My memory’s no worth a preen:I had amaist forgotten clean,Ye bade me write you what they mean,By this New Light,‘Bout which our herds sae aft hae been,Maist like to fight.In days when mankind were but callans,At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents,They took nae pains their speech to balance,Or rules to gie,But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,Like you or me.In thae auld times, they thought the moon,Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,Wore by degrees, ’till her last roon,Gaed past their viewing,An’ shortly after she was done,They gat a new one.This past for certain—undisputed;It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,’Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it,An’ ca’d it wrang;An’ muckle din there was about it,Baith loud an’ lang.Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk,Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;For ’twas the auld moon turned a neuk,An’ out o’ sight,An’ backlins-comin’, to the leuk,She grew mair bright.This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;The herds an’ hissels were alarm’d:The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d and storm’dThat beardless laddiesShould think they better were inform’dThan their auld daddies.Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks,An’ monie a fallow gat his licks,Wi’ hearty crunt;An’ some, to learn them for their tricks,Were hang’d an’ brunt.This game was play’d in monie lands,An’ Auld Light caddies bure sic hands,That, faith, the youngsters took the sandsWi’ nimble shanks,’Till lairds forbade, by strict commands,Sic bluidy pranks.But New Light herds gat sic a cowe,Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an’-stowe,Till now amaist on every knowe,Ye’ll find ane plac’d;An’ some their New Light fair avow,Just quite barefac’d.Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin’;Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin’:Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin’Wi’ girnin’ spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lie’d onBy word an’ write.But shortly they will cowe the loons;Some Auld Light herds in neibor townsAre mind’t in things they ca’ balloons,To tak a flight,An’ stay ae month amang the moonsAnd see them right.Guid observation they will gie them:An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,The hindmost shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them,Just i’ their pouch,An’ when the New Light billies see them,I think they’ll crouch!Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatterIs naething but a “moonshine matter;”But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatterIn logic tulzie,I hope we bardies ken some betterThan mind sic brulzie.
My memory’s no worth a preen:I had amaist forgotten clean,Ye bade me write you what they mean,By this New Light,‘Bout which our herds sae aft hae been,Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind were but callans,At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents,They took nae pains their speech to balance,Or rules to gie,But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,Like you or me.
In thae auld times, they thought the moon,Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,Wore by degrees, ’till her last roon,Gaed past their viewing,An’ shortly after she was done,They gat a new one.
This past for certain—undisputed;It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,’Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it,An’ ca’d it wrang;An’ muckle din there was about it,Baith loud an’ lang.
Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk,Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;For ’twas the auld moon turned a neuk,An’ out o’ sight,An’ backlins-comin’, to the leuk,She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;The herds an’ hissels were alarm’d:The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d and storm’dThat beardless laddiesShould think they better were inform’dThan their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks,An’ monie a fallow gat his licks,Wi’ hearty crunt;An’ some, to learn them for their tricks,Were hang’d an’ brunt.
This game was play’d in monie lands,An’ Auld Light caddies bure sic hands,That, faith, the youngsters took the sandsWi’ nimble shanks,’Till lairds forbade, by strict commands,Sic bluidy pranks.
But New Light herds gat sic a cowe,Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an’-stowe,Till now amaist on every knowe,Ye’ll find ane plac’d;An’ some their New Light fair avow,Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin’;Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin’:Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin’Wi’ girnin’ spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lie’d onBy word an’ write.
But shortly they will cowe the loons;Some Auld Light herds in neibor townsAre mind’t in things they ca’ balloons,To tak a flight,An’ stay ae month amang the moonsAnd see them right.
Guid observation they will gie them:An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,The hindmost shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them,Just i’ their pouch,An’ when the New Light billies see them,I think they’ll crouch!
Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatterIs naething but a “moonshine matter;”But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatterIn logic tulzie,I hope we bardies ken some betterThan mind sic brulzie.
[This hasty and not very decorous effusion, was originally entitled “The Poet’s Welcome; or, Rab the Rhymer’s Address to his Bastard Child.” A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by Burns himself, in his biographical letter to Moore. “Bonnie Betty,” the mother of the “sonsie-smirking, dear-bought Bess,” of the Inventory, lived in Largieside: to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. She lived to be a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, where she died in 1817. It is said she resembled Burns quite as much as any of the rest of his children.]
