XXIV.

“Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!Sweet’ner of life and solder of society!I owe thee much!—“

Blair.

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shop-keeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather follower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with “Yill-caup commentators.” He was present in Poosie Nansie’s when the Jolly Beggars first dawned on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of the poet’s heart were not generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788; but this was not to last; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his manners lively and unaffected.]

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,That e’er attempted stealth or rief,Ye surely hae some warlock-breefOwre human hearts;For ne’er a bosom yet was priefAgainst your arts.For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,And ev’ry star that blinks aboon,Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoonJust gaun to see you;And ev’ry ither pair that’s done,Mair ta’en I’m wi’ you.That auld capricious carlin, Nature,To mak amends for scrimpit stature,She’s turn’d you aff, a human creatureOn her first plan;And in her freaks, on every featureShe’s wrote, the Man.Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,My barmie noddle’s working prime,My fancy yerkit it up sublimeWi’ hasty summon:Hae ye a leisure-moment’s timeTo hear what’s comin’?Some rhyme a neighbour’s name to lash;Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash:Some rhyme to court the countra clash,An’ raise a din;For me, an aim I never fash;I rhyme for fun.The star that rules my luckless lot,Has fated me the russet coat,An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;But in requit,Has blest me with a random shotO’ countra wit.This while my notion’s ta’en a sklent,To try my fate in guid black prent;But still the mair I’m that way bent,Something cries “Hoolie!I red you, honest man, tak tent!Ye’ll shaw your folly.“There’s ither poets much your betters,Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters,Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors,A’ future ages:Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,Their unknown pages.”Then farewell hopes o’ laurel-boughs,To garland my poetic brows!Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughsAre whistling thrang,An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howesMy rustic sang.I’ll wander on, with tentless heedHow never-halting moments speed,Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;Then, all unknown,I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead,Forgot and gone!But why o’ death begin a tale?Just now we’re living sound and hale,Then top and maintop crowd the sail,Heave care o’er side!And large, before enjoyment’s gale,Let’s tak the tide.This life, sae far’s I understand,Is a’ enchanted fairy land,Where pleasure is the magic wand,That, wielded right,Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,Dance by fu’ light.The magic wand then let us wield;For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d,See crazy, weary, joyless eild,Wi’ wrinkl’d face,Comes hostin’, hirplin’, owre the field,Wi’ creepin’ pace.When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’,Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’;An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,An’ social noise;An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman!The joy of joys!O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning!Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,We frisk away,Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning,To joy and play.We wander there, we wander here,We eye the rose upon the brier,Unmindful that the thorn is near,Among the leaves;And tho’ the puny wound appear,Short while it grieves.Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot,For which they never toil’d nor swat;They drink the sweet and eat the fat,But care or pain;And, haply, eye the barren hutWith high disdain.With steady aim some Fortune chase;Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace;Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,And seize the prey;Then cannie, in some cozie place,They close the day.And others, like your humble servan’,Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’;To right or left, eternal swervin’,They zig-zag on;’Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’,They aften groan.Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining—But truce with peevish, poor complaining!Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning?E’en let her gang!Beneath what light she has remaining,Let’s sing our sang.My pen I here fling to the door,And kneel, “Ye Pow’rs,” and warm implore,“Tho’ I should wander terra e’er,In all her climes,Grant me but this, I ask no more,Ay rowth o’ rhymes.“Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,Till icicles hing frae their beards;Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,And maids of honour!And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds,Until they sconner.“A title, Dempster merits it;A garter gie to Willie Pitt;Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit,In cent. per cent.But give me real, sterling wit,And I’m content.“While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale,I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal,Be’t water-brose, or muslin-kail,Wi’ cheerfu’ face,As lang’s the muses dinna failTo say the grace.”An anxious e’e I never throwsBehint my lug, or by my nose;I jouk beneath misfortune’s blowsAs weel’s I may;Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,I rhyme away.O ye douce folk, that live by rule,Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool!How much unlike!Your hearts are just a standing pool,Your lives a dyke!Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces,In your unletter’d nameless faces!In arioso trills and gracesYe never stray,But gravissimo, solemn bassesYe hum away.Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise;Nae ferly tho’ ye do despiseThe hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys,The rattling squad:I see you upward cast your eyes—Ye ken the road—Whilst I—but I shall haud me there—Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where—Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,But quat my sang,Content wi’ you to mak a pair,Whare’er I gang.

