LV.

Now Robin lies in his last lair,He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,Nae mair shall fear him;Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,E’er mair come near him.To tell the truth, they seldom fash’t him,Except the moment that they crush’t him;For sune as chance or fate had hush’t ‘em,Tho’ e’er sae short,Then wi’ a rhyme or song he lash’t ‘em,And thought it sport.Tho’ he was bred to kintra wark,And counted was baith wight and stark.Yet that was never Robin’s markTo mak a man;But tell him he was learned and clark,Ye roos’d him than!

Now Robin lies in his last lair,He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,Nae mair shall fear him;Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,E’er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash’t him,Except the moment that they crush’t him;For sune as chance or fate had hush’t ‘em,Tho’ e’er sae short,Then wi’ a rhyme or song he lash’t ‘em,And thought it sport.

Tho’ he was bred to kintra wark,And counted was baith wight and stark.Yet that was never Robin’s markTo mak a man;But tell him he was learned and clark,Ye roos’d him than!

[The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent was a social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: but as Ellisland was his choice, his skill may be questioned.]

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner?How do you this blae eastlin wind,That’s like to blaw a body blind?For me, my faculties are frozen,My dearest member nearly dozen’d,I’ve sent you here, by Johnie Simson,Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling,An’ Reid, to common sense appealing.Philosophers have fought and wrangled,An’ meikle Greek and Latin mangled,Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d,An’ in the depth of science mir’d,To common sense they now appeal,What wives and wabsters see and feel.But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictlyPeruse them, an’ return them quickly,For now I’m grown sae cursed douceI pray and ponder butt the house,My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’,Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an’ Boston;Till by an’ by, if I haud on,I’ll grunt a real gospel groan:Already I begin to try it,To cast my e’en up like a pyet,When by the gun she tumbles o’er,Flutt’ring an’ gasping in her gore:Sae shortly you shall see me bright,A burning and a shining light.My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,The ace an’ wale of honest men:When bending down wi’ auld gray hairs,Beneath the load of years and cares,May He who made him still support him,An’ views beyond the grave comfort him,His worthy fam’ly far and near,God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear!My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,The manly tar, my mason Billie,An’ Auchenbay, I wish him joy;If he’s a parent, lass or boy,May he be dad, and Meg the mither,Just five-and-forty years thegither!An’ no forgetting wabster Charlie,I’m tauld he offers very fairly.An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock,Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock,An’ next my auld acquaintance, Nancy,Since she is fitted to her fancy;An’ her kind stars hae airted till herA good chiel wi’ a pickle siller.My kindest, best respects I sen’ it,To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet;Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious,For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them fashious;To grant a heart is fairly civil,But to grant the maidenhead’s the devilAn’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel’,May guardian angels tak a spell,An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell:But first, before you see heaven’s glory,May ye get monie a merry story,Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,And aye eneugh, o’ needfu’ clink.Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you,For my sake this I beg it o’ you.Assist poor Simson a’ ye can,Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man;Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,Your’s, saint or sinner,

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,The ace an’ wale of honest men:When bending down wi’ auld gray hairs,Beneath the load of years and cares,May He who made him still support him,An’ views beyond the grave comfort him,His worthy fam’ly far and near,God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,The manly tar, my mason Billie,An’ Auchenbay, I wish him joy;If he’s a parent, lass or boy,May he be dad, and Meg the mither,Just five-and-forty years thegither!An’ no forgetting wabster Charlie,I’m tauld he offers very fairly.An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock,Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock,An’ next my auld acquaintance, Nancy,Since she is fitted to her fancy;An’ her kind stars hae airted till herA good chiel wi’ a pickle siller.My kindest, best respects I sen’ it,To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet;Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious,For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them fashious;To grant a heart is fairly civil,But to grant the maidenhead’s the devilAn’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel’,May guardian angels tak a spell,An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell:But first, before you see heaven’s glory,May ye get monie a merry story,Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,And aye eneugh, o’ needfu’ clink.

Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you,For my sake this I beg it o’ you.Assist poor Simson a’ ye can,Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man;Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,Your’s, saint or sinner,

Rob the Ranter.

[From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this “Sweet Flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,” was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. The mother soon followed the father to the grave: she died in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.]

Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,And ward o’ mony a pray’r,What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!November hirples o’er the lea,Chill on thy lovely form;And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,Should shield thee frae the storm.May He who gives the rain to pour,And wings the blast to blaw,Protect thee frae the driving show’r,The bitter frost and snaw!May He, the friend of woe and want,Who heals life’s various stounds,Protect and guard the mother-plant,And heal her cruel wounds!But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,Fair on the summer-morn:Now feebly bends she in the blast,Unshelter’d and forlorn.Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,Unscath’d by ruffian hand!And from thee many a parent stemArise to deck our land!

Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,And ward o’ mony a pray’r,What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o’er the lea,Chill on thy lovely form;And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,And wings the blast to blaw,Protect thee frae the driving show’r,The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want,Who heals life’s various stounds,Protect and guard the mother-plant,And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,Fair on the summer-morn:Now feebly bends she in the blast,Unshelter’d and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,Unscath’d by ruffian hand!And from thee many a parent stemArise to deck our land!

[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis.]

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay,Blooming in thy early May,Never may’st thou, lovely flow’r,Chilly shrink in sleety show’r!Never Boreas’ hoary path,Never Eurus’ poisonous breath,Never baleful stellar lights,Taint thee with untimely blights!Never, never reptile thiefRiot on thy virgin leaf!Nor even Sol too fiercely viewThy bosom blushing still with dew!May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem,Richly deck thy native stem:’Till some evening, sober, calm,Dropping dews and breathing balm,While all around the woodland rings,And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings;Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,Shed thy dying honours round,And resign to parent earthThe loveliest form she e’er gave birth.

May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem,Richly deck thy native stem:’Till some evening, sober, calm,Dropping dews and breathing balm,While all around the woodland rings,And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings;Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,Shed thy dying honours round,And resign to parent earthThe loveliest form she e’er gave birth.

[Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world: he copied it from a small manuscript volume of Poems given by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation in these words: “W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows.” Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.]

Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride,And eke a braw new brechan,My Pegasus I’m got astride,And up Parnassus pechin;Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crushThe doitie beastie stammers;Then up he gets and off he setsFor sake o’ Willie Chalmers.

II.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d nameMay cost a pair o’ blushes;I am nae stranger to your fame,Nor his warm urged wishes.Your bonnie face sae mild and sweetHis honest heart enamours,And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit,Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers.

III.

Auld Truth hersel’ might swear ye’re fair,And Honour safely back her,And Modesty assume your air,And ne’er a ane mistak’ her:And sic twa love-inspiring eenMight fire even holy Palmers;Nae wonder then they’ve fatal beenTo honest Willie Chalmers.

IV.

I doubt na fortune may you shoreSome mim-mou’d pouthered priestie,Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore,And band upon his breastie:But Oh! what signifies to youHis lexicons and grammars;The feeling heart’s the royal blue,And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin’ glowrin’ countra laird,May warstle for your favour;May claw his lug, and straik his beard,And hoast up some palaver.My bonnie maid, before ye wedSic clumsy-witted hammers,Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelpAwa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers.

VI.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regardFor ane that shares my bosom,Inspires my muse to gie ‘m his dues,For de’il a hair I roose him.May powers aboon unite you soon,And fructify your amours,—And every year come in mair dearTo you and Willie Chalmers.

[Of the origin of those verses Gilbert Burns gives the following account. “The first time Robert heard the spinet played was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and the mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world; his mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept.”]

O thou dread Power, who reign’st above!I know thou wilt me hear,When for this scene of peace and loveI make my prayer sincere.

II.

The hoary sire—the mortal stroke,Long, long, be pleased to spare;To bless his filial little flockAnd show what good men are.

III.

She who her lovely offspring eyesWith tender hopes and fears,O, bless her with a mother’s joys,But spare a mother’s tears!

IV.

Their hope—their stay—their darling youth,In manhood’s dawning blush—Bless him, thouGodof love and truth,Up to a parent’s wish!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,With earnest tears I pray,Thous know’st the snares on ev’ry hand—Guide Thou their steps alway.

VI.

When soon or late they reach that coast,O’er life’s rough ocean driven,May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,A family in Heaven!

[Verse seems to have been the natural language of Burns. The Master Tootie whose skill he records, lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows: he was an artful and contriving person, great in bargaining and intimate with all the professional tricks by which old cows are made to look young, and six-pint hawkies pass for those of twelve.]

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786.

