My Lord, I know your noble earWoe ne’er assails in vain;Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hearYour humble slave complain,How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beamsIn flaming summer-pride,Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,And drink my crystal tide.
My Lord, I know your noble earWoe ne’er assails in vain;Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hearYour humble slave complain,How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beamsIn flaming summer-pride,Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,And drink my crystal tide.
II.
The lightly-jumpin’ glowrin’ trouts,That thro’ my waters play,If, in their random, wanton spouts,They near the margin stray;If, hapless chance! they linger lang,I’m scorching up so shallow,They’re left the whitening stanes amang,In gasping death to wallow.
The lightly-jumpin’ glowrin’ trouts,That thro’ my waters play,If, in their random, wanton spouts,They near the margin stray;If, hapless chance! they linger lang,I’m scorching up so shallow,They’re left the whitening stanes amang,In gasping death to wallow.
III.
Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,As Poet Burns came by,That to a bard I should be seenWi’ half my channel dry:A panegyric rhyme, I ween,Even as I was he shor’d me;But had I in my glory been,He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.
Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,As Poet Burns came by,That to a bard I should be seenWi’ half my channel dry:A panegyric rhyme, I ween,Even as I was he shor’d me;But had I in my glory been,He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.
IV.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,In twisting strength I rin;There, high my boiling torrent smokes,Wild-roaring o’er a linn:Enjoying large each spring and well,As Nature gave them me,I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’,Worth gaun a mile to see.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,In twisting strength I rin;There, high my boiling torrent smokes,Wild-roaring o’er a linn:Enjoying large each spring and well,As Nature gave them me,I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’,Worth gaun a mile to see.
V.
Would then my noble master pleaseTo grant my highest wishes,He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,And bonnie spreading bushes.Delighted doubly then, my Lord,You’ll wander on my banks,And listen mony a grateful birdReturn you tuneful thanks.
Would then my noble master pleaseTo grant my highest wishes,He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,And bonnie spreading bushes.Delighted doubly then, my Lord,You’ll wander on my banks,And listen mony a grateful birdReturn you tuneful thanks.
VI.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,Shall to the skies aspire;The gowdspink, music’s gayest child,Shall sweetly join the choir:The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,The mavis mild and mellow;The robin pensive autumn cheer,In all her locks of yellow.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,Shall to the skies aspire;The gowdspink, music’s gayest child,Shall sweetly join the choir:The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,The mavis mild and mellow;The robin pensive autumn cheer,In all her locks of yellow.
VII.
This, too, a covert shall insureTo shield them from the storm;And coward maukin sleep secure,Low in her grassy form:Here shall the shepherd make his seat,To weave his crown of flow’rs;Or find a shelt’ring safe retreatFrom prone-descending show’rs.
This, too, a covert shall insureTo shield them from the storm;And coward maukin sleep secure,Low in her grassy form:Here shall the shepherd make his seat,To weave his crown of flow’rs;Or find a shelt’ring safe retreatFrom prone-descending show’rs.
VIII.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,Shall meet the loving pair,Despising worlds with all their wealthAs empty idle care.The flow’rs shall vie in all their charmsThe hour of heav’n to grace,And birks extend their fragrant armsTo screen the dear embrace.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,Shall meet the loving pair,Despising worlds with all their wealthAs empty idle care.The flow’rs shall vie in all their charmsThe hour of heav’n to grace,And birks extend their fragrant armsTo screen the dear embrace.
IX.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,Some musing bard may stray,And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,And misty mountain gray;Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam,Mild-chequering thro’ the trees,Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,Some musing bard may stray,And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,And misty mountain gray;Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam,Mild-chequering thro’ the trees,Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
X.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,My lowly banks o’erspread,And view, deep-bending in the pool,Their shadows’ wat’ry bed!Let fragrant birks in woodbines drestMy craggy cliffs adorn;And, for the little songster’s nest,The close embow’ring thorn.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,My lowly banks o’erspread,And view, deep-bending in the pool,Their shadows’ wat’ry bed!Let fragrant birks in woodbines drestMy craggy cliffs adorn;And, for the little songster’s nest,The close embow’ring thorn.