Thou’s welcome, wean, mischanter fa’ me,If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,My sweet wee lady,Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ meTit-ta or daddy.Wee image of my bonny Betty,I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee,As dear and near my heart I set theeWi’ as gude willAs a’ the priests had seen me get theeThat’s out o’ hell.What tho’ they ca’ me fornicator,An’ tease my name in kintry clatter:The mair they talk I’m kent the better,E’en let them clash;An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matterTo gie ane fash.Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint,My funny toil is now a’ tint,Sin’ thou came to the warl asklent,Which fools may scoff at;In my last plack thy part’s be in’tThe better ha’f o’t.An’ if thou be what I wad hae thee,An’ tak the counsel I sall gie thee,A lovin’ father I’ll be to thee,If thou be spar’d;Thro’ a’ thy childish years I’ll e’e thee,An’ think’t weel war’d.Gude grant that thou may ay inheritThy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,An’ thy poor worthless daddy’s spirit,Without his failins;’Twill please me mair to hear an’ see itThan stocket mailens.
Thou’s welcome, wean, mischanter fa’ me,If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,My sweet wee lady,Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ meTit-ta or daddy.
Wee image of my bonny Betty,I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee,As dear and near my heart I set theeWi’ as gude willAs a’ the priests had seen me get theeThat’s out o’ hell.
What tho’ they ca’ me fornicator,An’ tease my name in kintry clatter:The mair they talk I’m kent the better,E’en let them clash;An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matterTo gie ane fash.
Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint,My funny toil is now a’ tint,Sin’ thou came to the warl asklent,Which fools may scoff at;In my last plack thy part’s be in’tThe better ha’f o’t.
An’ if thou be what I wad hae thee,An’ tak the counsel I sall gie thee,A lovin’ father I’ll be to thee,If thou be spar’d;Thro’ a’ thy childish years I’ll e’e thee,An’ think’t weel war’d.
Gude grant that thou may ay inheritThy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,An’ thy poor worthless daddy’s spirit,Without his failins;’Twill please me mair to hear an’ see itThan stocket mailens.
“Great nature spoke, observant man obey’d.”
“Great nature spoke, observant man obey’d.”
Pope.
[This Poem was written by Burns at Mossgiel, and “humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.” It is supposed to allude to his intercourse with Jean Armour, with the circumstances of which he seems to have made many of his comrades acquainted. These verses were well known to many of the admirers of the poet, but they remained in manuscript till given to the world by Sir Harris Nicolas, in Pickering’s Aldine Edition of the British Poets.]
Let other heroes boast their scars,The marks of sturt and strife;And other poets sing of wars,The plagues of human life;Shame fa’ the fun; wi’ sword and gunTo slap mankind like lumber!I sing his name, and nobler fame,Wha multiplies our number.Great Nature spoke with air benign,“Go on, ye human race!This lower world I you resign;Be fruitful and increase.The liquid fire of strong desireI’ve pour’d it in each bosom;Here, in this hand, does mankind stand,And there, is beauty’s blossom.”The hero of these artless strains,A lowly bard was he,Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plainsWith meikle mirth an’ glee;Kind Nature’s care had given his share,Large, of the flaming current;And all devout, he never soughtTo stem the sacred torrent.He felt the powerful, high behest,Thrill vital through and through;And sought a correspondent breast,To give obedience due:Propitious Powers screen’d the young flowers,From mildews of abortion;And lo! the bard, a great reward,Has got a double portion!Auld cantie Coil may count the day,As annual it returns,The third of Libra’s equal sway,That gave another B[urns],With future rhymes, an’ other times,To emulate his sire;To sing auld Coil in nobler style,With more poetic fire.Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,Look down with gracious eyes;And bless auld Coila, large and long,With multiplying joys:Lang may she stand to prop the land,The flow’r of ancient nations;And B[urns’s] spring, her fame to sing,Thro’ endless generations!
Let other heroes boast their scars,The marks of sturt and strife;And other poets sing of wars,The plagues of human life;Shame fa’ the fun; wi’ sword and gunTo slap mankind like lumber!I sing his name, and nobler fame,Wha multiplies our number.