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,That e’er attempted stealth or rief,Ye surely hae some warlock-breefOwre human hearts;For ne’er a bosom yet was priefAgainst your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,And ev’ry star that blinks aboon,Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoonJust gaun to see you;And ev’ry ither pair that’s done,Mair ta’en I’m wi’ you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,To mak amends for scrimpit stature,She’s turn’d you aff, a human creatureOn her first plan;And in her freaks, on every featureShe’s wrote, the Man.

Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,My barmie noddle’s working prime,My fancy yerkit it up sublimeWi’ hasty summon:Hae ye a leisure-moment’s timeTo hear what’s comin’?

Some rhyme a neighbour’s name to lash;Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash:Some rhyme to court the countra clash,An’ raise a din;For me, an aim I never fash;I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,Has fated me the russet coat,An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;But in requit,Has blest me with a random shotO’ countra wit.

This while my notion’s ta’en a sklent,To try my fate in guid black prent;But still the mair I’m that way bent,Something cries “Hoolie!I red you, honest man, tak tent!Ye’ll shaw your folly.

“There’s ither poets much your betters,Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters,Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors,A’ future ages:Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,Their unknown pages.”

Then farewell hopes o’ laurel-boughs,To garland my poetic brows!Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughsAre whistling thrang,An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howesMy rustic sang.

I’ll wander on, with tentless heedHow never-halting moments speed,Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;Then, all unknown,I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead,Forgot and gone!

But why o’ death begin a tale?Just now we’re living sound and hale,Then top and maintop crowd the sail,Heave care o’er side!And large, before enjoyment’s gale,Let’s tak the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand,Is a’ enchanted fairy land,Where pleasure is the magic wand,That, wielded right,Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,Dance by fu’ light.

The magic wand then let us wield;For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d,See crazy, weary, joyless eild,Wi’ wrinkl’d face,Comes hostin’, hirplin’, owre the field,Wi’ creepin’ pace.

When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’,Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’;An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,An’ social noise;An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman!The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning!Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,We frisk away,Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning,To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,We eye the rose upon the brier,Unmindful that the thorn is near,Among the leaves;And tho’ the puny wound appear,Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot,For which they never toil’d nor swat;They drink the sweet and eat the fat,But care or pain;And, haply, eye the barren hutWith high disdain.

With steady aim some Fortune chase;Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace;Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,And seize the prey;Then cannie, in some cozie place,They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan’,Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’;To right or left, eternal swervin’,They zig-zag on;’Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’,They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining—But truce with peevish, poor complaining!Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning?E’en let her gang!Beneath what light she has remaining,Let’s sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,And kneel, “Ye Pow’rs,” and warm implore,“Tho’ I should wander terra e’er,In all her climes,Grant me but this, I ask no more,Ay rowth o’ rhymes.

“Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,Till icicles hing frae their beards;Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,And maids of honour!And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds,Until they sconner.

“A title, Dempster merits it;A garter gie to Willie Pitt;Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit,In cent. per cent.But give me real, sterling wit,And I’m content.

“While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale,I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal,Be’t water-brose, or muslin-kail,Wi’ cheerfu’ face,As lang’s the muses dinna failTo say the grace.”

An anxious e’e I never throwsBehint my lug, or by my nose;I jouk beneath misfortune’s blowsAs weel’s I may;Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule,Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool!How much unlike!Your hearts are just a standing pool,Your lives a dyke!

Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces,In your unletter’d nameless faces!In arioso trills and gracesYe never stray,But gravissimo, solemn bassesYe hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise;Nae ferly tho’ ye do despiseThe hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys,The rattling squad:I see you upward cast your eyes—Ye ken the road—

Whilst I—but I shall haud me there—Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where—Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,But quat my sang,Content wi’ you to mak a pair,Whare’er I gang.