XI.
So may old Scotia’s darling hope,Your little angel band,Spring, like their fathers, up to propTheir honour’d native land!So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,To social-flowing glasses,The grace be—“Athole’s honest men,And Athole’s bonnie lasses?”
So may old Scotia’s darling hope,Your little angel band,Spring, like their fathers, up to propTheir honour’d native land!So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,To social-flowing glasses,The grace be—“Athole’s honest men,And Athole’s bonnie lasses?”
[When Burns wrote these touching lines, he was staying with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours. Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.]
Why, ye tenants of the lake,For me your wat’ry haunt forsake?Tell me, fellow-creatures, whyAt my presence thus you fly?Why disturb your social joys,Parent, filial, kindred ties?—Common friend to you and me,Nature’s gifts to all are free:Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,Busy feed, or wanton lave:Or, beneath the sheltering rock,Bide the surging billow’s shock.Conscious, blushing for our race,Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.Man, your proud usurping foe,Would be lord of all below:Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride,Tyrant stern to all beside.The eagle, from the cliffy brow,Marking you his prey below,In his breast no pity dwells,Strong necessity compels:But man, to whom alone is giv’nA ray direct from pitying heav’n,Glories in his heart humane—And creatures for his pleasure slain.In these savage, liquid plains,Only known to wand’ring swains,Where the mossy riv’let strays,Far from human haunts and ways;All on Nature you depend,And life’s poor season peaceful spend.Or, if man’s superior mightDare invade your native right,On the lofty ether borne,Man with all his pow’rs you scorn;Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,Other lakes and other springs;And the foe you cannot brave,Scorn at least to be his slave.
Why, ye tenants of the lake,For me your wat’ry haunt forsake?Tell me, fellow-creatures, whyAt my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,Parent, filial, kindred ties?—Common friend to you and me,Nature’s gifts to all are free:Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,Busy feed, or wanton lave:Or, beneath the sheltering rock,Bide the surging billow’s shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.Man, your proud usurping foe,Would be lord of all below:Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride,Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow,Marking you his prey below,In his breast no pity dwells,Strong necessity compels:But man, to whom alone is giv’nA ray direct from pitying heav’n,Glories in his heart humane—And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,Only known to wand’ring swains,Where the mossy riv’let strays,Far from human haunts and ways;All on Nature you depend,And life’s poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man’s superior mightDare invade your native right,On the lofty ether borne,Man with all his pow’rs you scorn;Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,Other lakes and other springs;And the foe you cannot brave,Scorn at least to be his slave.
[The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Breadalbane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: has some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.]
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;O’er many a winding dale and painful steep,Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep,My savage journey, curious I pursue,’Till fam’d Breadalbane opens to my view.—The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,The woods, wild scatter’d, clothe their ample sides;Th’ outstretching lake, embosom’d ‘mong the hills,The eye with wonder and amazement fills;The Tay, meand’ring sweet in infant pride,The palace, rising on its verdant side;The lawns, wood-fring’d in Nature’s native taste;The hillocks, dropt in Nature’s careless haste;The arches, striding o’er the new-born stream;The village, glittering in the noontide beam—
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;O’er many a winding dale and painful steep,Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep,My savage journey, curious I pursue,’Till fam’d Breadalbane opens to my view.—The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,The woods, wild scatter’d, clothe their ample sides;Th’ outstretching lake, embosom’d ‘mong the hills,The eye with wonder and amazement fills;The Tay, meand’ring sweet in infant pride,The palace, rising on its verdant side;The lawns, wood-fring’d in Nature’s native taste;The hillocks, dropt in Nature’s careless haste;The arches, striding o’er the new-born stream;The village, glittering in the noontide beam—
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,Lone wand’ring by the hermit’s mossy cell:The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,Lone wand’ring by the hermit’s mossy cell:The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—
Here Poesy might wake her heav’n-taught lyre,And look through Nature with creative fire;Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil’d,Misfortune’s lighten’d steps might wander wild;And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,Find balm to soothe her bitter—rankling wounds:Here heart-struck Grief might heav’nward stretch her scan,And injur’d Worth forget and pardon man.