Great Nature spoke with air benign,“Go on, ye human race!This lower world I you resign;Be fruitful and increase.The liquid fire of strong desireI’ve pour’d it in each bosom;Here, in this hand, does mankind stand,And there, is beauty’s blossom.”
The hero of these artless strains,A lowly bard was he,Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plainsWith meikle mirth an’ glee;Kind Nature’s care had given his share,Large, of the flaming current;And all devout, he never soughtTo stem the sacred torrent.
He felt the powerful, high behest,Thrill vital through and through;And sought a correspondent breast,To give obedience due:Propitious Powers screen’d the young flowers,From mildews of abortion;And lo! the bard, a great reward,Has got a double portion!
Auld cantie Coil may count the day,As annual it returns,The third of Libra’s equal sway,That gave another B[urns],With future rhymes, an’ other times,To emulate his sire;To sing auld Coil in nobler style,With more poetic fire.
Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,Look down with gracious eyes;And bless auld Coila, large and long,With multiplying joys:Lang may she stand to prop the land,The flow’r of ancient nations;And B[urns’s] spring, her fame to sing,Thro’ endless generations!
[Poor M’Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton: he was a good preacher, a moderate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys. His dependent condition depressed his spirits: he grew dissipated; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, and died in a foreign land.]
Sept. 17th, 1785.
While at the stook the shearers cow’rTo shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,Or in gulravage rinnin’ scow’rTo pass the time,To you I dedicate the hourIn idle rhyme.My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnetOn gown, an’ ban’, and douse black bonnet,Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,Lest they should blame her,An’ rouse their holy thunder on itAnd anathem her.I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,That I, a simple countra bardie,Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,Wha, if they ken me,Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,Lowse hell upon me.But I gae mad at their grimaces,Their sighin’ cantin’ grace-proud faces,Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,Their raxin’ conscience,Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces,Waur nor their nonsense.There’s Gaun,[45]miska’t waur than a beast,Wha has mair honour in his breastThan mony scores as guid’s the priestWha sae abus’t him.An’ may a bard no crack his jestWhat way they’ve use’t him.See him, the poor man’s friend in need,The gentleman in word an’ deed,An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleedBy worthless skellums,An’ not a muse erect her headTo cowe the blellums?
While at the stook the shearers cow’rTo shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,Or in gulravage rinnin’ scow’rTo pass the time,To you I dedicate the hourIn idle rhyme.
My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnetOn gown, an’ ban’, and douse black bonnet,Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,Lest they should blame her,An’ rouse their holy thunder on itAnd anathem her.
I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,That I, a simple countra bardie,Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,Wha, if they ken me,Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,Lowse hell upon me.
But I gae mad at their grimaces,Their sighin’ cantin’ grace-proud faces,Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,Their raxin’ conscience,Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces,Waur nor their nonsense.
There’s Gaun,[45]miska’t waur than a beast,Wha has mair honour in his breastThan mony scores as guid’s the priestWha sae abus’t him.An’ may a bard no crack his jestWhat way they’ve use’t him.
See him, the poor man’s friend in need,The gentleman in word an’ deed,An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleedBy worthless skellums,An’ not a muse erect her headTo cowe the blellums?
O Pope, had I thy satire’s dartsTo gie the rascals their deserts,I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,An’ tell aloudTheir jugglin’ hocus-pocus artsTo cheat the crowd.God knows, I’m no the thing I shou’d be,Nor am I even the thing I cou’d be,But twenty times, I rather wou’d beAn atheist clean,Than under gospel colours hid beJust for a screen.An honest man may like a glass,An honest man may like a lass,But mean revenge, an’ malice fauseHe’ll still disdain,An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,Like some we ken.They take religion in their mouth;They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,For what?—to gie their malice skouthOn some puir wight,An’ hunt him down, o’er right, an’ ruth,To ruin straight.All hail, Religion! maid divine!Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,Who in her rough imperfect line,Thus daurs to name thee;To stigmatize false friends of thineCan ne’er defame thee.Tho’ blotch’d an’ foul wi’ mony a stain,An’ far unworthy of thy train,With trembling voice I tune my strainTo join with those,Who boldly daur thy cause maintainIn spite o’ foes:In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,In spite of undermining jobs,In spite o’ dark banditti stabsAt worth an’ merit,By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,But hellish spirit.O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,Within thy presbyterial boundA candid lib’ral band is foundOf public teachers,As men, as Christians too, renown’d,An’ manly preachers.Sir, in that circle you are nam’d;Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d,(Which gies you honour,)Even Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,An’ winning manner.Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,An’ if impertinent I’ve been,Impute it not, good Sir, in aneWhase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,But to his utmost would befriendOught that belang’d ye.