[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be “the only pieces by Burns which can be classed under the head of pure fiction:” but Tam O’ Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equal right to be classed with works of fiction. The edition of this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from the edition which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.]

The sun had clos’d the winter day,The curlers quat their roaring play,An’ hunger’d maukin ta’en her wayTo kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been.The thresher’s weary flingin’-treeThe lee-lang day had tired me;And when the day had closed his e’eFar i’ the west,Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey’d the spewing reek,That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek,The auld clay biggin’;An’ heard the restless rattons squeakAbout the riggin’.

The sun had clos’d the winter day,The curlers quat their roaring play,An’ hunger’d maukin ta’en her wayTo kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been.

The thresher’s weary flingin’-treeThe lee-lang day had tired me;And when the day had closed his e’eFar i’ the west,Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey’d the spewing reek,That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek,The auld clay biggin’;An’ heard the restless rattons squeakAbout the riggin’.

All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward mused on wastet time,How I had spent my youthfu’ prime,An’ done nae thing,But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme,For fools to sing.Had I to guid advice but harkit,I might, by this hae led a market,Or strutted in a bank an’ clarkitMy cash-account:While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,Is a’ th’ amount.I started, mutt’ring, blockhead! coof!And heav’d on high my waukit loof,To swear by a’ yon starry roof,Or some rash aith,That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proofTill my last breath—When, click! the string the snick did draw:And, jee! the door gaed to the wa’;An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw,Now bleezin’ bright,A tight outlandish hizzie, brawCome full in sight.Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht;The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht;I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dushtIn some wild glen;When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,And stepped ben.Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughsWere twisted, gracefu’, round her brows,I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token;An’ come to stop those reckless vows,Wou’d soon be broken.A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace”Was strongly marked in her face;A wildly-witty, rustic graceShone full upon her:Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space,Beam’d keen with honour.Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen,’Till half a leg was scrimply seen:And such a leg! my bonnie JeanCould only peer it;Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,Nane else came near it.Her mantle large, of greenish hue,My gazing wonder chiefly drew;Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threwA lustre grand;And seem’d to my astonish’d view,A well-known land.Here, rivers in the sea were lost;There, mountains to the skies were tost:Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast,With surging foam;There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast,The lordly dome.Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods;There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods,On to the shore;And many a lesser torrent scuds,With seeming roar.Low, in a sandy valley spread,An ancient borough rear’d her head;Still, as in Scottish story read,She boasts a race,To ev’ry nobler virtue bred,And polish’d grace.By stately tow’r, or palace fair,Or ruins pendent in the air,Bold stems of heroes, here and there,I could discern;Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare,With feature stern.My heart did glowing transport feel,To see a race[20]heroic wheel,And brandish round the deep-dy’d steelIn sturdy blows;While back-recoiling seem’d to reelTheir southron foes.His Country’s Saviour,[21]mark him well!Bold Richardton’s[22]heroic swell;The chief on Sark[23]who glorious fell,In high command;And He whom ruthless fates expelHis native land.

All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward mused on wastet time,How I had spent my youthfu’ prime,An’ done nae thing,But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme,For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,I might, by this hae led a market,Or strutted in a bank an’ clarkitMy cash-account:While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,Is a’ th’ amount.

I started, mutt’ring, blockhead! coof!And heav’d on high my waukit loof,To swear by a’ yon starry roof,Or some rash aith,That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proofTill my last breath—

When, click! the string the snick did draw:And, jee! the door gaed to the wa’;An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw,Now bleezin’ bright,A tight outlandish hizzie, brawCome full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht;The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht;I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dushtIn some wild glen;When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughsWere twisted, gracefu’, round her brows,I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token;An’ come to stop those reckless vows,Wou’d soon be broken.

A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace”Was strongly marked in her face;A wildly-witty, rustic graceShone full upon her:Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space,Beam’d keen with honour.

Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen,’Till half a leg was scrimply seen:And such a leg! my bonnie JeanCould only peer it;Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,My gazing wonder chiefly drew;Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threwA lustre grand;And seem’d to my astonish’d view,A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;There, mountains to the skies were tost:Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast,With surging foam;There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast,The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods;There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods,On to the shore;And many a lesser torrent scuds,With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,An ancient borough rear’d her head;Still, as in Scottish story read,She boasts a race,To ev’ry nobler virtue bred,And polish’d grace.