Here Poesy might wake her heav’n-taught lyre,And look through Nature with creative fire;Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil’d,Misfortune’s lighten’d steps might wander wild;And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,Find balm to soothe her bitter—rankling wounds:Here heart-struck Grief might heav’nward stretch her scan,And injur’d Worth forget and pardon man.
[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it, the Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another fall further up the stream, very wild andsavage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and agitated mist.]
Among the heathy hills and ragged woodsThe roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds,As high in air the bursting torrents flow,As deep-recoiling surges foam below,Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,And viewless Echo’s ear, astonish’d, rends.Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs,The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low’rs.Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils,And still below, the horrid cauldron boils—
Among the heathy hills and ragged woodsThe roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds,As high in air the bursting torrents flow,As deep-recoiling surges foam below,Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,And viewless Echo’s ear, astonish’d, rends.Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs,The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low’rs.Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils,And still below, the horrid cauldron boils—
[When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Tytlers through three generations: an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poet’s handwriting.]
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,Of Stuart, a name once respected,A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart,But now ’tis despis’d and neglected.Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye,Let no one misdeem me disloyal;A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh,Still more, if that wand’rer were royal.My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne,My fathers have fallen to right it;Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,That name should he scoffingly slight it.Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,The Queen and the rest of the gentry,Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;Their title’s avow’d by my country.But why of that epocha make such a fuss,That gave us th’ Electoral stem?If bringing them over was lucky for us,I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them.But loyalty truce! we’re on dangerous ground,Who knows how the fashions may alter?The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,To-morrow may bring us a halter.I send you a trifle, the head of a bard,A trifle scarce worthy your care;But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer.Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your eye,And ushers the long dreary night;But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,Your course to the latest is bright.
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,Of Stuart, a name once respected,A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart,But now ’tis despis’d and neglected.
Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye,Let no one misdeem me disloyal;A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh,Still more, if that wand’rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne,My fathers have fallen to right it;Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,The Queen and the rest of the gentry,Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;Their title’s avow’d by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss,That gave us th’ Electoral stem?If bringing them over was lucky for us,I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them.
But loyalty truce! we’re on dangerous ground,Who knows how the fashions may alter?The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,To-morrow may bring us a halter.
I send you a trifle, the head of a bard,A trifle scarce worthy your care;But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer.
Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your eye,And ushers the long dreary night;But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,Your course to the latest is bright.
[FIRST COPY.]
[The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, has enabled me to present the reader with the rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first-fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nithside.]
Thou whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deck’d in silken stole,Grave these maxims on thy soul.Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night, in darkness lost;Day, how rapid in its flight—Day, how few must see the night;Hope not sunshine every hour,Fear not clouds will always lower.Happiness is but a name,Make content and ease thy aim.Ambition is a meteor gleam;Fame, a restless idle dream:Pleasures, insects on the wingRound Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring;Those that sip the dew alone,Make the butterflies thy own;Those that would the bloom devour,Crush the locusts—save the flower.For the future be prepar’d,Guard wherever thou canst guard;But, thy utmost duly done,Welcome what thou canst not shun.Follies past, give thou to air,Make their consequence thy care:Keep the name of man in mind,And dishonour not thy kind.Reverence with lowly heartHim whose wondrous work thou art;Keep His goodness still in view,Thy trust—and thy example, too.Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!Quod the Beadsman on Nithside.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deck’d in silken stole,Grave these maxims on thy soul.Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night, in darkness lost;Day, how rapid in its flight—Day, how few must see the night;Hope not sunshine every hour,Fear not clouds will always lower.Happiness is but a name,Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor gleam;Fame, a restless idle dream:Pleasures, insects on the wingRound Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring;Those that sip the dew alone,Make the butterflies thy own;Those that would the bloom devour,Crush the locusts—save the flower.For the future be prepar’d,Guard wherever thou canst guard;But, thy utmost duly done,Welcome what thou canst not shun.Follies past, give thou to air,Make their consequence thy care:Keep the name of man in mind,And dishonour not thy kind.Reverence with lowly heartHim whose wondrous work thou art;Keep His goodness still in view,Thy trust—and thy example, too.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!Quod the Beadsman on Nithside.