O Pope, had I thy satire’s dartsTo gie the rascals their deserts,I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,An’ tell aloudTheir jugglin’ hocus-pocus artsTo cheat the crowd.
God knows, I’m no the thing I shou’d be,Nor am I even the thing I cou’d be,But twenty times, I rather wou’d beAn atheist clean,Than under gospel colours hid beJust for a screen.
An honest man may like a glass,An honest man may like a lass,But mean revenge, an’ malice fauseHe’ll still disdain,An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,Like some we ken.
They take religion in their mouth;They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,For what?—to gie their malice skouthOn some puir wight,An’ hunt him down, o’er right, an’ ruth,To ruin straight.
All hail, Religion! maid divine!Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,Who in her rough imperfect line,Thus daurs to name thee;To stigmatize false friends of thineCan ne’er defame thee.
Tho’ blotch’d an’ foul wi’ mony a stain,An’ far unworthy of thy train,With trembling voice I tune my strainTo join with those,Who boldly daur thy cause maintainIn spite o’ foes:
In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,In spite of undermining jobs,In spite o’ dark banditti stabsAt worth an’ merit,By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,But hellish spirit.
O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,Within thy presbyterial boundA candid lib’ral band is foundOf public teachers,As men, as Christians too, renown’d,An’ manly preachers.
Sir, in that circle you are nam’d;Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d,(Which gies you honour,)Even Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,An’ winning manner.
Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,An’ if impertinent I’ve been,Impute it not, good Sir, in aneWhase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,But to his utmost would befriendOught that belang’d ye.
FOOTNOTES:[45]Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
[45]Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
[45]Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out: and a man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, “What think you of our mouse now?”]
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi’ bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,Wi’ murd’ring pattle!I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinion,Which makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earth-born companion,An’ fellow-mortal!I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!A daimen icker in a thrave‘S a sma’ request:I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,And never miss’t!Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin;Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’!An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,O’ foggage green!An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’,Baith snell and keen!Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,An’ weary winter comin’ fast,An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,’Till, crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro’ thy cell.That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,But house or hald,To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,An’ cranreuch cauld!But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,In proving foresight may be vain:The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,Gang aft a-gley,An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain,For promis’d joy.Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!The present only toucheth thee:But, Och! I backward cast my e’e,On prospects drear!An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,I guess an’ fear.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi’ bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinion,Which makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earth-born companion,An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!A daimen icker in a thrave‘S a sma’ request:I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,And never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin;Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’!An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,O’ foggage green!An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’,Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,An’ weary winter comin’ fast,An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,’Till, crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,But house or hald,To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,An’ cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,In proving foresight may be vain:The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,Gang aft a-gley,An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain,For promis’d joy.
Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!The present only toucheth thee:But, Och! I backward cast my e’e,On prospects drear!An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,I guess an’ fear.
“Gie him strong drink, until he wink,That’s sinking in despair;An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,Till he forgets his loves or debts,An’ minds his griefs no more.”
“Gie him strong drink, until he wink,That’s sinking in despair;An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,Till he forgets his loves or debts,An’ minds his griefs no more.”
Solomon’s Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.
[“I here enclose you,” said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to his friend Kennedy, “my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock: when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup.”]
Let other poets raise a fracas‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ dru’ken Bacchus,An’ crabbit names and stories wrack us,An’ grate our lug,I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,In glass or jug.O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;Whether thro’ wimplin’ worms thou jink,Or, richly brown, ream o’er the brink,In glorious faem,Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,To sing thy name!Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,An’ aits set up their awnie horn,An’ pease an’ beans, at e’en or morn,Perfume the plain,Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,Thou king o’ grain!On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,In souple scones, the wale o’ food!Or tumblin’ in the boilin’ floodWi’ kail an’ beef;But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,There thou shines chief.Food fills the wame an’ keeps us livin’;Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’When heavy dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’;But, oil’d by thee,The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin,’Wi’ rattlin’ glee.Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear;Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair,At’s weary toil;Thou even brightens dark DespairWi’ gloomy smile.Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head;Yet humbly kind in time o’ need,The poor man’s wine,His wee drap parritch, or his bread,Thou kitchens fine.Thou art the life o’ public haunts;But thee, what were our fairs an’ rants?Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,By thee inspir’d,When gaping they besiege the tents,Are doubly fir’d.That merry night we get the corn in,O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!Or reekin’ on a new-year morningIn cog or dicker,An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,An’ gusty sucker!When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,O rare! to see thee fizz an’ freathI’ th’ lugget caup!Then Burnewin comes on like DeathAt ev’ry chap.Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,The strong forehammer,Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reelWi’ dinsome clamour.When skirlin’ weanies see the light,Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight;Wae worth the name!Nae howdie gets a social night,Or plack frae them.When neibors anger at a plea,An’ just as wud as wud can be,How easy can the barley-breeCement the quarrel!It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee,To taste the barrel.Alake! that e’er my muse has reasonTo wyte her countrymen wi’ treason!But monie daily weet their weasonWi’ liquors nice,An’ hardly, in a winter’s season,E’er spier her price.Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!Fell source o’ monie a pain an’ brash!Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,O’ half his days;An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cashTo her warst faes.Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,Poor plackless devils like mysel’,It sets you ill,Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,Or foreign gill.May gravels round his blather wrench,An’ gouts torment him inch by inch,Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunchO’ sour disdain,Out owre a glass o’ whiskey punchWi’ honest men;O whiskey! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!When wanting thee, what tuneless cranksAre my poor verses!Thou comes—they rattle i’ their ranksAt ither’s a——s!Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!Scotland lament frae coast to coast!Now colic grips, an’ barkin’ hoast,May kill us a’;For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast,Is ta’en awa.Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize!Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice!There, seize the blinkers!An’ bake them up in brunstane piesFor poor d—n’d drinkers.Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me stillHale breeks, a scone, an’ whiskey gill,An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,Tak’ a’ the rest,An’ deal’t about as thy blind skillDirects thee best.
Let other poets raise a fracas‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ dru’ken Bacchus,An’ crabbit names and stories wrack us,An’ grate our lug,I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,In glass or jug.
O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;Whether thro’ wimplin’ worms thou jink,Or, richly brown, ream o’er the brink,In glorious faem,Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,An’ aits set up their awnie horn,An’ pease an’ beans, at e’en or morn,Perfume the plain,Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,Thou king o’ grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,In souple scones, the wale o’ food!Or tumblin’ in the boilin’ floodWi’ kail an’ beef;But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame an’ keeps us livin’;Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’When heavy dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’;But, oil’d by thee,The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin,’Wi’ rattlin’ glee.
Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear;Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair,At’s weary toil;Thou even brightens dark DespairWi’ gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head;Yet humbly kind in time o’ need,The poor man’s wine,His wee drap parritch, or his bread,Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o’ public haunts;But thee, what were our fairs an’ rants?Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,By thee inspir’d,When gaping they besiege the tents,Are doubly fir’d.
That merry night we get the corn in,O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!Or reekin’ on a new-year morningIn cog or dicker,An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,An’ gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,O rare! to see thee fizz an’ freathI’ th’ lugget caup!Then Burnewin comes on like DeathAt ev’ry chap.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,The strong forehammer,Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reelWi’ dinsome clamour.
When skirlin’ weanies see the light,Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight;Wae worth the name!Nae howdie gets a social night,Or plack frae them.