By stately tow’r, or palace fair,Or ruins pendent in the air,Bold stems of heroes, here and there,I could discern;Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare,With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,To see a race[20]heroic wheel,And brandish round the deep-dy’d steelIn sturdy blows;While back-recoiling seem’d to reelTheir southron foes.

His Country’s Saviour,[21]mark him well!Bold Richardton’s[22]heroic swell;The chief on Sark[23]who glorious fell,In high command;And He whom ruthless fates expelHis native land.

There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade[24]Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,I mark’d a martial race portray’dIn colours strong;Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’dThey strode along.Thro’ many a wild romantic grove,[25]Near many a hermit-fancy’d cove,(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,)In musing mood,An aged judge, I saw him rove,Dispensing good.With deep-struck, reverential awe,[26]The learned sire and son I saw,To Nature’s God and Nature’s law,They gave their lore,This, all its source and end to draw;That, to adore.Brydone’s brave ward[27]I well could spy,Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye;Who call’d on Fame, low standing by,To hand him on,Where many a Patriot-name on highAnd hero shone.

There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade[24]Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,I mark’d a martial race portray’dIn colours strong;Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’dThey strode along.

Thro’ many a wild romantic grove,[25]Near many a hermit-fancy’d cove,(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,)In musing mood,An aged judge, I saw him rove,Dispensing good.

With deep-struck, reverential awe,[26]The learned sire and son I saw,To Nature’s God and Nature’s law,They gave their lore,This, all its source and end to draw;That, to adore.

Brydone’s brave ward[27]I well could spy,Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye;Who call’d on Fame, low standing by,To hand him on,Where many a Patriot-name on highAnd hero shone.

With musing-deep, astonish’d stare,I view’d the heavenly-seeming fair;A whisp’ring throb did witness bearOf kindred sweet,When with an elder sister’s airShe did me greet.“All hail! My own inspired bard!In me thy native Muse regard!Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,Thus poorly low!I come to give thee such rewardAs we bestow.“Know, the great genius of this land,Has many a light aërial band,Who, all beneath his high command,Harmoniously,As arts or arms they understand,Their labours ply.“They Scotia’s race among them share;Some fire the soldier on to dare;Some rouse the patriot up to bareCorruption’s heart.Some teach the bard, a darling care,The tuneful art.“‘Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour;Or ‘mid the venal senate’s roar,They, sightless, stand,To mend the honest patriot-lore,And grace the hand.“And when the bard, or hoary sage,Charm or instruct the future age,They bind the wild, poetic rageIn energy,Or point the inconclusive pageFull on the eye.“Hence Fullarton, the brave and young;Hence Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue;Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sungHis ‘Minstrel’ lays;Or tore, with noble ardour stung,The sceptic’s bays.“To lower orders are assign’dThe humbler ranks of human-kind,The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind,The artisan;All choose, as various they’re inclin’dThe various man.“When yellow waves the heavy grain,The threat’ning storm some, strongly, rein;Some teach to meliorate the plain,With tillage-skill;And some instruct the shepherd-train,Blythe o’er the hill.“Some hint the lover’s harmless wile;Some grace the maiden’s artless smile;Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil,For humble gains,And make his cottage-scenes beguileHis cares and pains.“Some, bounded to a district-space,Explore at large man’s infant race,To mark the embryotic traceOf rustic bard:And careful note each op’ning grace,A guide and guard.“Of these am I—Coila my name;And this district as mine I claim,Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,Held ruling pow’r:I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame,Thy natal hour.“With future hope, I oft would gaze,Fond, on thy little early ways,Thy rudely carroll’d, chiming phrase,In uncouth rhymes,Fir’d at the simple, artless laysOf other times.“I saw thee seek the sounding shore,Delighted with the dashing roar;Or when the north his fleecy storeDrove through the sky,I saw grim Nature’s visage hoarStruck thy young eye.“Or when the deep green-mantled earthWarm cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth,And joy and music pouring forthIn ev’ry grove,I saw thee eye the general mirthWith boundless love.“When ripen’d fields, and azure skies,Called forth the reaper’s rustling noise,I saw thee leave their evening joys,And lonely stalk,To vent thy bosom’s swelling riseIn pensive walk.“When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,Th’ adored NameI taught thee how to pour in song,To soothe thy flame.“I saw thy pulse’s maddening play,Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way,Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray,By passion driven;But yet the light that led astrayWas light from Heaven.“I taught thy manners-painting strains,The loves, the ways of simple swains,Till now, o’er all my wide domainsThy fame extends;And some, the pride of Coila’s plains,Become thy friends.“Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow;Or wake the bosom-melting throe,With Shenstone’s art;Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow,Warm on the heart.“Yet, all beneath the unrivall’d rose,The lowly daisy sweetly blows;Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throwsHis army shade,Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,Adown the glade.“Then never murmur nor repine;Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;And, trust me, not Potosi’s mine,Nor king’s regard,Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,A rustic bard.“To give my counsels all in one,Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;Preserve the dignity of man,With soul erect;And trust, the universal planWill all protect.“And wear thou this,”—she solemn said,And bound the holly round my head:The polish’d leaves and berries redDid rustling play;And like a passing thought, she fledIn light away.

