII.

“Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!The voice of woe and wild despair;Awake! resound thy latest lay—Then sleep in silence evermair!And thou, my last, best, only friend,That fillest an untimely tomb,Accept this tribute from the bardThough brought from fortune’s mirkest gloom.

VIII.

“In poverty’s low barren valeThick mists, obscure, involve me round;Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye,Nae ray of fame was to be found:Thou found’st me, like the morning sun,That melts the fogs in limpid air,The friendless bard and rustic songBecame alike thy fostering care.

IX.

“O! why has worth so short a date?While villains ripen fray with time;Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great,Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime!Why did I live to see that day?A day to me so full of woe!—O had I met the mortal shaftWhich laid my benefactor low.

“The bridegroom may forget the brideWas made his wedded wife yestreen;The monarch may forget the crownThat on his head an hour has been;The mother may forget the childThat smiles sae sweetly on her knee;But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,And a’ that thou hast done for me!”

[Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literature, and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes of Burns.]

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever’st,Who, save thy mind’s reproach, nought earthly fear’st,To thee this votive offering I impart,The tearful tribute of a broken heart.The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, lov’d;His worth, his honour, all the world approv’d,We’ll mourn till we too go as he has gone,And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

[“Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September: for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson’s pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue.” Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down his sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and traverseone of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of the bad bust of on excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week’s absence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst not venture upon—but he sent this Poem.

The poet’s manuscript affords the following interesting variations:—

“While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy,Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet,Or pranks the sod in frolic joy,A carpet for her youthful feet:“While Summer, with a matron’s grace,Walks stately in the cooling shade,And oft delighted loves to traceThe progress of the spiky blade:“While Autumn, benefactor kind,With age’s hoary honours clad,Surveys, with self-approving mind,Each creature on his bounty fed.”]

“While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy,Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet,Or pranks the sod in frolic joy,A carpet for her youthful feet:

“While Summer, with a matron’s grace,Walks stately in the cooling shade,And oft delighted loves to traceThe progress of the spiky blade:

“While Autumn, benefactor kind,With age’s hoary honours clad,Surveys, with self-approving mind,Each creature on his bounty fed.”]

While virgin Spring, by Eden’s flood,Unfolds her tender mantle green,Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,Or tunes Æolian strains between:While Summer, with a matron grace,Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade,Yet oft, delighted, stops to traceThe progress of the spiky blade:While Autumn, benefactor kind,By Tweed erects his aged head,And sees, with self-approving mind,Each creature on his bounty fed:While maniac Winter rages o’erThe hills whence classic Yarrow flows,Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar,Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:So long, sweet Poet of the year!Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;While Scotia, with exulting tear,Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

While virgin Spring, by Eden’s flood,Unfolds her tender mantle green,Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,Or tunes Æolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace,Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade,Yet oft, delighted, stops to traceThe progress of the spiky blade:

While Autumn, benefactor kind,By Tweed erects his aged head,And sees, with self-approving mind,Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac Winter rages o’erThe hills whence classic Yarrow flows,Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar,Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year!Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;While Scotia, with exulting tear,Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

[By this Poem Burns prepared the way for his humble request to be removed to a district more moderate in its bounds than one which extended over ten country parishes, and exposed him both to fatigue and expense. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due time attended to, for Fintray was a gentleman at once kind and considerate.]

Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg,About to beg a pass for leave to beg:Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest,(Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest;)Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail?(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)And hear him curse the light he first survey’d,And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;Of thy caprice maternal I complain:The lion and the bull thy care have found,One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell;Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power;Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure;The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug;Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts,Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts;—But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard,To thy poor fenceless, naked child—the Bard!A thing unteachable in world’s skill,And half an idiot too, more helpless still;No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun;No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn:No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur,Clad in rich dullness’ comfortable fur;—In naked feeling, and in aching pride,He bears the unbroken blast from every side.Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.Critics!—appall’d I venture on the name,Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame.Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,By blockheads’ daring into madness stung;His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear:Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d, in the unequal strife,The hapless poet flounders on through life;Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d,And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d,Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,Dead, even resentment, for his injur’d page,He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage!So, by some hedge, the gen’rous steed deceas’d,For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast:By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,Lies senseless of each tugging bitch’s son.O dullness! portion of the truly blest!Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremesOf fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams.If mantling high she fills the golden cup,With sober selfish ease they sip it up;Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,They only wonder “some folks” do not starve.The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,And thro’ disastrous night they darkling grope,With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,And just conclude that “fools are fortune’s care.”So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks,Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.Not so the idle muses’ mad-cap train,Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;In equanimity they never dwell,By turns in soaring heav’n or vaulted hellI dread thee, fate, relentless and severe,With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear!Already one strong hold of hope is lost,Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;(Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears,And left us darkling in a world of tears:)O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r!—Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare!Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown;And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!May bliss domestic smooth his private path;Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;Of thy caprice maternal I complain:The lion and the bull thy care have found,One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell;Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power;Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure;The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug;Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts,Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts;—But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard,To thy poor fenceless, naked child—the Bard!A thing unteachable in world’s skill,And half an idiot too, more helpless still;No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun;No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn:No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur,Clad in rich dullness’ comfortable fur;—In naked feeling, and in aching pride,He bears the unbroken blast from every side.Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics!—appall’d I venture on the name,Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame.Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,By blockheads’ daring into madness stung;His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear:Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d, in the unequal strife,The hapless poet flounders on through life;Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d,And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d,Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,Dead, even resentment, for his injur’d page,He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen’rous steed deceas’d,For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast:By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,Lies senseless of each tugging bitch’s son.

