by Robert Burns
And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that’s here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.
… True friends though diversely inclined:
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature’s skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.
Describing this as a ‘weird little Gothic lyric’, Kenneth R. Johnston, The Hidden Wordsworth (N.Y./London: 1998), p. 799 asks ‘where, exactly, is the “here” of line 3? Does it point to Burns’s corpse under the sod or to Wordsworth’s identification with it; or is he imagining that he himself is Burns standing on his own grave?’ This, remember, is from the most self-composed of poets. George Dekker in Coleridge and the Literature of Sensibility (London: 1978), p. 67 gives this convincing answer to this complex identification:
The career of Burns … offered a lesson that Wordsworth … could apply immediately to his own life. So different to Burns in most essentials, Wordsworth cannot have failed to notice a few striking parallels between his current experience and that of the Ayrshire peasant. He suffered from the same mysterious chest and headaches that presaged Burns’s early dissolution; he too had been long prevented from marrying by untoward circumstances; and he was a man with ‘Jacobin’ sympathies to live down.
Burns, then, for Wordsworth is both the beloved creative brother and also the dark, dangerous stranger who embodied his own shadowy inner-self, a self passionate to the point of sexual and radical political violence, which after about 1800 he, conservatively, increasingly denied. For some understanding of the psychological, literary and creative ambivalence of Wordsworth towards Burns see Andrew Noble’s ‘Wordsworth and Burns: The Anxiety of Being Under the Influence’, Critical Essays on Robert Burns, ed. McGurk (N.Y., 1998), pp. 49–62.
There is, literally, a final testimony to this deeply ambivalent relationship. In A Bard’s Epitaph the poem is based on a series of interrogative requests as the poet appropriate to mourning his deceased brother-poet. Wordsworth was haunted by these questions because they seemed directed at his own poetic ambitions and hidden anxieties about his inner passions. Wordsworth’s A Poet’s Epitaph is also based on a series of questions as to the sort of person (statesman, lawyer, soldier, priest, merchant, scientist) appropriate to the act of mourning. As Kenneth Johnston has remarked (pp. 86–7): ‘Both poems are indebted to the pastoral tradition of one shepherd piping a lament at the grave of another. But Burns invoked this tradition mainly to distinguish his poems from it: ‘The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, look down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Vergil.’ This, the lead sentence of Burns’s preface, helped prepare the way for Wordsworth’s great preface of 1800.’ This is undoubtedly part of the reason that the necessary mourner in Wordsworth’s Epitaph is not simply the poet but a russet-coated poet who, not only in costume but in nature, is unmistakably, in his mixture of frailties and genius, Burns himself:
But who is He, with modest looks
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,—
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.
—Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.
PART TWO
The Edinburgh Edition
1787
Dedication to the Noblemen and
Gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt
My Lords And Gentlemen,
A SCOTTISH BARD, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country’s service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious Names of his native Land; those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha – at the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native Soil, in my native tongue: I tuned my wildness, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protection: I now obey her dictates.
Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual stile of dedication, to thank you for past favours; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted Learning, that honest Rusticity is ashamed of it. —Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours: I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. —I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth and liberty. —In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness.
When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusements of your Forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party; and may Social-joy await your return! When harassed in courts or camps with the justlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured Worth attend your return to your native Seats; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May Corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler and licentiousness in the People equally find you an inexorable foe!
I have the honour to be,
With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect,
MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,
Your most devoted humble servant,
ROBERT BURNS.
EDINBURGH April 4.1787
Death and Doctor Hornbook:
A True Story
First printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787.
SOME books are lies frae end to end, from
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n Ministers, they hae been kenn’d, have been known
In holy rapture,
5 A rousing whid, at times, to vend, lie
And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell, going
Which lately on a night befel, occurred
Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell
10 Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer comes oursel ourselves
’S a muckle pity. it is, great
The Clachan yill had made me canty, village ale, jolly
I was na fou, but just had plenty; not drunk
15 I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay staggered whiles, was careful
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes kend ay stones, knew always
Frae ghaists an’ witches. from ghosts
The rising Moon began to glowr stare/glow
20 The distant Cumnock hills out-owre; out-over
To count her horns, wi’ a’ my pow’r
I set mysel,
But whether she had three or four,
I cou’d na tell. could not
25 I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie’s mill, walking sprightly
Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill, with all
To keep me sicker; steady
Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will, at tmes
30 I took a bicker. unbalanced run
I there wi’ Something does forgather, meet
That pat me in an eerie swither; put, ghostly dread
An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther, across one shoulder
Clear-dangling, hang;
35 A three-tae’d leister on the ither three pronged spear, other
Lay, large an’ lang. long
Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa; long, 37 inches, two
The queerest shape that e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava; hardly a belly at all
40 And then its shanks, legs
They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’ small
As cheeks o’ branks. parts of a horse bridle
‘Guid-een,’ quo’ I; ‘Friend! hae ye been mawin, good evening, have you, mowing
When ither folk are busy sawin?’1 other, sowing
45 It seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’, make, stand
But naething spak; nothing spoke
At length, says I: ‘Friend! whare ye gaun? where, going
Will ye go back?’