With musing-deep, astonish’d stare,I view’d the heavenly-seeming fair;A whisp’ring throb did witness bearOf kindred sweet,When with an elder sister’s airShe did me greet.

“All hail! My own inspired bard!In me thy native Muse regard!Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,Thus poorly low!I come to give thee such rewardAs we bestow.

“Know, the great genius of this land,Has many a light aërial band,Who, all beneath his high command,Harmoniously,As arts or arms they understand,Their labours ply.

“They Scotia’s race among them share;Some fire the soldier on to dare;Some rouse the patriot up to bareCorruption’s heart.Some teach the bard, a darling care,The tuneful art.

“‘Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour;Or ‘mid the venal senate’s roar,They, sightless, stand,To mend the honest patriot-lore,And grace the hand.

“And when the bard, or hoary sage,Charm or instruct the future age,They bind the wild, poetic rageIn energy,Or point the inconclusive pageFull on the eye.

“Hence Fullarton, the brave and young;Hence Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue;Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sungHis ‘Minstrel’ lays;Or tore, with noble ardour stung,The sceptic’s bays.

“To lower orders are assign’dThe humbler ranks of human-kind,The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind,The artisan;All choose, as various they’re inclin’dThe various man.

“When yellow waves the heavy grain,The threat’ning storm some, strongly, rein;Some teach to meliorate the plain,With tillage-skill;And some instruct the shepherd-train,Blythe o’er the hill.

“Some hint the lover’s harmless wile;Some grace the maiden’s artless smile;Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil,For humble gains,And make his cottage-scenes beguileHis cares and pains.

“Some, bounded to a district-space,Explore at large man’s infant race,To mark the embryotic traceOf rustic bard:And careful note each op’ning grace,A guide and guard.

“Of these am I—Coila my name;And this district as mine I claim,Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,Held ruling pow’r:I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame,Thy natal hour.

“With future hope, I oft would gaze,Fond, on thy little early ways,Thy rudely carroll’d, chiming phrase,In uncouth rhymes,Fir’d at the simple, artless laysOf other times.

“I saw thee seek the sounding shore,Delighted with the dashing roar;Or when the north his fleecy storeDrove through the sky,I saw grim Nature’s visage hoarStruck thy young eye.

“Or when the deep green-mantled earthWarm cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth,And joy and music pouring forthIn ev’ry grove,I saw thee eye the general mirthWith boundless love.

“When ripen’d fields, and azure skies,Called forth the reaper’s rustling noise,I saw thee leave their evening joys,And lonely stalk,To vent thy bosom’s swelling riseIn pensive walk.

“When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,Th’ adored NameI taught thee how to pour in song,To soothe thy flame.

“I saw thy pulse’s maddening play,Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way,Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray,By passion driven;But yet the light that led astrayWas light from Heaven.