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty,To warn you how that Master Tootie,Alias, Laird M’Gaun,Was here to hire yon lad away‘Bout whom ye spak the tither day,An’ wad ha’e done’t aff han’:But lest he learn the callan tricks,As, faith, I muckle doubt him,Like scrapin’ out auld Crummie’s nicks,An’ tellin’ lies about them;As lieve then, I’d have then,Your clerkship he should sair,If sae be, ye may beNot fitted otherwhere.

II.

Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough,An’ bout a house that’s rude an’ roughThe boy might learn to swear;But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught,An’ get sic fair example straught,I havena ony fear.Ye’ll catechize him every quirk,An’ shore him weel wi’ Hell;An’ gar him follow to the kirk——Ay when ye gang yoursel’.If ye then, maun be thenFrae hame this comin’ Friday;Then please Sir, to lea’e Sir,The orders wi’ your lady.

III.

My word of honour I hae gien,In Paisley John’s, that night at e’n,To meet the Warld’s worm;To try to get the twa to gree,An’ name the airles[56]an’ the fee,In legal mode an’ form:I ken he weel a snick can draw,When simple bodies let him;An’ if a Devil be at a’,In faith he’s sure to get him.To phrase you, an’ praise you,Ye ken your Laureat scorns:The pray’r still, you share still,Of gratefulMinstrel Burns.

FOOTNOTES:[56]The airles—earnest money.

[56]The airles—earnest money.

[It seems that Burns, delighted with the praise which the Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses,—probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Woodburn, his steward,—poured out this little unpremeditated natural acknowledgment.]

Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card,I trow it made me proud;See wha tak’s notice o’ the bardI lap and cry’d fu’ loud.Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,The senseless, gawky million:I’ll cock my nose aboon them a’—I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan!’Twas noble, Sir; ’twas like yoursel’,To grant your high protection:A great man’s smile, ye ken fu’ well,Is ay a blest infection.Tho’ by his[57]banes who in a tubMatch’d Macedonian Sandy!On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub,I independent stand ay.—And when those legs to gude, warm kail,Wi’ welcome canna bear me;A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,And barley-scone shall cheer me.Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breathO’ many flow’ry simmers!And bless your bonnie lasses baith,I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers!AndGodbless young Dunaskin’s laird,The blossom of our gentry!And may he wear an auld man’s beard,A credit to his country.

Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card,I trow it made me proud;See wha tak’s notice o’ the bardI lap and cry’d fu’ loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,The senseless, gawky million:I’ll cock my nose aboon them a’—I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan!

’Twas noble, Sir; ’twas like yoursel’,To grant your high protection:A great man’s smile, ye ken fu’ well,Is ay a blest infection.

Tho’ by his[57]banes who in a tubMatch’d Macedonian Sandy!On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub,I independent stand ay.—

And when those legs to gude, warm kail,Wi’ welcome canna bear me;A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,And barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breathO’ many flow’ry simmers!And bless your bonnie lasses baith,I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers!

AndGodbless young Dunaskin’s laird,The blossom of our gentry!And may he wear an auld man’s beard,A credit to his country.

FOOTNOTES:[57]Diogenes.

[57]Diogenes.

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is generally believed to have been William Simpson, the schoolmaster of Ochiltree: the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extinguished half the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the amazed dominie

“Strangely fidge and fyke.”

It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.]

What ails ye now, ye lousie b——h,To thresh my back at sic a pitch?Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch,Your bodkin’s bauld,I didna suffer ha’f sae muchFrae Daddie Auld.What tho’ at times when I grow crouse,I gie their wames a random pouse,Is that enough for you to souseYour servant sae?Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,An’ jag-the-flae.King David o’ poetic brief,Wrought ‘mang the lasses sic mischief,As fill’d his after life wi’ grief,An’ bluidy rants,An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chiefO’ lang-syne saunts.And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,My wicked rhymes, an’ druken rants,I’ll gie auld cloven Clootie’s hauntsAn unco’ slip yet,An’ snugly sit among the sauntsAt Davie’s hip get.But fegs, the Session says I maunGae fa’ upo’ anither plan,Than garrin lasses cowp the cranClean heels owre body,And sairly thole their mither’s banAfore the howdy.This leads me on, to tell for sport,How I did wi’ the Session sort,Auld Clinkum at the inner portCried three times—“Robin!Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t,Ye’re blamed for jobbin’.”Wi’ pinch I pat a Sunday’s face on,An’ snoov’d away before the Session;I made an open fair confession—I scorn’d to lee;An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,Fell foul o’ me.

What ails ye now, ye lousie b——h,To thresh my back at sic a pitch?Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch,Your bodkin’s bauld,I didna suffer ha’f sae muchFrae Daddie Auld.

What tho’ at times when I grow crouse,I gie their wames a random pouse,Is that enough for you to souseYour servant sae?Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,An’ jag-the-flae.

King David o’ poetic brief,Wrought ‘mang the lasses sic mischief,As fill’d his after life wi’ grief,An’ bluidy rants,An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chiefO’ lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,My wicked rhymes, an’ druken rants,I’ll gie auld cloven Clootie’s hauntsAn unco’ slip yet,An’ snugly sit among the sauntsAt Davie’s hip get.

But fegs, the Session says I maunGae fa’ upo’ anither plan,Than garrin lasses cowp the cranClean heels owre body,And sairly thole their mither’s banAfore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sport,How I did wi’ the Session sort,Auld Clinkum at the inner portCried three times—“Robin!Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t,Ye’re blamed for jobbin’.”

Wi’ pinch I pat a Sunday’s face on,An’ snoov’d away before the Session;I made an open fair confession—I scorn’d to lee;An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,Fell foul o’ me.

[With the Laird of Adamhill’s personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.]

I am a keeper of the lawIn some sma’ points, altho’ not a’;Some people tell me gin I fa’Ae way or ither.The breaking of ae point, though sma’,Breaks a’ thegitherI hae been in for’t once or twice,And winna say o’er far for thrice,Yet never met with that surpriseThat broke my rest,But now a rumour’s like to rise,A whaup’s i’ the nest.

I am a keeper of the lawIn some sma’ points, altho’ not a’;Some people tell me gin I fa’Ae way or ither.The breaking of ae point, though sma’,Breaks a’ thegither

I hae been in for’t once or twice,And winna say o’er far for thrice,Yet never met with that surpriseThat broke my rest,But now a rumour’s like to rise,A whaup’s i’ the nest.

[The bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the composition.]

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,Fell source o’ a’ my woe an’ grief;For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass.I see the children of afflictionUnaided, through thy cursed restrictionI’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smileAmid his hapless victim’s spoil:And for thy potence vainly wished,To crush the villain in the dust.For lack o’ thee, I leave this much-lov’d shore,Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

“Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;But surely dreams were ne’er indicted treason.”

On reading, in the public papers, the “Laureate’s Ode,” with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following “Address.”

[The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.]

Guid-mornin’ to your Majesty!May Heaven augment your blisses,On ev’ry new birth-day ye see,A humble poet wishes!My bardship here, at your levee,On sic a day as this is,Is sure an uncouth sight to see,Amang thae birth-day dressesSae fine this day.I see ye’re complimented thrang,By many a lord an’ lady;“God save the King!” ‘s a cuckoo sangThat’s unco easy said ay;The poets, too, a venal gang,Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d and ready,Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,But ay unerring steady,On sic a day.For me, before a monarch’s face,Ev’n there I winna flatter;For neither pension, post, nor place,Am I your humble debtor:So, nae reflection on your grace,Your kingship to bespatter;There’s monie waur been o’ the race,And aiblins ane been betterThan you this day.’Tis very true, my sov’reign king,My skill may weel be doubted:But facts are chiels that winna ding,An’ downa be disputed:Your royal nest beneath your wing,Is e’en right reft an’ clouted,And now the third part of the string,An’ less, will gang about itThan did ae day.Far be’t frae me that I aspireTo blame your legislation,Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,To rule this mighty nation.But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,Ye’ve trusted ministrationTo chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,Wad better fill’d their stationThan courts yon day.And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,Her broken shins to plaister;Your sair taxation does her fleece,Till she has scarce a tester;For me, thank God, my life’s a lease,Nae bargain wearing faster,Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,I shortly boost to pastureI’ the craft some day.I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,When taxes he enlarges,(An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get,A name not envy spairges,)That he intends to pay your debt,An’ lessen a’ your charges;But, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fitAbridge your bonnie bargesAn’ boats this day.Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geckBeneath your high protection;An’ may ye rax corruption’s neck,And gie her for dissection!But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,In loyal, true affection,To pay your Queen, with due respect,My fealty an’ subjectionThis great birth-dayHail, Majesty Most Excellent!While nobles strive to please ye,Will ye accept a complimentA simple poet gi’es ye?Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,Still higher may they heeze yeIn bliss, till fate some day is sent,For ever to release yeFrae care that day.For you, young potentate o’ Wales,I tell your Highness fairly,Down pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely;But some day ye may gnaw your nails,An’ curse your folly sairly,That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales,Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie,By night or day.Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been knownTo mak a noble aiver;So, ye may doucely fill a throne,For a’ their clish-ma-claver:There, him at Agincourt wha shone,Few better were or braver;And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,He was an unco shaverFor monie a day.For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,Altho’ a ribbon at your lug,Wad been a dress completer:As ye disown yon paughty dogThat bears the keys of Peter,Then, swith! an’ get a wife to hug,Or, trouth! ye’ll stain the mitreSome luckless day.Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,Ye’ve lately come athwart her;A glorious galley,[58]stem an’ stern,Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter;But first hang out, that she’ll discernYour hymeneal charter,Then heave aboard your grapple airn,An’, large upon her quarter,Come full that day.

