Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

by Robert Burns

  From mildews of abortion;

  And low! 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 Burns,

  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 Burnses spring, her fame to sing,

  To endless generations!

  song-Willie Chalmers

  Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked

  me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her,

  but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:-

  Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,

  And eke a braw new brechan,

  My Pegasus I'm got astride,

  And up Parnassus pechin;

  Whiles owre a bush wi' donwward crush,

  The doited beastie stammers;

  Then up he gets, and off he sets,

  For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

  I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name

  May cost a pair o' blushes;

  I am nae stranger to your fame,

  Nor his warm urged wishes.

  Your bonie face sae mild and sweet,

  His honest heart enamours,

  And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

  Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers.

  Auld Truth hersel' might swear yer'e fair,

  And Honour safely back her;

  And Modesty assume your air,

  And ne'er a ane mistak her:

  And sic twa love-inspiring een

  Might fire even holy palmers;

  Nae wonder then they've fatal been

  To honest Willie Chalmers.

  I doubt na fortune may you shore

  Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,

  Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

  And band upon his breastie:

  But oh! what signifies to you

  His lexicons and grammars;

  The feeling heart's the royal blue,

  And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

  Some gapin', glowrin' countra laird

  May warsle for your favour;

  May claw his lug, and straik his beard,

  And hoast up some palaver:

  My bonie maid, before ye wed

  Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

  Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp

  Awa wi' Willie Chalmers.

  Forgive the Bard! my fond regard

  For ane that shares my bosom,

  Inspires my Muse to gie 'm his dues

  For deil a hair I roose him.

  May powers aboon unite you soon,

  And fructify your amours, -

  And every year come in mair dear

  To you and Willie Chalmers.

  Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor

  What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch

  To thresh my back at sic a pitch?

  Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,

  Your bodkin's bauld;

  I didna suffer half sae much

  Frae Daddie Auld.

  What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,

  I gie their wames a random pouse,

  Is that enough for you to souse

  Your servant sae?

  Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,

  An' jag-the-flea!

  King David, o' poetic brief,

  Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief

  As filled his after-life wi' grief,

  An' bluidy rants,

  An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief

  O' lang-syne saunts.

  And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,

  My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,

  I'll gie auld cloven's Clootie's haunts

  An unco slip yet,

  An' snugly sit amang the saunts,

  At Davie's hip yet!

  But, fegs! the session says I maun

  Gae fa' upo' anither plan

  Than garrin lasses coup the cran,

  Clean heels ower body,

  An' sairly thole their mother's ban

  Afore the howdy.

  This leads me on to tell for sport,

  How I did wi' the Session sort;

  Auld Clinkum, at the inner port,

  Cried three times, "Robin!

  Come hither lad, and answer for't,

  Ye're blam'd for jobbin!"

  Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,

  An' snoov'd awa before the Session:

  I made an open, fair confession-

  I scorn't to lee,

  An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,

  Fell foul o' me.

  A fornicator-loun he call'd me,

  An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;

  I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,

  "But, what the matter?

  (Quo' I) I fear unless ye geld me,

  I'll ne'er be better!"

  "Geld you! (quo' he) an' what for no?

  If that your right hand, leg or toe

  Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,

  You should remember

  To cut it aff-an' what for no

  Your dearest member?"

  "Na, na, (quo' I,) I'm no for that,

  Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't;

  I'd rather suffer for my faut

  A hearty flewit,

  As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,

  Tho' I should rue it.

  "Or, gin ye like to end the bother,

  To please us a'-I've just ae ither-

  When next wi' yon lass I forgather,

  Whate'er betide it,

  I'll frankly gie her 't a' thegither,

  An' let her guide it."

  But, sir, this pleas'd them warst of a',

  An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,

  I said "Gude night," an' cam' awa',

  An' left the Session;

  I saw they were resolved a'

  On my oppression.

  The Brigs Of Ayr

  A Poem

  Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.

  The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,

  Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;

  The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,

  Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;

  The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,

  Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;

  Shall he-nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,

  To hardy independence bravely bred,

  By early poverty to hardship steel'd.

  And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field-

  Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,

  The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?

  Or labour hard the panegyric close,

  With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?

  No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,

  And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,

  He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,

  Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.

  Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace,

  Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;

  When Ballantine befriends his humble name,

  And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,

  With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,

  The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

  'Twas when the stacks get on t
heir winter hap,

  And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;

  Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith

  O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;

  The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,

  Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,

  Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,

  Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak,

  The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:

  The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,

  The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;

  The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,

  Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:

  (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,

  And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)

  Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs,

  Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,

  Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,

  Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:

  The hoary morns precede the sunny days,

  Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,

  While thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays.

  'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,

  Unknown and poor-simplicity's reward!-

  Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,

  By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,

  He left his bed, and took his wayward route,

  And down by Simpson's^1 wheel'd the left about:

  (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate,

  To witness what I after shall narrate;

  Or whether, rapt in meditation high,

  He wander'd out, he knew not where or why:)

  The drowsy Dungeon-clock^2 had number'd two,

  and Wallace Tower^2 had sworn the fact was true:

  The tide-swoln firth, with sullen-sounding roar,

  Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore.

  All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e;

  The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree;

  The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,

  Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream-

  When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,

  The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;

  Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air;

  Swift as the gos^3 drives on the wheeling hare;

  Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,

  The other flutters o'er the rising piers:

  Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcried

  The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.

  (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,

  And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;

  Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them,

  And even the very deils they brawly ken them).

  Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,

  The very wrinkles Gothic in his face;

  He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,

  Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.

  [Footnote 1: A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.-R. B.]

  [Footnote 2: The two steeples.-R. B.]

  [Footnote 3: The Gos-hawk, or Falcon.-R. B.]

  New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,

  That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got;

  In 's hand five taper staves as smooth 's a bead,

  Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.

  The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,

  Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch;

  It chanc'd his new-come neibor took his e'e,

  And e'en a vexed and angry heart had he!

  Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,

  He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en:-

  Auld Brig

  "I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheepshank,

  Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank!

  But gin ye be a brig as auld as me-

  Tho' faith, that date, I doubt, ye'll never see-

  There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle,

  Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle."

  New Brig

  "Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense,

  Just much about it wi' your scanty sense:

  Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,

  Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,

  Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime,

  Compare wi' bonie brigs o' modern time?

  There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat stream,^4

  Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,

  E'er they would grate their feelings wi' the view

  O' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you."

  Auld Brig

  "Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!

  This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide;

  And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,

  I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn!

  As yet ye little ken about the matter,

  But twa-three winters will inform ye better.

  When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains,

  [Footnote 4: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.-R. B.]

  Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;

  When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,

  Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil;

  Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course.

  Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source,

  Aroused by blustering winds an' spotting thowes,

  In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;

  While crashing ice, borne on the rolling spate,

  Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;

  And from Glenbuck,^5 down to the Ratton-key,^6

  Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea-

  Then down ye'll hurl, (deil nor ye never rise!)

  And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies!

  A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,

  That Architecture's noble art is lost!"

  New Brig

  "Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't,

  The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!

  Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,

  Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices;

  O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,

  Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves;

  Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest

  With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;

  Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream,

  The craz'd creations of misguided whim;

  Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee,

  And still the second dread command be free;

  Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea!

  Mansions that would disgrace the building taste

  Of any mason reptile, bird or beast:

  Fit only for a doited monkish race,

  Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,

  Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion,

  That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion:

  Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,

  And soon may they expire, unblest wi' resurrection!"

  [Footnote 5: The source of the River Ayr.-R. B.]

  [Footnote 6: A small landing place above the large quay.-R. B.]

  Auld Brig

  "O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,

  Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!

  Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie,

  Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye;

  Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners,

  To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners

  Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town;

 
; ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown,

  Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters;

  And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers;

  A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,

  Were ye but here, what would ye say or do?

  How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,

  To see each melancholy alteration;

  And, agonising, curse the time and place

  When ye begat the base degen'rate race!

  Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory,

  In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story;

  Nae langer thrifty citizens, an' douce,

  Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house;

  But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,

  The herryment and ruin of the country;

  Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers,

  Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new brigs and harbours!"

  New Brig

  "Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough,

  And muckle mair than ye can mak to through.

  As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,

  Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:

  But, under favour o' your langer beard,

  Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd;

  To liken them to your auld-warld squad,

  I must needs say, comparisons are odd.

  In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle

  To mouth 'a Citizen,' a term o' scandal;

  Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,

  In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;

  Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins,

  Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins:

  If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,

  Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp,

  And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them,

  Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them."

  What farther clish-ma-claver aight been said,

  What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,

  No man can tell; but, all before their sight,

  A fairy train appear'd in order bright;

  Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd;

  Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: