Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

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Poems and Songs of Robert Burns Page 23

by Robert Burns


  They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,

  The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:

  While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,

  And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.

  O had M'Lauchlan,^7 thairm-inspiring sage,

  Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,

  When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage;

  Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,

  The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares;

  How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd,

  And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd!

  No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,

  But all the soul of Music's self was heard;

  Harmonious concert rung in every part,

  While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.

  The Genius of the Stream in front appears,

  A venerable Chief advanc'd in years;

  His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,

  His manly leg with garter-tangle bound.

  Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,

  Sweet female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;

  Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy,

  And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye;

  [Footnote 7: A well-known performer of Scottish music on the violin.-R. B.]

  All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,

  Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn;

  Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,

  By Hospitality with cloudless brow:

  Next followed Courage with his martial stride,

  From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide;^8

  Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,

  A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair;^9

  Learning and Worth in equal measures trode,

  From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode:^10

  Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath,

  To rustic Agriculture did bequeath

  The broken, iron instruments of death:

  At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

  Fragment Of Song

  The night was still, and o'er the hill

  The moon shone on the castle wa';

  The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang

  Around her on the castle wa';

  Sae merrily they danced the ring

  Frae eenin' till the cock did craw;

  And aye the o'erword o' the spring

  Was "Irvine's bairns are bonie a'."

  Epigram On Rough Roads

  I'm now arrived-thanks to the gods!-

  Thro' pathways rough and muddy,

  A certain sign that makin roads

  Is no this people's study:

  Altho' Im not wi' Scripture cram'd,

  I'm sure the Bible says

  That heedless sinners shall be damn'd,

  Unless they mend their ways.

  [Footnote 8: A compliment to the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, on the Feal or

  Faile, a tributary of the Ayr.]

  [Footnote 9: Mrs. Stewart of Stair, an early patroness of the poet.]

  [Footnote 10: The house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

  Prayer-O Thou Dread Power

  Lying at a reverend friend's house one night, the author left the

  following verses in the room where he slept:-

  O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above,

  I know thou wilt me hear,

  When for this scene of peace and love,

  I make this prayer sincere.

  The hoary Sire-the mortal stroke,

  Long, long be pleas'd to spare;

  To bless this little filial flock,

  And show what good men are.

  She, who her lovely offspring eyes

  With tender hopes and fears,

  O bless her with a mother's joys,

  But spare a mother's tears!

  Their hope, their stay, their darling youth.

  In manhood's dawning blush,

  Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,

  Up to a parent's wish.

  The beauteous, seraph sister-band-

  With earnest tears I pray-

  Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,

  Guide Thou their steps alway.

  When, soon or late, they reach that coast,

  O'er Life's rough ocean driven,

  May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,

  A family in Heaven!

  Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr

  tune-"Roslin Castle."

  "I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to

  Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my

  farewell dirge to my native land."-R. B.

  The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,

  Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,

  Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,

  I see it driving o'er the plain;

  The hunter now has left the moor.

  The scatt'red coveys meet secure;

  While here I wander, prest with care,

  Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

  The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn

  By early Winter's ravage torn;

  Across her placid, azure sky,

  She sees the scowling tempest fly:

  Chill runs my blood to hear it rave;

  I think upon the stormy wave,

  Where many a danger I must dare,

  Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

  'Tis not the surging billow's roar,

  'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;

  Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear,

  The wretched have no more to fear:

  But round my heart the ties are bound,

  That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;

  These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,

  To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

  Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,

  Her healthy moors and winding vales;

  The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,

  Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

  Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!

  My peace with these, my love with those:

  The bursting tears my heart declare-

  Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

  Address To The Toothache

  My curse upon your venom'd stang,

  That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,

  An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,

  Wi' gnawing vengeance,

  Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

  Like racking engines!

  When fevers burn, or argues freezes,

  Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,

  Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,

  Wi' pitying moan;

  But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases-

  Aye mocks our groan.

  Adown my beard the slavers trickle

  I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,

  While round the fire the giglets keckle,

  To see me loup,

  While, raving mad, I wish a heckle

  Were in their doup!

  In a' the numerous human dools,

  Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,

  Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, -

  Sad sight to see!

  The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools,

  Thou bear'st the gree!

  Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,

  Where a' the tones o' misery yell,

  An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,

  In dreadfu' raw,

  Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,

  Amang them a'!

  O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,

  That gars the notes o' discord squeel,

  Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

  In gore, a shoe-thick,

  Gie
a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

  A townmond's toothache!

  Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1

  This wot ye all whom it concerns,

  I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

  October twenty-third,

  [Footnote 1: At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

  A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

  Sae far I sprackl'd up the brae,

  I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

  I've been at drucken writers' feasts,

  Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests-

  Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!-

  I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,

  When mighty Squireships of the quorum,

  Their hydra drouth did sloken.

  But wi' a Lord!-stand out my shin,

  A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son!

  Up higher yet, my bonnet

  An' sic a Lord!-lang Scoth ells twa,

  Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',

  As I look o'er my sonnet.

  But O for Hogarth's magic pow'r!

  To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,

  An' how he star'd and stammer'd,

  When, goavin, as if led wi' branks,

  An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,

  He in the parlour hammer'd.

