XXVI.

O thou, whom poesy abhors,Whom prose has turned out of doors,Heard’st thou that groan? proceed no further;’Twas laurell’d Martial roaring murther!

[Some social friends, whose good feelings were better than their taste, have ornamented with supplemental iron work the headstone which Burns erected, with this inscription to the memory of his brother bard, Fergusson.]

Here liesRobert Fergusson,Poet.Born, September 5, 1751;Died, Oct. 15, 1774.

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,“No storied urn nor animated bust;”This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s wayTo pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust.

[The Willie Michie of this epigram was, it is said, schoolmaster of the parish of Cleish, in Fifeshire: he met Burns during his first visit to Edinburgh.]

Here lie Willie Michie’s banes;O, Satan! when ye tak’ him,Gi’ him the schoolin’ o’ your weans,For clever de’ils he’ll mak’ them.

[This was an extempore grace, pronounced by the poet at a dinner-table, in Dumfries: he was ever ready to contribute the small change of rhyme, for either the use or amusement of a company.]

O thou, who kindly dost provideFor every creature’s want!We bless thee, God of Nature wide,For all thy goodness lent:And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,May never worse be sent;But, whether granted or denied,Lord bless us with content!Amen.

[Pronounced, tradition says, at the table of Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh-Park.]

O thou in whom we live and move,Who mad’st the sea and shore,Thy goodness constantly we prove,And grateful would adore.And if it please thee, Power above,Still grant us with such store,The friend we trust, the fair we love,And we desire no more.

[The name of the object of this fierce epigram might be found, but in gratifying curiosity, some pain would be inflicted.]

Sic a reptile was Wat,Sic a miscreant slave,That the very worms damn’d himWhen laid in his grave.“In his flesh there’s a famine,”A starv’d reptile cries;“An’ his heart is rank poison,”Another replies.

[This was a festive sally: it is said that Grose, who was very fat, though he joined in the laugh, did not relish it.]

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying,So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;But when he approach’d where poor Francis lay moaning,And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,Astonish’d! confounded! cry’d Satan, “By ——,I’ll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!”

[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to which the poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell had listened, during his visit to the border.]

Fair maid, you need not take the hint,Nor idle texts pursue:—’Twas guilty sinners that he meant,Not angels such as you!

[One rough, cold day, Burns listened to a sermon, so little to his liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydesdale, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.]

As cauld a wind as ever blew,As caulder kirk, and in’t but few;As cauld a minister’s e’er spak,Ye’se a’ be het ere I come back.

[In answer to a gentleman, who called the solemn League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.]

The solemn League and CovenantCost Scotland blood—cost Scotland tears;But it sealed freedom’s sacred cause—If thou’rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Davies so little, and a lady who was with her, so large: before the ladies, who had just passed the window, were out of sight, the following answer was recorded on a pane of glass.]

Ask why God made the gem so small,And why so huge the granite?Because God meant mankind should setThe higher value on it.

[Burns took no pleasure in the name of gauger: the situation was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesitated to say so.]

Searching auld wives’ barrels,Och—hon! the day!That clarty barm should stain my laurels;But—what’ll ye say!These movin’ things ca’d wives and weansWad move the very hearts o’ stanes!

[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel’s box in the Dumfries Theatre, in the winter of 1794: he was much moved by Mrs. Kemble’s noble and pathetic acting.]

Kemble, thou cur’st my unbeliefOf Moses and his rod;At Yarico’s sweet notes of griefThe rock with tears had flow’d.

[John Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and a gentleman of education and intelligence, was, while Burns resided in Dumfries, his chief companion: he was bred to the law.]

No more of your guests, be they titled or not,And cook’ry the first in the nation;Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,Is proof to all other temptation.

[The tavern where these lines were written was kept by a wandering mortal of the name of Smith; who, having visited in some capacity or other the Holy Land, put on his sign, “John Smith, from Jerusalem.” He was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.]

O, had the malt thy strength of mind,Or hops the flavour of thy wit,’Twere drink for first of human kind,A gift that e’en for Syme were fit.

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where to the best cookery was added the richest wine, as well as the rarest wit: Hyslop was a distiller.]

Lord, we thank and thee adore,For temp’ral gifts we little merit;At present we will ask no more,Let William Hyslop give the spirit.

[Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. Syme, exasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, threw the goblet under the grate: it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.]

There’s death in the cup—sae beware!Nay, more—there is danger in touching;But wha can avoid the fell snare?The man and his wine’s sae bewitching!

[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civilities. These lines were written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochrutton, enclosed an invitation to dinner.]

The King’s most humble servant I,Can scarcely spare a minute;But I am yours at dinner-time,Or else the devil’s in it.

[When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that he was to act, and not to think; he took out his pencil and wrote “The Creed of Poverty.”]

In politics if thou would’st mix,And mean thy fortunes be;Bear this in mind—be deaf and blind;Let great folks hear and see.

[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with those who were warring in its cause, these lines, and hundreds more, sufficiently testify.]

Grant me, indulgent Heav’n, that I may liveTo see the miscreants feel the pains they give,Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air,Till slave and despot be but things which were.

[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns’s hearing, that there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside’s looks: the poet mused for a moment, and replied in lines which have less of truth than point.]

That there is falsehood in his looksI must and will deny;They say their master is a knave—And sure they do not lie.

[This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of Dukes with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped.]

What of earls with whom you have supt,And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?Lord! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse,Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.

[I copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friars-Carse Hermitage, on which they had been traced with the diamond of Burns.]

To Riddel, much-lamented man,This ivied cot was dear;Reader, dost value matchless worth?This ivied cot revere.

[Burns being called on for a song, by his brother volunteers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast.]

Instead of a song, boys, I’ll give you a toast—Here’s the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!—That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav’n, that we found;For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.The next in succession, I’ll give you—the King!Whoe’er would betray him, on high may he swing;And here’s the grand fabric, our free Constitution,As built on the base of the great Revolution;And longer with politics not to be cramm’d,Be Anarchy curs’d, and be Tyranny damn’d;And who would to Liberty e’er prove disloyal,May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial.

[In a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence, this person, who kept a respectable public-house in Dumfries, desired Burns, to write his epitaph.]

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm’d;If ever he rise, it will be to be damn’d.

[Burns traced these words with a diamond, on the window of the King’s Arms Tavern, Dumfries, as a reply, or reproof, to one who had been witty on excisemen.]

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering‘Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing;What are you, landlords’ rent-rolls? teasing ledgers:What premiers—what? even monarchs’ mighty gaugers:Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men?What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen?

[The Globe Tavern was Burne’s favourite “Howff,” as he called it. It had other attractions than good liquor; there lived “Anna, with the golden locks.”]

The greybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures,Give me with gay Folly to live;I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,But Folly has raptures to give.

[On a visit to St. Mary’s Isle, Burns was requested by the noble owner to say grace to dinner; he obeyed in these lines, now known in Galloway by the name of “The Selkirk Grace.”]

Some hae meat and canna eat,And some wad eat that want it;But we hae meat and we can eat,And sae the Lord be thanket.

[Maxwell was a skilful physician; and Jessie Staig, the Provost’s oldest daughter, was a young lady of great beauty: she died early.]

Maxwell, if merit here you craveThat merit I deny,You save fair Jessie from the grave—An angel could not die.

[These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a goblet belonging to Gabriel Richardson, brewer, in Dumfries: it is carefully preserved in the family.]

Here brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct,And empty all his barrels:He’s blest—if, as he brew’d, he drink—In upright virtuous morals.

[Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.]

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol’s brain,For few sic feasts ye’ve gotten;And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart,For deil a bit o’t’s rotten.

[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap dog.]

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,Your heavy loss deplore;Now half extinct your powers of song,Sweet Echo is no more.Ye jarring, screeching things around,Scream your discordant joys;Now half your din of tuneless soundWith Echo silent lies.

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,Your heavy loss deplore;Now half extinct your powers of song,Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,Scream your discordant joys;Now half your din of tuneless soundWith Echo silent lies.

[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested the honour of producing the person on whom these lines were written:—coxcombs are the growth of all districts.]

Light lay the earth on Willy’s breast,His chicken-heart so tender;But build a castle on his head,His skull will prop it under.

[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrown amid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble house.]

What dost thou in that mansion fair?—Flit, Galloway, and findSome narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,The picture of thy mind!

No Stewart art thou, Galloway,The Stewarts all were brave;Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,Not one of them a knave.

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,Thro’ many a far-fam’d sire!So ran the far-fam’d Roman way,So ended in a mire.

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway,In quiet let me live:I ask no kindness at thy hand,For thou hast none to give.

[Mr. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, exposed himself to the rhyming wrath of Burns, by his activity in the contested elections of Heron.]

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,With grateful lifted eyes,Who said that not the soul aloneBut body too, must rise:For had he said, “the soul aloneFrom death I will deliver;”Alas! alas! O Cardoness,Then thou hadst slept for ever.

[Burns, in his harshest lampoons, always admitted the talents of Bushby: the peasantry, who hate all clever attorneys, loved to handle his character with unsparing severity.]

Here lies John Bushby, honest man!Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can.

[At a dinner-party, where politics ran high, lines signed by men who called themselves the true loyal natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns: he took a pencil, and at once wrote this reply.]

Ye true “Loyal Natives,” attend to my song,In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;From envy or hatred your corps is exempt,But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hutchinson, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grave of a person who had committed suicide: on the paper these lines were pencilled.]

Earth’d up here lies an imp o’ hell,Planted by Satan’s dibble—Poor silly wretch, he’s damn’d himsel’To save the Lord the trouble.

[“Printed,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “from a copy in Burns’s handwriting,” a slight alteration in the last line is made from an oral version.]

If you rattle along like your mistress’s tongue,Your speed will outrival the dart:But, a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the roadIf your stuff has the rot, like her heart.

[These lines were said to have been written by the poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward them when he died.]

He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead,And a green grassy hillock hides his head;Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

[Written on the blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhibiting in Dumfries. “Now,” said the poet, who was then very ill, “it is fit to be presented to a lady.”]

Talk not to me of savagesFrom Afric’s burning sun,No savage e’er could rend my heartAs, Jessy, thou hast done.But Jessy’s lovely hand in mine,A mutual faith to plight,Not even to view the heavenly choirWould be so blest a sight.

[One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, he observed Jessy Lewars moving about the house with a light step lest she should disturb him. He took a crystal goblet containing wine-and-water for moistening his lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and presented it to her.]

Fill me with the rosy-wine,Call a toast—a toast divine;Give the Poet’s darling flame,Lovely Jessy be the name;Then thou mayest freely boast,Thou hast given a peerless toast.

[The constancy of her attendance on the poet’s sick-bed and anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. “You must not die yet,” said the poet: “give me that goblet, and I shall prepare you for the worst.” He traced these lines with his diamond, and said, “That will be a companion to ‘The Toast.’”]

Say, sages, what’s the charm on earthCan turn Death’s dart aside?It is not purity and worth,Else Jessy had not died.

R. B.

[A little repose brought health to the young lady. “I knew you would not die,” observed the poet, with a smile: “there is a poetic reason for your recovery;” he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.]

But rarely seen since Nature’s birth,The natives of the sky;Yet still one seraph’s left on earth,For Jessy did not die.

R. B.

[Tam, the chapman, is said by the late William Cobbett, who knew him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the west of Scotland. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet in 1834: it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the one was Thomas and the name of the other John.]

As Tam the Chapman on a day,Wi’ Death forgather’d by the way,Weel pleas’d he greets a wight so famous,And Death was nae less pleas’d wi’ Thomas,Wha cheerfully lays down the pack,And there blaws up a hearty crack;His social, friendly, honest heart,Sae tickled Death they could na part:Sac after viewing knives and garters,Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.

[These lines seem to owe their origin to the precept of Mickle.