I see ye’re complimented thrang,By many a lord an’ lady;“God save the King!” ‘s a cuckoo sangThat’s unco easy said ay;The poets, too, a venal gang,Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d and ready,Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,But ay unerring steady,On sic a day.

For me, before a monarch’s face,Ev’n there I winna flatter;For neither pension, post, nor place,Am I your humble debtor:So, nae reflection on your grace,Your kingship to bespatter;There’s monie waur been o’ the race,And aiblins ane been betterThan you this day.

’Tis very true, my sov’reign king,My skill may weel be doubted:But facts are chiels that winna ding,An’ downa be disputed:Your royal nest beneath your wing,Is e’en right reft an’ clouted,And now the third part of the string,An’ less, will gang about itThan did ae day.

Far be’t frae me that I aspireTo blame your legislation,Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,To rule this mighty nation.But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,Ye’ve trusted ministrationTo chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,Wad better fill’d their stationThan courts yon day.

And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,Her broken shins to plaister;Your sair taxation does her fleece,Till she has scarce a tester;For me, thank God, my life’s a lease,Nae bargain wearing faster,Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,I shortly boost to pastureI’ the craft some day.

I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,When taxes he enlarges,(An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get,A name not envy spairges,)That he intends to pay your debt,An’ lessen a’ your charges;But, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fitAbridge your bonnie bargesAn’ boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geckBeneath your high protection;An’ may ye rax corruption’s neck,And gie her for dissection!But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,In loyal, true affection,To pay your Queen, with due respect,My fealty an’ subjectionThis great birth-day

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!While nobles strive to please ye,Will ye accept a complimentA simple poet gi’es ye?Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,Still higher may they heeze yeIn bliss, till fate some day is sent,For ever to release yeFrae care that day.

For you, young potentate o’ Wales,I tell your Highness fairly,Down pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely;But some day ye may gnaw your nails,An’ curse your folly sairly,That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales,Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie,By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been knownTo mak a noble aiver;So, ye may doucely fill a throne,For a’ their clish-ma-claver:There, him at Agincourt wha shone,Few better were or braver;And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,He was an unco shaverFor monie a day.

For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,Altho’ a ribbon at your lug,Wad been a dress completer:As ye disown yon paughty dogThat bears the keys of Peter,Then, swith! an’ get a wife to hug,Or, trouth! ye’ll stain the mitreSome luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,Ye’ve lately come athwart her;A glorious galley,[58]stem an’ stern,Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter;But first hang out, that she’ll discernYour hymeneal charter,Then heave aboard your grapple airn,An’, large upon her quarter,Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’,Ye royal lasses dainty,Heav’n mak you guid as weel as braw,An’ gie you lads a-plenty:But sneer na British Boys awa’,For kings are unco scant ay;An’ German gentles are but sma’,They’re better just than want ayOn onie day.God bless you a’! consider now,Ye’re unco muckle dautet;But ere the course o’ life be thro’,It may be bitter sautet:An’ I hae seen their coggie fou,That yet hae tarrow’t at it;But or the day was done, I trow,The laggen they hae clautetFu’ clean that day.