[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies in his own handwriting: I have seen three. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Ellisland; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the diamond pencil of the Bard. On Riddel’s death, the Hermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay: I remember in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.]
Thou whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deck’d in silken stole,Grave these counsels on thy soul.Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night, in darkness lost;Hope not sunshine ev’ry hour.Fear not clouds will always lour.As Youth and Love with sprightly danceBeneath thy morning star advance,Pleasure with her siren airMay delude the thoughtless pair:Let Prudence bless enjoyment’s cup,Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up.As thy day grows warm and high,Life’s meridian flaming nigh,Dost thou spurn the humble vale?Life’s proud summits would’st thou scale?Check thy climbing step, elate,Evils lurk in felon wait:Dangers, eagle-pinion’d, bold,Soar around each cliffy hold,While cheerful peace, with linnet song,Chants the lowly dells among.As the shades of ev’ning close,Beck’ning thee to long repose;As life itself becomes disease,Seek the chimney-nook of ease.There ruminate, with sober thought,On all thou’st seen, and heard, and wrought;And teach the sportive younkers round,Saws of experience, sage and sound.Say, man’s true genuine estimate,The grand criterion of his fate,Is not—Art thou high or low?Did thy fortune ebb or flow?Wast thou cottager or king?Peer or peasant?—no such thing!Did many talents gild thy span?Or frugal nature grudge thee one?Tell them, and press it on their mind,As thou thyself must shortly find,The smile or frown of awful Heav’n,To virtue or to vice is giv’n.Say, to be just, and kind, and wise,There solid self-enjoyment lies;That foolish, selfish, faithless waysLead to the wretched, vile, and base.Thus, resign’d and quiet, creepTo the bed of lasting sleep;Sleep, whence thou shalt ne’er awake,Night, where dawn shall never break,Till future life, future no more,To light and joy the good restore,To light and joy unknown before.Stranger, go! Hea’vn be thy guide!Quod the beadsman of Nithside.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deck’d in silken stole,Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night, in darkness lost;Hope not sunshine ev’ry hour.Fear not clouds will always lour.As Youth and Love with sprightly danceBeneath thy morning star advance,Pleasure with her siren airMay delude the thoughtless pair:Let Prudence bless enjoyment’s cup,Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up.
As thy day grows warm and high,Life’s meridian flaming nigh,Dost thou spurn the humble vale?Life’s proud summits would’st thou scale?Check thy climbing step, elate,Evils lurk in felon wait:Dangers, eagle-pinion’d, bold,Soar around each cliffy hold,While cheerful peace, with linnet song,Chants the lowly dells among.
As the shades of ev’ning close,Beck’ning thee to long repose;As life itself becomes disease,Seek the chimney-nook of ease.There ruminate, with sober thought,On all thou’st seen, and heard, and wrought;And teach the sportive younkers round,Saws of experience, sage and sound.Say, man’s true genuine estimate,The grand criterion of his fate,Is not—Art thou high or low?Did thy fortune ebb or flow?Wast thou cottager or king?Peer or peasant?—no such thing!Did many talents gild thy span?Or frugal nature grudge thee one?Tell them, and press it on their mind,As thou thyself must shortly find,The smile or frown of awful Heav’n,To virtue or to vice is giv’n.Say, to be just, and kind, and wise,There solid self-enjoyment lies;That foolish, selfish, faithless waysLead to the wretched, vile, and base.
Thus, resign’d and quiet, creepTo the bed of lasting sleep;Sleep, whence thou shalt ne’er awake,Night, where dawn shall never break,Till future life, future no more,To light and joy the good restore,To light and joy unknown before.