When neibors anger at a plea,An’ just as wud as wud can be,How easy can the barley-breeCement the quarrel!It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee,To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e’er my muse has reasonTo wyte her countrymen wi’ treason!But monie daily weet their weasonWi’ liquors nice,An’ hardly, in a winter’s season,E’er spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!Fell source o’ monie a pain an’ brash!Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,O’ half his days;An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cashTo her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,Poor plackless devils like mysel’,It sets you ill,Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,An’ gouts torment him inch by inch,Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunchO’ sour disdain,Out owre a glass o’ whiskey punchWi’ honest men;
O whiskey! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!When wanting thee, what tuneless cranksAre my poor verses!Thou comes—they rattle i’ their ranksAt ither’s a——s!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!Scotland lament frae coast to coast!Now colic grips, an’ barkin’ hoast,May kill us a’;For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast,Is ta’en awa.
Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize!Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice!There, seize the blinkers!An’ bake them up in brunstane piesFor poor d—n’d drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me stillHale breeks, a scone, an’ whiskey gill,An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,Tak’ a’ the rest,An’ deal’t about as thy blind skillDirects thee best.
‘Dearest of distillation! last and best!—————How art thou lost!————’
‘Dearest of distillation! last and best!—————How art thou lost!————’
Parody on Milton
[“This Poem was written,” says Burns, “before the act anent the Scottish distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.” Before the passing of this lenient act, so sharp was the law in the North, that some distillersrelinquished their trade; the price of barley was affected, and Scotland, already exasperated at the refusal of a militia, for which she was a petitioner, began to handle her claymore, and was perhaps only hindered from drawing it by the act mentioned by the poet. In an early copy of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh Montgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton:—
“Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,If bardies e’er are represented,I ken if that yere sword were wantedYe’d lend yere hand;But when there’s aught to say anent itYere at a stand.”
“Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,If bardies e’er are represented,I ken if that yere sword were wantedYe’d lend yere hand;But when there’s aught to say anent itYere at a stand.”
The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think the compliment to his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the stanza.]
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,An’ doucely manage our affairsIn Parliament,To you a simple Bardie’s prayersAre humbly sent.Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!Your honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,To see her sittin’ on her a—eLow i’ the dust,An’ scriechin’ out prosaic verse,An’ like to brust!Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,E’er sin’ they laid that curst restrictionOn aqua-vitæ;An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,An’ move their pity.Stand forth, an’ tell yon Premier youth,The honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,His servants humble:The muckie devil blaw ye south,If ye dissemble!Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!Let posts an’ pensions sink or soomWi’ them wha grant ‘em:If honestly they canna come,Far better want ‘em.In gath’rin votes you were na slack;Now stand as tightly by your tack;Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back,An’ hum an’ haw;But raise your arm, an’ tell your crackBefore them a’.Paint Scotland greetin’ owre her thrizzle,Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle:An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle,Seizin’ a stell,Triumphant crushin’t like a musselOr lampit shell.Then on the tither hand present her,A blackguard smuggler, right behint her,An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner,Colleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf a’ kind coin.Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,To see his poor auld mither’s potThus dung in staves,An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight!But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell,There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An’ tie some hose well.God bless your honours, can ye see’t,The kind, auld, canty carlin greet,An’ no get warmly on your feet,An’ gar them hear it!An’ tell them with a patriot heat,Ye winna bear it?Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an’ pause,An’ wi’ rhetorie clause on clauseTo mak harangues:Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’sAuld Scotland’s wrangs.Dempster, a true blue Scot I’se warran’;Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;[46]An’ that glib-gabbet Highland baron,The Laird o’ Graham;[47]An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarren,Dundas his name.
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,An’ doucely manage our affairsIn Parliament,To you a simple Bardie’s prayersAre humbly sent.
Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!Your honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,To see her sittin’ on her a—eLow i’ the dust,An’ scriechin’ out prosaic verse,An’ like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,E’er sin’ they laid that curst restrictionOn aqua-vitæ;An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,An’ move their pity.
Stand forth, an’ tell yon Premier youth,The honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,His servants humble:The muckie devil blaw ye south,If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!Let posts an’ pensions sink or soomWi’ them wha grant ‘em:If honestly they canna come,Far better want ‘em.
In gath’rin votes you were na slack;Now stand as tightly by your tack;Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back,An’ hum an’ haw;But raise your arm, an’ tell your crackBefore them a’.