God bless you a’! consider now,Ye’re unco muckle dautet;But ere the course o’ life be thro’,It may be bitter sautet:An’ I hae seen their coggie fou,That yet hae tarrow’t at it;But or the day was done, I trow,The laggen they hae clautetFu’ clean that day.

FOOTNOTES:[58]Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor’s amour

[58]Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor’s amour

[This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition: Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it: “Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the ‘poor inhabitant’ it is supposed to be inscribed that

‘Thoughtless follies laid him low,And stained his name!’

Who but himself—himself anticipating the but too probable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a confession at once devout, poetical, and human—a history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer, than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized and that the record was authentic?”]

Is there a whim-inspired fool,Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,Let him draw near;And owre this grassy heap sing dool,And drap a tear.Is there a bard of rustic song,Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,That weekly this area throng,O, pass not by!But with a frater-feeling strong,Here heave a sigh.Is there a man, whose judgment clear,Can others teach the course to steer,Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,Wild as the wave;Here pause—and, through the starting tear,Survey this grave.The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to know,And keenly felt the friendly glow,And softer flame,But thoughtless follies laid him low,And stain’d his name!Reader, attend—whether thy soulSoars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,In low pursuit;Know, prudent, cautious self-control,Is wisdom’s root.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,Let him draw near;And owre this grassy heap sing dool,And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,That weekly this area throng,O, pass not by!But with a frater-feeling strong,Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,Can others teach the course to steer,Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,Wild as the wave;Here pause—and, through the starting tear,Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant belowWas quick to learn and wise to know,And keenly felt the friendly glow,And softer flame,But thoughtless follies laid him low,And stain’d his name!

Reader, attend—whether thy soulSoars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,In low pursuit;Know, prudent, cautious self-control,Is wisdom’s root.

[Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed me, that the Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, when the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, said, “The Address to the Deil” and “The Holy Fair” were grand things, but it would be as well to have a calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on his way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of “Wee Johnnie.” On the 17th February Burns says to John Richmond, of Mauchline, “I have completed my Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have not shown it to the world.” It is difficult to fix the dates with anything like accuracy, to compositions which are not struck off at one heat of the fancy. “Luath was one of the poet’s dogs, which some person had wantonly killed,” says Gilbert Burns; “but Cæsar was merely the creature of the imagination.” The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of collies, says that Luath is true to the life, and that many a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark for very joy, when the cottage children were merry.]

Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isleThat bears the name o’ Auld King Coil,Upon a bonnie day in June,When wearing through the afternoon,Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,Forgather’d ance upon a time.The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Cæsar,Was keepit for his honour’s pleasure;His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;But whalpit some place far abroad,Where sailors gang to fish for cod.His locked, letter’d, braw brass collarShow’d him the gentleman and scholar;But though he was o’ high degree,The fient a pride—nae pride had he;But wad hae spent an hour caressin’,Ev’n wi’ a tinkler-gypsey’s messin’.At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,And stroan’t on stanes and hillocks wi’ him.The tither was a ploughman’s collie,A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,After some dog in Highland sang,[59]Was made lang syne—Lord know how lang.He was a gash an’ faithful tyke,As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face,Ay gat him friends in ilka place.His breast was white, his touzie backWeel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;His gaucie tail, wi’ upward curl,Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl.Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,An’ unco pack an’ thick thegither;Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit,Whyles mice and moudiewarts they howkit;Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,An’ worry’d ither in diversion;Until wi’ daffin weary grown,Upon a knowe they sat them down,And there began a lang digressionAbout the lords o’ the creation.

His locked, letter’d, braw brass collarShow’d him the gentleman and scholar;But though he was o’ high degree,The fient a pride—nae pride had he;But wad hae spent an hour caressin’,Ev’n wi’ a tinkler-gypsey’s messin’.At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,And stroan’t on stanes and hillocks wi’ him.

The tither was a ploughman’s collie,A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,After some dog in Highland sang,[59]Was made lang syne—Lord know how lang.

He was a gash an’ faithful tyke,As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face,Ay gat him friends in ilka place.His breast was white, his touzie backWeel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;His gaucie tail, wi’ upward curl,Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,An’ unco pack an’ thick thegither;Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit,Whyles mice and moudiewarts they howkit;Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,An’ worry’d ither in diversion;Until wi’ daffin weary grown,Upon a knowe they sat them down,And there began a lang digressionAbout the lords o’ the creation.

CÆSAR.

Back to Index Next