“I taught thy manners-painting strains,The loves, the ways of simple swains,Till now, o’er all my wide domainsThy fame extends;And some, the pride of Coila’s plains,Become thy friends.

“Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow;Or wake the bosom-melting throe,With Shenstone’s art;Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow,Warm on the heart.

“Yet, all beneath the unrivall’d rose,The lowly daisy sweetly blows;Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throwsHis army shade,Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,Adown the glade.

“Then never murmur nor repine;Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;And, trust me, not Potosi’s mine,Nor king’s regard,Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,A rustic bard.

“To give my counsels all in one,Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;Preserve the dignity of man,With soul erect;And trust, the universal planWill all protect.

“And wear thou this,”—she solemn said,And bound the holly round my head:The polish’d leaves and berries redDid rustling play;And like a passing thought, she fledIn light away.

FOOTNOTES:[19]Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his “Cath-Loda,” vol. ii. of Macpherson’s translation.[20]The Wallaces.[21]Sir William Wallace.[22]Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.[23]Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.[24]Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown.[25]Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of Session.)[26]Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Steward.[27]Colonel Fullarton.

[19]Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his “Cath-Loda,” vol. ii. of Macpherson’s translation.

[20]The Wallaces.

[21]Sir William Wallace.

[22]Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.

[23]Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.

[24]Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown.

[25]Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of Session.)

[26]Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Steward.

[27]Colonel Fullarton.

“Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,The simple pleasures of the lowly train;To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art.”

Goldsmith.

[This Poem contains a lively and striking picture of some of the superstitious observances of old Scotland: on Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portion of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer’s fireside, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including supernumerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engagements of harvest. “I never can help regarding this,” says James Hogg, “as rather a trivial poem!”]

Upon that night, when fairies lightOn Cassilis Downans[29]dance,Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,On sprightly coursers prance;Or for Colean the rout is ta’en,Beneath the moon’s pale beams;There, up the Cove,[30]to stray an’ roveAmang the rocks an’ streamsTo sport that night.Amang the bonnie winding banksWhere Doon rins, wimplin’, clear,Where Bruce[31]ance rul’d the martial ranks,An’ shook his Carrick spear,Some merry, friendly, countra folks,Together did convene,To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,An’ haud their HalloweenFu’ blythe that night.The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,Mair braw than when they’re fine;Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’;The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer babs,Weel knotted on their garten,Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs,Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’Whiles fast at night.Then, first and foremost, thro’ the kail,Their stocks[32]maun a’ be sought ance;They steek their een, an’ graip an’ wale,For muckle anes an’ straught anes.Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,An’ wander’d through the bow-kail,An’ pou’t, for want o’ better shift,A runt was like a sow-tail,Sae bow’t that night.Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;The vera wee-things, todlin’, rinWi’ stocks out-owre their shouther;An’ gif the custoc’s sweet or sour,Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;Syne coziely, aboon the door,Wi’ cannie care, they’ve placed themTo lie that night.The lasses staw frae mang them a’To pou their stalks o’ corn;[33]But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,Behint the muckle thorn:He grippet Nelly hard an’ fast;Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;But her tap-pickle maist was lost,When kiuttlin’ in the fause-house[34]Wi’ him that night.

Amang the bonnie winding banksWhere Doon rins, wimplin’, clear,Where Bruce[31]ance rul’d the martial ranks,An’ shook his Carrick spear,Some merry, friendly, countra folks,Together did convene,To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,An’ haud their HalloweenFu’ blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,Mair braw than when they’re fine;Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’;The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer babs,Weel knotted on their garten,Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs,Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’Whiles fast at night.

Then, first and foremost, thro’ the kail,Their stocks[32]maun a’ be sought ance;They steek their een, an’ graip an’ wale,For muckle anes an’ straught anes.Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,An’ wander’d through the bow-kail,An’ pou’t, for want o’ better shift,A runt was like a sow-tail,Sae bow’t that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;The vera wee-things, todlin’, rinWi’ stocks out-owre their shouther;An’ gif the custoc’s sweet or sour,Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;Syne coziely, aboon the door,Wi’ cannie care, they’ve placed themTo lie that night.