It spak right howe: ‘My name is Death, spoke, hollow
50 But be na’ fley’d.’ — Quoth I, ‘Guid faith, not frightened
Ye’re may be come to stap my breath; stop
But tent me, billie; heed, comrade
I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith, counsel you well, injury
See, there’s a gully!’ large knife
55 ‘Gudeman,’ quo’ he, ‘put up your whittle, blade/knife
I’m no design’d to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle would be inclined
To be mislear’d, mischievous
I wad na mind it, no that spittle would not
60 Out-owre my beard. out-over
‘Weel, weel!’ says I, ‘a bargain be’t;
Come, gie’s your hand, an’ say we’re gree’t; give me, agreed
We’ll ease our shanks, an’ tak a seat: legs, take
Come, gie’s your news! give me
65 This while ye hae been monie a gate, many
At monie a house.2 many
‘Ay, ay!’ quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
‘It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed even a long, long
Sin’ I began to nick the thread
70 An’ choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread, must
An’ sae maun Death. so must
‘Sax thousand years are near hand fled
Sin’ I was to the butching bred, since
75 An’ monie a scheme in vain’s been laid, many
To stap or scar me; stop, scare
Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,3 one, taken up
And faith! he’ll waur me. surpass me
‘Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan, know, village
80 Deil mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan! make his scrotum, tobacco-pouch
He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan,4 so well
And ither chaps, other
The weans haud out their fingers laughin, children hold
An’ pouk my hips. poke/prod
85 ‘See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s a dart,
They hae pierc’d monie a gallant heart; have, many
But Doctor Hornbook wi’ his art
An’ cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a fart, both
90 Damn’d haet they’ll kill! damn all/nothing
‘’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, no, gone
I threw a noble throw at ane; one
Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But Deil-ma-care!
95 It just played dirl on the bane, went tinkle on the bone
But did nae mair. no more
‘Hornbook was by wi’ ready art,
An’ had sae fortify’d the part, so
That when I lookèd to my dart,
100 It was sae blunt, so
Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart little of it would have
Of a kail-runt. cabbage stalk
‘I drew my scythe in sic a fury, such
I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry, almost, toppled
105 But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae try’d a quarry well have
O’ hard whin-rock
‘Ev’n them he canna get attended, cannot
110 Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it, known
Just shit in a kail-blade an’ send it, cabbage leaf
As soon’s he smells’t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, both
At once he tells’t.
115 ‘And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles, all
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles, all
A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, and bottles,
He’s sure to hae; have
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
120 As A B C.
‘Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees; bone meal
True Sal-marinum o’ the seas; salt-water
The Farina of beans an’ pease, vegetable meal
He has’t in plenty;
125 Aqua-font is, what you please, fresh water
He can content ye.
‘Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus Spiritus of capons; urine
Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
130 Distill’d per se;
Sal-alkali o’ Midge-tail-clippings, salt
And monie mae.’ many more
‘Waes me for Johnie Ged’s Hole now,’5 woe is
Quoth I, ‘if that thae news be true! these
135 His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew fine grazing plot, where daisies
Sae white and bonie, so
Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew: no split, plough
They’ll ruin Johnie!’
The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh, groaned, unearthly
140 And says: ‘Ye needna yoke the pleugh, need not, plough
Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh, enough
Tak ye nae fear: no
They’ll a’ be trench’d wi monie a sheugh all, with many, ditch
In twa-three year.
145 ‘Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death where, one, straw
By loss o’ blood, or want o’ breath,
This night I’m free to tak my aith, take my oath
That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith, clothed, clothes
150 By drap an’ pill. drop/potion
‘An honest Wabster to his trade, weaver
Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, whose, two fists, well-bred
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, got tuppence
When it was sair; sore
155 The wife slade cannie to her bed, crept quietly
But ne’er spak mair. spoke more
‘A countra Laird had taen the batts, country, taken colic
Or some curmurring in his guts, commotion
His only son for Hornbook sets,
160 An’ pays him well,
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, two good pet-ewes
Was Laird himsel.
‘A bonie lass, ye kend her name — know
Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame, swollen her stomach
165 She trusts hersel, to hide
the shame,
In Hornbook’s care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame off, long home/grave
To hide it there.
‘That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way, sample
170 Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,
An’s weel paid for’t; and is well
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’ his damn’d dirt!
175 ‘But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited Sot,
As dead’s a herrin:
Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat, next, wager fourpence
180 He gets his fairin!’ reward
But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell old, struck
Some wee short hour ayont the twal, beyond twelve
Which raised us baith: both, made us stand up
185 I took the way that pleas’d mysel,
And sae did Death. so
Currie (iii. 32) reports Gilbert Burns as recording the origin of the poem thus: ‘written early in the year 1785. The Schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke out its scanty subsistence allowed to that useless class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen upon some medical books, and become almost hobby-horsically attached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale of few medicines to his little trade … and advertised that ‘Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis’. This schoolmaster was John Wilson (c. 1751–1839) who compounded his other errors by boasting at a Masonic meeting in Burns’s presence of his medical prowess. The poet’s hatchet, unimpaired, unlike Death’s scythe, did the following job on him. Extraordinarily, either because of innocence, or given the other evidence, gross stupidity, Wilson bore the poet no ill will over this. The poem did him no harm and when he was removed from Tarbolton School, he wrote to the poet for help and Burns considerately replied (Letter 420). He subsequently became a prosperous session clerk in Govan. See J.C. Ewing BC, 1941, pp. 31–9 for his biography.