“The present moment is our ain,The next we never saw.”]

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!What wad you wish for mair, man?Wha kens before his life may end,What his share may be o’ care, man?Then catch the moments as they fly,And use them as ye ought, man?Believe me, happiness is shy,And comes not ay when sought, man.

[The sentiment which these lines express, was one familiar to Burns, in the early, as well as concluding days of his life.]

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,She promis’d fair and perform’d but ill;Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me,Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.—I’ll act with prudence as far’s I’m able,But if success I must never find,Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,She promis’d fair and perform’d but ill;Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me,Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.—

I’ll act with prudence as far’s I’m able,But if success I must never find,Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

[The John Kennedy to whom these verses and the succeeding lines were addressed, lived, in 1796, at Dumfries-house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet, that he submitted his “Cotter’s Saturday Night” and the “Mountain Daisy” to his judgment: he seems to have been of a social disposition.]

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horseE’er bring you in by Mauchline Cross,L—d, man, there’s lasses there wad forceA hermit’s fancy.And down the gate in faith they’re worseAnd mair unchancy.But as I’m sayin’, please step to Dow’s,And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,Till some bit callan bring me newsThat ye are there,And if we dinna hae a bouzeI’se ne’er drink mair.It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow,Then like a swine to puke and wallow,But gie me just a true good fellow,Wi’ right ingine,And spunkie ance to make us mellow,And then we’ll shine.Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk,Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,An’ sklent on poverty their jokeWi’ bitter sneer,Wi’ you nae friendship I will troke,Nor cheap nor dear.But if, as I’m informed weel,Ye hate as ill’s the very deilThe flinty heart that canna feel—Come, Sir, here’s tae you!Hae, there’s my haun, I wiss you weel,And gude be wi’ you.

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horseE’er bring you in by Mauchline Cross,L—d, man, there’s lasses there wad forceA hermit’s fancy.And down the gate in faith they’re worseAnd mair unchancy.

But as I’m sayin’, please step to Dow’s,And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,Till some bit callan bring me newsThat ye are there,And if we dinna hae a bouzeI’se ne’er drink mair.

It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow,Then like a swine to puke and wallow,But gie me just a true good fellow,Wi’ right ingine,And spunkie ance to make us mellow,And then we’ll shine.

Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk,Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,An’ sklent on poverty their jokeWi’ bitter sneer,Wi’ you nae friendship I will troke,Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I’m informed weel,Ye hate as ill’s the very deilThe flinty heart that canna feel—Come, Sir, here’s tae you!Hae, there’s my haun, I wiss you weel,And gude be wi’ you.

Robert Burness.

Mossgiel, 3 March, 1786.

Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you,And ‘mang her favourites admit you!If e’er Detraction shore to smit you,May nane believe him!And ony deil that thinks to get you,Good Lord deceive him!

R. B.

Kilmarnock, August, 1786

[Cromek found these characteristic lines among the poet’s papers.]

There’s naethin like the honest nappy!Whaur’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,Or women, sonsie, saft an’ sappy,’Tween morn an’ mornAs them wha like to taste the drappieIn glass or horn?I’ve seen me daezt upon a time;I scarce could wink or see a styme;Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime,Ought less is little,Then back I rattle on the rhyme,As gleg’s a whittle.

There’s naethin like the honest nappy!Whaur’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,Or women, sonsie, saft an’ sappy,’Tween morn an’ mornAs them wha like to taste the drappieIn glass or horn?

I’ve seen me daezt upon a time;I scarce could wink or see a styme;Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime,Ought less is little,Then back I rattle on the rhyme,As gleg’s a whittle.

Thou flattering work of friendship kind,Still may thy pages call to mindThe dear, the beauteous donor;Though sweetly female every part,Yet such a head, and more the heart,Does both the sexes honour.She showed her taste refined and just,When she selected thee,Yet deviating, own I must,For so approving me!But kind still, I’ll mind stillThe giver in the gift;I’ll bless her, and wiss herA Friend above the Lift.

Mossgiel, April, 1786.

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