O dullness! portion of the truly blest!Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremesOf fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams.If mantling high she fills the golden cup,With sober selfish ease they sip it up;Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,They only wonder “some folks” do not starve.The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,And thro’ disastrous night they darkling grope,With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,And just conclude that “fools are fortune’s care.”So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks,Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle muses’ mad-cap train,Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;In equanimity they never dwell,By turns in soaring heav’n or vaulted hellI dread thee, fate, relentless and severe,With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear!Already one strong hold of hope is lost,Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;(Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears,And left us darkling in a world of tears:)O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r!—Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare!Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown;And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!May bliss domestic smooth his private path;Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

[Graham of Fintray not only obtained for the poet the appointment in Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but he also removed him, as he wished, to a better district; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fear of want.]

I call no goddess to inspire my strains,A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns;Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,And all the tribute of my heart returns,For boons accorded, goodness ever new,The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!And all ye many sparkling stars of night;If aught that giver from my mind efface;If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace;Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,Only to number out a villain’s years!

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!And all ye many sparkling stars of night;If aught that giver from my mind efface;If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace;Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,Only to number out a villain’s years!

[This Vision of Liberty descended on Burns among the magnificent ruins of the College of Lincluden, which stand on the junction of the Cluden and the Nith, a short mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision; perhaps, he dared not in those yeasty times venture on the song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The scene is chiefly copied from nature: the swellings of the Nith, the howling of the fox on the hill, and the cry of the owl, unite at times with the natural beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins were a favourite haunt of the poet.]

As I stood by yon roofless tower,Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air,Where th’ howlet mourns in her ivy bowerAnd tells the midnight moon her care;The winds were laid, the air was still,The Stars they shot along the sky;The fox was howling on the hill,And the distant echoing glens reply.The stream, adown its hazelly path,Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s,Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,[109A]Whose distant roaring swells and fa’s.The cauld blue north was streaming forthHer lights, wi’ hissing eerie din;Athort the lift they start and shift,Like fortune’s favours, tint as win.By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes,And, by the moon-beam, shook to seeA stern and stalwart ghaist arise,Attir’d as minstrels wont to be.[109B]Had I a statue been o’ stane,His darin’ look had daunted me;And on his bonnet grav’d was plain,The sacred posy—‘Libertie!’And frae his harp sic strains did flow,Might rous’d the slumb’ring dead to hear;But, oh! it was a tale of woe,As ever met a Briton’s ear.He sang wi’ joy the former day,He weeping wail’d his latter times;But what he said it was nae play,—I winna ventur’t in my rhymes.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air,Where th’ howlet mourns in her ivy bowerAnd tells the midnight moon her care;

The winds were laid, the air was still,The Stars they shot along the sky;The fox was howling on the hill,And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s,Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,[109A]Whose distant roaring swells and fa’s.

The cauld blue north was streaming forthHer lights, wi’ hissing eerie din;Athort the lift they start and shift,Like fortune’s favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes,And, by the moon-beam, shook to seeA stern and stalwart ghaist arise,Attir’d as minstrels wont to be.[109B]

Had I a statue been o’ stane,His darin’ look had daunted me;And on his bonnet grav’d was plain,The sacred posy—‘Libertie!’

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,Might rous’d the slumb’ring dead to hear;But, oh! it was a tale of woe,As ever met a Briton’s ear.

He sang wi’ joy the former day,He weeping wail’d his latter times;But what he said it was nae play,—I winna ventur’t in my rhymes.

FOOTNOTES:[109A]VARIATIONSTo join yon river on the Strath.[109B]VARIATIONSNow looking over firth and fauld,Her horn the pale-fac’d Cynthia rear’d;When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,A storm and stalwart ghaist appear’d.