The lasses staw frae mang them a’To pou their stalks o’ corn;[33]But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,Behint the muckle thorn:He grippet Nelly hard an’ fast;Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;But her tap-pickle maist was lost,When kiuttlin’ in the fause-house[34]Wi’ him that night.

The auld guidwife’s weel hoordet nits[35]Are round an’ round divided;An’ monie lads’ an’ lasses’ fatesAre there that night decided:Some kindle, couthie, side by side,An’ burn thegither trimly;Some start awa’ wi’ saucy pride,And jump out-owre the chimlieFu’ high that night.Jean slips in twa wi’ tentie e’e;Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;But this is Jock, an’ this is me,She says in to hersel’:He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,As they wad never mair part;’Till, fuff! he started up the lum,An’ Jean had e’en a sair heartTo see’t that night.Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;An’ Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt,To be compar’d to Willie;Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling,An’ her ain fit it brunt it;While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing,’Twas just the way he wantedTo be that night.Nell had the fause-house in her min’,She pits hersel an’ Rob in;In loving bleeze they sweetly join,’Till white in ase they’re sobbin’;Nell’s heart, was dancin’ at the view,She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:Rob, stowlins, prie’d her bonie mou’,Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,Unseen that night.But Merran sat behint their backs,Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks,And slips out by hersel’:She through the yard the nearest taks,An’ to the kiln she goes then,An’ darklins graipit for the bauks,And in the blue-clue[36]throws then,Right fear’t that night.An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat,I wat she made nae jaukin’;’Till something held within the pat,Guid L—d! but she was quaukin’!But whether ’twas the Deil himsel’,Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,Or whether it was Andrew Bell,She did na wait on talkin’To spier that night.Wee Jenny to her graunie says,“Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?I’ll eat the apple[37]at the glass,I gat frae uncle Johnnie:”She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,In wrath she was sae vap’rin’,She notic’t na, an aizle bruntHer braw new worset apronOut thro’ that night.“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!I daur you try sic sportin’,As seek the foul Thief onie place,For him to spae your fortune:Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!Great cause ye hae to fear it;For monie a ane has gotten a fright,An’ liv’d an’ died deleeretOn sic a night.“Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,I mind’t as weel’s yestreen,I was a gilpey then, I’m sureI was na past fifteen:The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,An’ stuff was unco green;An’ ay a rantin’ kirn we gat,An’ just on HalloweenIt fell that night.

Jean slips in twa wi’ tentie e’e;Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;But this is Jock, an’ this is me,She says in to hersel’:He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,As they wad never mair part;’Till, fuff! he started up the lum,An’ Jean had e’en a sair heartTo see’t that night.

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;An’ Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt,To be compar’d to Willie;Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling,An’ her ain fit it brunt it;While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing,’Twas just the way he wantedTo be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min’,She pits hersel an’ Rob in;In loving bleeze they sweetly join,’Till white in ase they’re sobbin’;Nell’s heart, was dancin’ at the view,She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:Rob, stowlins, prie’d her bonie mou’,Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs,Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks,And slips out by hersel’:She through the yard the nearest taks,An’ to the kiln she goes then,An’ darklins graipit for the bauks,And in the blue-clue[36]throws then,Right fear’t that night.

An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat,I wat she made nae jaukin’;’Till something held within the pat,Guid L—d! but she was quaukin’!But whether ’twas the Deil himsel’,Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,Or whether it was Andrew Bell,She did na wait on talkin’To spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her graunie says,“Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?I’ll eat the apple[37]at the glass,I gat frae uncle Johnnie:”She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,In wrath she was sae vap’rin’,She notic’t na, an aizle bruntHer braw new worset apronOut thro’ that night.

“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!I daur you try sic sportin’,As seek the foul Thief onie place,For him to spae your fortune:Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!Great cause ye hae to fear it;For monie a ane has gotten a fright,An’ liv’d an’ died deleeretOn sic a night.

“Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,I mind’t as weel’s yestreen,I was a gilpey then, I’m sureI was na past fifteen:The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,An’ stuff was unco green;An’ ay a rantin’ kirn we gat,An’ just on HalloweenIt fell that night.

“Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen,A clever, sturdy fellow:He’s sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,That liv’d in Achmacalla:He gat hemp-seed,[38]I mind it weel,And he made unco light o’t;But monie a day was by himsel’,He was sae sairly frightedThat vera night.”Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck,An’ he swoor by his conscience,That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;For it was a’ but nonsense;The auld guidman raught down the pock,An’ out a’ handfu’ gied him;Syne bad him slip frae ‘mang the folk,Sometime when nae ane see’d him,An’ try’t that night.He marches thro’ amang the stacks,Tho’ he was something sturtin;The graip he for a harrow taks,An’ haurls at his curpin;An’ ev’ry now an’ then he says,“Hemp-seed, I saw thee,An’ her that is to be my lass,Come after me, an’ draw theeAs fast that night.”He whistl’d up Lord Lennox’ march,To keep his courage cheery;Altho’ his hair began to arch,He was sae fley’d an’ eerie;’Till presently he hears a squeak,An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;He by his shouther gae a keek,An’ tumbl’d wi’ a wintleOut-owre that night.He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,In dreadfu’ desperation!An’ young an’ auld cam rinnin’ out,An’ hear the sad narration;He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,Or crouchie Merran Humphie,’Till, stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;An’ wha was it but GrumphieAsteer that night!Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,To win three wechts o’ naething;[39]But for to meet the deil her lane,She pat but little faith in:She gies the herd a pickle nits,An’ twa red cheekit apples,To watch, while for the barn she sets,In hopes to see Tam KipplesThat vera night.She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,An’ owre the threshold ventures;But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,Syne bauldly in she enters:A ratton rattled up the wa’,An’ she cried, L—d preserve her!An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour,Fu’ fast that night.They hoy’t out Will, wi sair advice;They hecht him some fine braw ane;It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice,[40]Was timmer-propt for thrawin’;He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak,For some black, grousome carlin;An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,’Till skin in blypes cam haurlin’Aff’s nieves that night.A wanton widow Leezie was,As canty as a kittlin;But, och! that night, amang the shaws,She got a fearfu’ settlin’!She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin,Whare three lairds’ lands met at a burn,[41]To dip her left sark-sleeve in,Was bent that night.

Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck,An’ he swoor by his conscience,That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;For it was a’ but nonsense;The auld guidman raught down the pock,An’ out a’ handfu’ gied him;Syne bad him slip frae ‘mang the folk,Sometime when nae ane see’d him,An’ try’t that night.

He marches thro’ amang the stacks,Tho’ he was something sturtin;The graip he for a harrow taks,An’ haurls at his curpin;An’ ev’ry now an’ then he says,“Hemp-seed, I saw thee,An’ her that is to be my lass,Come after me, an’ draw theeAs fast that night.”

He whistl’d up Lord Lennox’ march,To keep his courage cheery;Altho’ his hair began to arch,He was sae fley’d an’ eerie;’Till presently he hears a squeak,An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;He by his shouther gae a keek,An’ tumbl’d wi’ a wintleOut-owre that night.

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,In dreadfu’ desperation!An’ young an’ auld cam rinnin’ out,An’ hear the sad narration;He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,Or crouchie Merran Humphie,’Till, stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;An’ wha was it but GrumphieAsteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,To win three wechts o’ naething;[39]But for to meet the deil her lane,She pat but little faith in:She gies the herd a pickle nits,An’ twa red cheekit apples,To watch, while for the barn she sets,In hopes to see Tam KipplesThat vera night.

She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,An’ owre the threshold ventures;But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,Syne bauldly in she enters:A ratton rattled up the wa’,An’ she cried, L—d preserve her!An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour,Fu’ fast that night.

They hoy’t out Will, wi sair advice;They hecht him some fine braw ane;It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice,[40]Was timmer-propt for thrawin’;He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak,For some black, grousome carlin;An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,’Till skin in blypes cam haurlin’Aff’s nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,As canty as a kittlin;But, och! that night, amang the shaws,She got a fearfu’ settlin’!She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin,Whare three lairds’ lands met at a burn,[41]To dip her left sark-sleeve in,Was bent that night.

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