Stranger, go! Hea’vn be thy guide!Quod the beadsman of Nithside.
[Captain Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was Burns’s neighbour, at Ellisland: he was a kind, hospitable man, and a good antiquary. The “News and Review” which he sent to the poet contained, I have heard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with his usual strong sense, set the proper value upon all contemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless “chippers and hewers.” He demanded trial by his peers, and where were such to be found?]
Ellisland, Monday Evening.
Your news and review, Sir, I’ve read through and through, Sir,With little admiring or blaming;The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,No murders or rapes worth the naming.Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers,Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir,But ofmeetorunmeetin afabric complete,I’ll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodnessBestow’d on your servant, the Poet;Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,And then all the world, Sir, should know it!
Your news and review, Sir, I’ve read through and through, Sir,With little admiring or blaming;The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers,Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir,But ofmeetorunmeetin afabric complete,I’ll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.
My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodnessBestow’d on your servant, the Poet;Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,And then all the world, Sir, should know it!
[“The Mother’s Lament,” says the poet, in a copy of the verses now before me, “was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. Stewart, of Afton.”]
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,And pierc’d my darling’s heart;And with him all the joys are fledLife can to me impart.By cruel hands the sapling drops,In dust dishonour’d laid:So fell the pride of all my hopes,My age’s future shade.The mother-linnet in the brakeBewails her ravish’d young;So I, for my lost darling’s sake,Lament the live day long.Death, oft I’ve fear’d thy fatal blow,Now, fond I bare my breast,O, do thou kindly lay me lowWith him I love, at rest!
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,And pierc’d my darling’s heart;And with him all the joys are fledLife can to me impart.By cruel hands the sapling drops,In dust dishonour’d laid:So fell the pride of all my hopes,My age’s future shade.
The mother-linnet in the brakeBewails her ravish’d young;So I, for my lost darling’s sake,Lament the live day long.Death, oft I’ve fear’d thy fatal blow,Now, fond I bare my breast,O, do thou kindly lay me lowWith him I love, at rest!
[In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says “accompanying a request.” What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman: for this the poet had qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in due time: his division was extensive, and included ten parishes.]
When Nature her great master-piece designed,And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind,Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,She form’d of various parts the various man.Then first she calls the useful many forth;Plain plodding industry, and sober worth:Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth:Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds.Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,The lead and buoy are needful to the net;Thecaput mortuumof gross desiresMakes a material for mere knights and squires;The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grave designs,Law, physic, politics, and deep divines:Last, she sublimes th’ Aurora of the poles,The flashing elements of female souls.The order’d system fair before her stood,Nature, well pleas’d, pronounc’d it very good;But ere she gave creating labour o’er,Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more.Some spumy, fiery,ignis fatuusmatter,Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;With arch alacrity and conscious glee(Nature may have her whim as well as we,Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it)She forms the thing, and christens it—a Poet.Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow,When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow.A being form’d t’amuse his graver friends,Admir’d and prais’d—and there the homage ends:A mortal quite unfit for fortune’s strife,Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live;Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work.Pitying the propless climber of mankind,She cast about a standard tree to find;And, to support his helpless woodbine state,Attach’d him to the generous truly great,A title, and the only one I claim,To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.Pity the tuneful muses’ hapless train,Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main!Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,That never gives—tho’ humbly takes enough;The little fate allows, they share as soon,Unlike sage proverb’d wisdom’s hard-wrung boon.The world were blest did bliss on them depend,Ah, that “the friendly e’er should want a friend!”Let prudence number o’er each sturdy sonWho life and wisdom at one race begun,Who feel by reason and who give by rule,(Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool!)Who make poorwill dowait uponI should—We own they’re prudent, but who feels they’re good?Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye!God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy!But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,Heaven’s attribute distinguished—to bestow!Whose arms of love would grasp the human race:Come thou who giv’st with all a courtier’s grace;Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,Backward, abash’d to ask thy friendly aid?I know my need, I know thy giving hand,I crave thy friendship at thy kind command;But there are such who court the tuneful nine—Heavens! should the branded character be mine!Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows,Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.Mark, how their lofty independent spiritSoars on the spurning wing of injur’d merit!Seek not the proofs in private life to find;Pity the best of words should be but wind!So to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends,But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.In all the clam’rous cry of starving want,They dun benevolence with shameless front;Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays,They persecute you all your future days!Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,My horny fist assume the plough again;The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more;On eighteen-pence a week I’ve liv’d before.Tho’, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift!I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:That, plac’d by thee upon the wish’d-for height,Where, man and nature fairer in her sight,My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
When Nature her great master-piece designed,And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind,Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,She form’d of various parts the various man.