[109A]VARIATIONSTo join yon river on the Strath.

[109A]VARIATIONS

To join yon river on the Strath.

[109B]VARIATIONSNow looking over firth and fauld,Her horn the pale-fac’d Cynthia rear’d;When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,A storm and stalwart ghaist appear’d.

[109B]VARIATIONS

Now looking over firth and fauld,Her horn the pale-fac’d Cynthia rear’d;When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,A storm and stalwart ghaist appear’d.

[John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom these verses are addressed, though descended from the Earls of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claimed merit only from a judgment sound and clear—a knowledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a refusal. He loved to meet Burns: not that he either cared for or comprehended poetry; but he was pleased with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seventy-one years old when these verses were written, and survived the poet twenty years.]

Health to the Maxwell’s vet’ran chief!Health, ay unsour’d by care or grief:Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sybil leafThis natal morn;I see thy life is stuff o’ prief,Scarce quite half worn.This day thou metes three score eleven,And I can tell that bounteous Heaven(The second sight, ye ken, is givenTo ilka Poet)On thee a tack o’ seven times sevenWill yet bestow it.If envious buckies view wi’ sorrowThy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow,May desolation’s lang teeth’d harrow,Nine miles an hour,Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah,In brunstane stoure—But for thy friends, and they are mony,Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,In social glee,Wi’ mornings blythe and e’enings funnyBless them and thee!Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,And then the Deil he daur na steer ye;Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye;For me, shame fa’ me,If neist my heart I dinna wear yeWhileBurnsthey ca’ me!

Health to the Maxwell’s vet’ran chief!Health, ay unsour’d by care or grief:Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sybil leafThis natal morn;I see thy life is stuff o’ prief,Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou metes three score eleven,And I can tell that bounteous Heaven(The second sight, ye ken, is givenTo ilka Poet)On thee a tack o’ seven times sevenWill yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi’ sorrowThy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow,May desolation’s lang teeth’d harrow,Nine miles an hour,Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah,In brunstane stoure—

But for thy friends, and they are mony,Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,In social glee,Wi’ mornings blythe and e’enings funnyBless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,And then the Deil he daur na steer ye;Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye;For me, shame fa’ me,If neist my heart I dinna wear yeWhileBurnsthey ca’ me!

Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792.

[Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses whom Williamson, the manager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumour added, perhaps maliciously, levities of action. The Rights of Man had been advocated by Paine, the Rights of Woman by Mary Wolstonecroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regeneration of the world. The line

“But truce with kings and truce with constitutions,”

got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audience. The words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on them.]

While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things,The fate of empires and the fall of kings;While quacks of state must each produce his plan,And even children lisp the Rights of Man;Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,The Rights of Woman merit some attention.First on the sexes’ intermix’d connexion,One sacred Right of Woman is protection.The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form,Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm.Our second Right—but needless here is caution,To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion,Each man of sense has it so full before him,He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.—There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days,A time, when rough, rude man had haughty ways;Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,Nay, even thus invade a lady’s quiet.Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostrationMost humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration!In that blest sphere alone we live and move;There taste that life of life—immortal love.—Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,‘Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares—When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?But truce with kings and truce with constitutions,With bloody armaments and revolutions,Let majesty your first attention summon,Ah! ça ira! the majesty of woman!

First on the sexes’ intermix’d connexion,One sacred Right of Woman is protection.The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form,Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm.

Our second Right—but needless here is caution,To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion,Each man of sense has it so full before him,He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.—There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days,A time, when rough, rude man had haughty ways;Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,Nay, even thus invade a lady’s quiet.

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostrationMost humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration!In that blest sphere alone we live and move;There taste that life of life—immortal love.—Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,‘Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares—When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions,With bloody armaments and revolutions,Let majesty your first attention summon,Ah! ça ira! the majesty of woman!

[The heroine Of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park: a lady young and gay, much of a wit, and something of a poetess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some “epauletted coxcombs,” for so he sometimes designated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the poet, written with great beauty and feeling.]

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d!How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen’d!If sorrow and anguish their exit await,From friendship and dearest affection remov’d;How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov’d.Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier.We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower,We’ll roam through the forest for each idle weed;But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed.We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay;Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;There keen indignation shall dart on her prey,Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,From friendship and dearest affection remov’d;How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov’d.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier.

We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower,We’ll roam through the forest for each idle weed;But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed.

We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay;Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;There keen indignation shall dart on her prey,Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam:Want only of wisdom denied her respect,Want only of goodness denied her esteem

[Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition: it is printed from the Poet’s own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to contempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her

“Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;”

and has a passing hit at her

“Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.”]

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