  I sidying shelter'd in a nook,

  An' at his Lordship steal't a look,

  Like some portentous omen;

  Except good sense and social glee,

  An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,

  I marked nought uncommon.

  I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,

  The gentle pride, the lordly state,

  The arrogant assuming;

  The fient a pride, nae pride had he,

  Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

  Mair than an honest ploughman.

  Then from his Lordship I shall learn,

  Henceforth to meet with unconcern

  One rank as weel's another;

  Nae honest, worthy man need care

  To meet with noble youthful Daer,

  For he but meets a brother.

  Masonic Song

  tune-"Shawn-boy," or "Over the water to Charlie."

  Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,

  To follow the noble vocation;

  Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another

  To sit in that honoured station.

  I've little to say, but only to pray,

  As praying's the ton of your fashion;

  A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse

  'Tis seldom her favourite passion.

  Ye powers who preside o'er the wind, and the tide,

  Who marked each element's border;

  Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,

  Whose sovereign statute is order:-

  Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention

  Or withered Envy ne'er enter;

  May secrecy round be the mystical bound,

  And brotherly Love be the centre!

  Tam Samson's Elegy

  An honest man's the noblest work of God-Pope.

  When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he

  supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields," and

  expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the

  author composed his elegy and epitaph.-R.B., 1787.

  Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?

  Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel?

  Or Robertson^2 again grown weel,

  To preach an' read?

  "Na' waur than a'! cries ilka chiel,

  "Tam Samson's dead!"

  [Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide "The

  Ordination." stanza ii.-R. B.]

  [Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at

  that time ailing. For him see also "The Ordination," stanza ix.-R.B.]

  Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,

  An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,

  An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

  In mourning weed;

  To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane-

  Tam Samson's dead!

  The Brethren, o' the mystic level

  May hing their head in woefu' bevel,

  While by their nose the tears will revel,

  Like ony bead;

  Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel;

  Tam Samson's dead!

  When Winter muffles up his cloak,

  And binds the mire like a rock;

  When to the loughs the curlers flock,

  Wi' gleesome speed,

  Wha will they station at the cock?

  Tam Samson's dead!

  When Winter muffles up his cloak,

  He was the king o' a' the core,

  To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,

  Or up the rink like Jehu roar,

  In time o' need;

  But now he lags on Death's hog-score-

  Tam Samson's dead!

  Now safe the stately sawmont sail,

  And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,

  And eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail,

  And geds for greed,

  Since, dark in Death's fish-creel, we wail

  Tam Samson's dead!

  Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';

  Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;

  Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw

  Withouten dread;

  Your mortal fae is now awa;

  Tam Samson's dead!

  That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,

  Saw him in shooting graith adorn'd,

  While pointers round impatient burn'd,

  Frae couples free'd;

  But och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!

  Tam Samson's dead!

  In vain auld age his body batters,

  In vain the gout his ancles fetters,

  In vain the burns cam down like waters,

  An acre braid!

  Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters

  "Tam Samson's dead!"

  Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,

  An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,

  Till coward Death behind him jumpit,

  Wi' deadly feid;

  Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet,

  "Tam Samson's dead!"

  When at his heart he felt the dagger,

  He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,

  But yet he drew the mortal trigger,

  Wi' weel-aimed heed;

  "Lord, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger-

  Tam Samson's dead!

  Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;

  Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;

  Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,

  Marks out his head;

  Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,

  "Tam Samson's dead!"

  There, low he lies, in lasting rest;

  Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast

  Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest

  To hatch an' breed:

  Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

  Tam Samson's dead!

  When August winds the heather wave,

  And sportsmen wander by yon grave,

  Three volleys let his memory crave,

  O' pouther an' lead,

  Till Echo answer frae her cave,

  "Tam Samson's dead!"

  Heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!

  Is th' wish o' mony mae than me:

  He had twa fauts, or maybe three,

  Yet what remead?

  Ae social, honest man want we:

  Tam Samson's dead!

  The Epitaph

  Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies

  Ye canting zealots, spare him!

  If honest worth in Heaven rise,

  Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

  Per Contra

  Go, Fame, an' c
anter like a filly

  Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie;^3

  Tell ev'ry social honest billie

  To cease his grievin';

  For, yet unskaithed by Death's gleg gullie.

  Tam Samson's leevin'!

  Epistle To Major Logan

  Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!

  Tho' fortune's road be rough an' hilly

  To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

  We never heed,

  But take it like the unback'd filly,

  Proud o' her speed.

  [Footnote 3: Kilmarnock.-R. B.]

  When, idly goavin', whiles we saunter,

  Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,

  Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,

  Some black bog-hole,

  Arrests us; then the scathe an' banter

  We're forced to thole.

  Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!

  Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

  To cheer you through the weary widdle

  O' this wild warl'.

  Until you on a crummock driddle,

  A grey hair'd carl.

  Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,

  Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,

  And screw your temper-pins aboon

  A fifth or mair

  The melancholious, lazy croon

  O' cankrie care.

  May still your life from day to day,

  Nae "lente largo" in the play,

  But "allegretto forte" gay,

  Harmonious flow,

  A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-

  Encore! Bravo!

  A blessing on the cheery gang

  Wha dearly like a jig or sang,

  An' never think o' right an' wrang

  By square an' rule,

  But, as the clegs o' feeling stang,

  Are wise or fool.

  My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase

  The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,

 

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