Then first she calls the useful many forth;Plain plodding industry, and sober worth:Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth:Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds.Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,The lead and buoy are needful to the net;Thecaput mortuumof gross desiresMakes a material for mere knights and squires;The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grave designs,Law, physic, politics, and deep divines:Last, she sublimes th’ Aurora of the poles,The flashing elements of female souls.
The order’d system fair before her stood,Nature, well pleas’d, pronounc’d it very good;But ere she gave creating labour o’er,Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more.Some spumy, fiery,ignis fatuusmatter,Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;With arch alacrity and conscious glee(Nature may have her whim as well as we,Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it)She forms the thing, and christens it—a Poet.Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow,When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow.A being form’d t’amuse his graver friends,Admir’d and prais’d—and there the homage ends:A mortal quite unfit for fortune’s strife,Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live;Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work.Pitying the propless climber of mankind,She cast about a standard tree to find;And, to support his helpless woodbine state,Attach’d him to the generous truly great,A title, and the only one I claim,To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful muses’ hapless train,Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main!Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,That never gives—tho’ humbly takes enough;The little fate allows, they share as soon,Unlike sage proverb’d wisdom’s hard-wrung boon.The world were blest did bliss on them depend,Ah, that “the friendly e’er should want a friend!”Let prudence number o’er each sturdy sonWho life and wisdom at one race begun,Who feel by reason and who give by rule,(Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool!)Who make poorwill dowait uponI should—We own they’re prudent, but who feels they’re good?Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye!God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy!But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,Heaven’s attribute distinguished—to bestow!Whose arms of love would grasp the human race:Come thou who giv’st with all a courtier’s grace;Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,Backward, abash’d to ask thy friendly aid?I know my need, I know thy giving hand,I crave thy friendship at thy kind command;But there are such who court the tuneful nine—Heavens! should the branded character be mine!Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows,Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.Mark, how their lofty independent spiritSoars on the spurning wing of injur’d merit!Seek not the proofs in private life to find;Pity the best of words should be but wind!So to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends,But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.In all the clam’rous cry of starving want,They dun benevolence with shameless front;Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays,They persecute you all your future days!Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,My horny fist assume the plough again;The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more;On eighteen-pence a week I’ve liv’d before.Tho’, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift!I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:That, plac’d by thee upon the wish’d-for height,Where, man and nature fairer in her sight,My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
[I found these lines written with a pencil in one of Burns’s memorandum-books: he said he had just composed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed in nothing from the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.]
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the darkening air,And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell,Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train;[72]Or mus’d where limpid streams once hallow’d well,[73]Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane.[74]Th’ increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks,The clouds, swift-wing’d, flew o’er the starry sky,The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.The paly moon rose in the livid east,And ‘mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form,In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm.Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d:Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe,The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war,Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d,That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar,And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.—“My patriot son fills an untimely grave!”With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried;“Low lies the hand that oft was stretch’d to save,Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride.“A weeping country joins a widow’s tear,The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry;The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier,And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh!“I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;I saw fair freedom’s blossoms richly blow:But ah! how hope is born but to expire!Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.“My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,While empty greatness saves a worthless name!No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,And future ages hear his growing fame.“And I will join a mother’s tender cares,Thro’ future times to make his virtues last;That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”—She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the darkening air,And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell,Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train;[72]Or mus’d where limpid streams once hallow’d well,[73]Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane.[74]
Th’ increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks,The clouds, swift-wing’d, flew o’er the starry sky,The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
The paly moon rose in the livid east,And ‘mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form,In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d:Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe,The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war,Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d,That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar,And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.—
“My patriot son fills an untimely grave!”With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried;“Low lies the hand that oft was stretch’d to save,Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride.
“A weeping country joins a widow’s tear,The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry;The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier,And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh!
“I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;I saw fair freedom’s blossoms richly blow:But ah! how hope is born but to expire!Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
“My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,While empty greatness saves a worthless name!No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,And future ages hear his growing fame.
“And I will join a mother’s tender cares,Thro’ future times to make his virtues last;That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”—She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.
FOOTNOTES:[72]The King’s Park, at Holyrood-house.[73]St. Anthony’s Well.[74]St. Anthony’s Chapel.
[72]The King’s Park, at Holyrood-house.
[72]The King’s Park, at Holyrood-house.
[73]St. Anthony’s Well.
[73]St. Anthony’s Well.
[74]St. Anthony’s Chapel.
[74]St. Anthony’s Chapel.
[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the poet’s Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns’s Poems: he has been dead many years: the Epistle was recovered, luckily, from his papers, and printed for the first time in 1834.]
In this strange land, this uncouth clime,A land unknown to prose or rhyme;Where words ne’er crost the muse’s heckles,Nor limpet in poetic shackles:A land that prose did never view it,Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it,Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek,Hid in an atmosphere of reek,I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk,I hear it—for in vain I leuk.—The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,Enhusked by a fog infernal:Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,I sit and count my sins by chapters;For life and spunk like ither Christians,I’m dwindled down to mere existence,Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies,Wi’ nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.[75]Jenny, my Pegasean pride!Dowie she saunters down Nithside,And ay a westlin leuk she throws,While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose!Was it for this, wi’ canny care,Thou bure the bard through many a shire?At howes or hillocks never stumbled,And late or early never grumbled?—O had I power like inclination,I’d heeze thee up a constellation,To canter with the Sagitarre,Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;Or turn the pole like any arrow;Or, when auld Phœbus bids good-morrow,Down the zodiac urge the race,And cast dirt on his godship’s face;For I could lay my bread and kailHe’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.—Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief,And sma,’ sma’ prospect of relief,And nought but peat reek i’ my head,How can I write what ye can read?—Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June,Ye’ll find me in a better tune;But till we meet and weet our whistle,Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
In this strange land, this uncouth clime,A land unknown to prose or rhyme;Where words ne’er crost the muse’s heckles,Nor limpet in poetic shackles:A land that prose did never view it,Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it,Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek,Hid in an atmosphere of reek,I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk,I hear it—for in vain I leuk.—The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,Enhusked by a fog infernal:Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,I sit and count my sins by chapters;For life and spunk like ither Christians,I’m dwindled down to mere existence,Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies,Wi’ nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.[75]Jenny, my Pegasean pride!Dowie she saunters down Nithside,And ay a westlin leuk she throws,While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose!Was it for this, wi’ canny care,Thou bure the bard through many a shire?At howes or hillocks never stumbled,And late or early never grumbled?—O had I power like inclination,I’d heeze thee up a constellation,To canter with the Sagitarre,Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;Or turn the pole like any arrow;Or, when auld Phœbus bids good-morrow,Down the zodiac urge the race,And cast dirt on his godship’s face;For I could lay my bread and kailHe’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.—Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief,And sma,’ sma’ prospect of relief,And nought but peat reek i’ my head,How can I write what ye can read?—Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June,Ye’ll find me in a better tune;But till we meet and weet our whistle,Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
Robert Burns.
FOOTNOTES:[75]His mare.
[75]His mare.
[75]His mare.
[Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glencairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ellisland: beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed: a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is now in the safe keeping of the Earl’s name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years; he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with whom this ancient race was closed.]