Paint Scotland greetin’ owre her thrizzle,Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle:An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle,Seizin’ a stell,Triumphant crushin’t like a musselOr lampit shell.
Then on the tither hand present her,A blackguard smuggler, right behint her,An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner,Colleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf a’ kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,To see his poor auld mither’s potThus dung in staves,An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?
Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight!But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell,There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An’ tie some hose well.
God bless your honours, can ye see’t,The kind, auld, canty carlin greet,An’ no get warmly on your feet,An’ gar them hear it!An’ tell them with a patriot heat,Ye winna bear it?
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an’ pause,An’ wi’ rhetorie clause on clauseTo mak harangues:Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’sAuld Scotland’s wrangs.
Dempster, a true blue Scot I’se warran’;Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;[46]An’ that glib-gabbet Highland baron,The Laird o’ Graham;[47]An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarren,Dundas his name.
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;True Campbells, Frederick an’ Hay;An’ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie:An’ monie ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle:Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle,Ye’ll see’t or lang,She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin’ whittle,Anither sang.This while she’s been in crankous mood,Her lost militia fir’d her bluid;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play’d her that pliskie!)An’ now she’s like to rin red-wudAbout her whiskey.An’ L—d, if once they pit her till’t,Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt,She’ll tak the streets,An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,I’ th’ first she meets!For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair,An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,An’ to the muckle house repair,Wi’ instant speed,An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit and lear,To get remead.Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks;But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!E’en cowe the cadie!An’ send him to his dicing box,An’ sportin’ lady.Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’sI’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s[48]Nine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,Wad kindly seek.Could he some commutation broach,I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He need na fear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;An’ if she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,She’ll no desert.An’ now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still your mither’s heart support ye,Then, though a minister grow dorty,An’ kick your place,Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,Before his face.God bless your honours a’ your days,Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,That haunt St. Jamie’s:Your humble Poet signs an’ praysWhile Rab his name is.
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;True Campbells, Frederick an’ Hay;An’ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie:An’ monie ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle:Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle,Ye’ll see’t or lang,She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin’ whittle,Anither sang.
This while she’s been in crankous mood,Her lost militia fir’d her bluid;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play’d her that pliskie!)An’ now she’s like to rin red-wudAbout her whiskey.
An’ L—d, if once they pit her till’t,Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt,She’ll tak the streets,An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,I’ th’ first she meets!
For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair,An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,An’ to the muckle house repair,Wi’ instant speed,An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit and lear,To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks;But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!E’en cowe the cadie!An’ send him to his dicing box,An’ sportin’ lady.
Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’sI’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s[48]Nine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,Wad kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He need na fear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;An’ if she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,She’ll no desert.
An’ now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still your mither’s heart support ye,Then, though a minister grow dorty,An’ kick your place,Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,Before his face.
God bless your honours a’ your days,Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,That haunt St. Jamie’s:Your humble Poet signs an’ praysWhile Rab his name is.
POSTSCRIPT.
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich clust’ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,But blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,Tak aff their whiskey.What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,The scented groves,Or hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves.Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o’ powther;Their bauldest thought’s a’ hank’ring switherTo stan’ or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throtherTo save their skin.But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,Clap in his check a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George’s will,An’ there’s the foe,He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.Nae could faint-hearted doubtings tease him;Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him;An’ when he fa’s,His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es himIn faint huzzas!Sages their solemn een may steek,An’ raise a philosophic reek,An’ physically causes seek,In clime an’ season;But tell me whiskey’s name in Greek,I’ll tell the reason.Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heatherYe tine your dam;Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!—Tak aff your dram!
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich clust’ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,But blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,Tak aff their whiskey.
What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,The scented groves,Or hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves.
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o’ powther;Their bauldest thought’s a’ hank’ring switherTo stan’ or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throtherTo save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,Clap in his check a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George’s will,An’ there’s the foe,He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.
Nae could faint-hearted doubtings tease him;Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him;An’ when he fa’s,His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es himIn faint huzzas!
Sages their solemn een may steek,An’ raise a philosophic reek,An’ physically causes seek,In clime an’ season;But tell me whiskey’s name in Greek,I’ll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heatherYe tine your dam;Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!—Tak aff your dram!