Poems of Robert Burns Selected by Ian Rankin

by Robert Burns

  Predicament, Sir, that we’re baith in;

  But when honor’s reveille is beat,

  The holy artillery’s naething. –

  And now I must mount on the wave,

  My voyage perhaps there is death in;

  But what of a watery grave!

  The drowning a Poet is naething. –

  And now as grim death’s in my thought,

  To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing:

  My service as long as ye’ve ought,

  And my friendship, by God, when ye’ve naething. –

  To a Mountain Daisy On Turning One Down with the Plough in April – 1786

  Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,

  Thou’s met me in an evil hour;

  For I maun crush amang the stoure

  Thy slender stem:

  To spare thee now is past my pow’r,

  Thou bonie gem.

  Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,

  The bonie lark, companion meet!

  Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet!

  Wi’ speckl’d breast,

  When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

  The purpling East.

  Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

  Upon thy early, humble birth;

  Yet chearfully thou glinted forth

  Amid the storm,

  Scarce rear’d above the Parent-earth

  Thy tender form.

  The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,

  High-shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield,

  But thou, beneath the random bield

  O’ clod or stane,

  Adorns the histie stibble-field,

  Unseen, alane.

  There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

  Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,

  Thou lifts thy unassuming head

  In humble guise;

  But now the share uptears thy bed,

  And low thou lies!

  Such is the fate of artless Maid,

  Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!

  By love’s simplicity betray’d,

  And guileless trust,

  Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid

  Low i’ the dust.

  Such is the fate of simple Bard,

  On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!

  Unskilful he to note the card

  Of prudent lore,

  Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

  And whelm him o’er!

  Such fate to suff’ring worth is giv’n,

  Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,

  By human pride or cunning driv’n

  To mis’ry’s brink,

  Till wrench’d of every stay but Heav’n,

  He, ruin’d, sink!

  Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate;

  That fate is thine – no distant date;

  Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives, elate,

  Full on thy bloom,

  Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,

  Shall be thy doom!

  Epistle to a Young Friend May – 1786

  I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,

  A something to have sent you,

  Though it should serve nae other end

  Than just a kind memento;

  But how the subject theme may gang,

  Let time and chance determine;

  Perhaps it may turn out a sang;

  Perhaps turn out a sermon.

  Ye’ll try the world soon my lad,

  And Andrew dear believe me,

  Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,

  And muckle they may grieve ye:

  For care and trouble set your thought,

  Ev’n when your end’s attained;

  And a’ your views may come to nought,

  Where ev’ry nerve is strain’d.

  I’ll no say, men are villains a’;

  The real, harden’d wicked,

  Wha hae nae check but human law,

  Are to a few restricked:

  But Och, mankind are unco weak,

  An’ little to be trusted;

  If Self the wavering balance shake,

  It’s rarely right adjusted!

  Yet they wha fa’ in Fortune’s strife,

  Their fate we should na censure,

  For still th’ important end of life,

  They equally may answer:

  A man may hae an honest heart,

  Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;

  A man may tak a neebor’s part,

  Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

  Ay free, aff han’, your story tell,

  When wi’ a bosom crony;

  But still keep something to yoursel

  Ye scarcely tell to ony.

  Conceal yoursel as weel’s you can

  Frae critical dissection;

  But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,

  Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.

  The sacred lowe o’ weel plac’d love,

  Luxuriantly indulge it;

  But never tempt th’ illicit rove,

  Tho’ naething should divulge it:

  I wave the quantum o’ the sin;

  The hazard of concealing;

  But Och! it hardens a’ within,

  And petrifies the feeling!

  To catch Dame Fortune’s golden smile,

  Assiduous wait upon her;

  And gather gear by ev’ry wile,

  That’s justify’d by Honor:

  Not for to hide it in a hedge,

  Nor for a train-attendant;

  But for the glorious priviledge

  Of being independant.

  The fear o’ Hell’s a hangman’s whip,

  To haud the wretch in order;

  But where ye feel your Honor grip,

  Let that ay be your border:

  Its slightest touches, instant pause –

  Debar a’ side-pretences;

  And resolutely keep its laws,

  Uncaring consequences.

  The great Creator to revere,

  Must sure become the Creature;

  But still the preaching cant forbear,

  And ev’n the rigid feature:

  Yet ne’er with Wits prophane to range,

  Be complaisance extended;

  An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange

  For Deity offended!

  When ranting round in Pleasure’s ring,

  Religion may be blinded;

  Or if she give a random-fling,

  It may be little minded;

  But when on Life we’re tempest-driven,

  A Conscience but a canker –

  A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,

  Is sure a noble anchor!

  Adieu, dear, amiable Youth!

  Your heart can ne’er be wanting!

  May Prudence, Fortitude and Truth

  Erect your brow undaunting!

  In ploughman phrase ‘God send you speed,’

  Still daily to grow wiser;

  And may ye better reck the rede,

  Than ever did th’ Adviser!

  Lines Written on a Bank-Note

  Wae worth thy pow’r, thou cursed leaf!

  Fell source of a’ my woe and grief!

  For lake o’ thee I’ve lost my lass;

  For lake o’ thee I scrimp my glass;

  I see the children of Affliction

  Unaided, thro’ thy curs’d restriction.

  I’ve seen the Oppressor’s cruel smile

  Amid his hapless victim’s spoil;

  And for thy potence vainly wish’d

  To crush the villain in the dust:

  For lake o’ thee I leave this much-loved shore,

  Never perhaps to greet Old Scotland more!

  R. B.

  Kyle

  Address of Beelzebub

  To the Right Honorable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honorable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of Ma
y last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders who, as the Society were informed by Mr M‘Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they are, by emigrating from the lands of Mr Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing – Liberty –

  Long life, my lord, an’ health be yours,

  Unskaith’d by hunger’d Highland boors!

  Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,

  Wi’ dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,

  May twin auld Scotland o’ a life

  She likes – as Butchers like a knife!

  Faith, you and Applecross were right

  To keep the Highlan’ hounds in sight!

  I doubt na! they wad bid nae better

  Than let them ance out owre the water;

  Then up amang thae lakes an’ seas,

  They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:

  Some daring Hancocke, or a Frankline,

  May set their Highlan’ bluid a-ranklin;

  Some Washington again may head them,

  Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them;

  Till God knows what may be effected,

  When by such heads and hearts directed.

  Poor, dunghill sons of dirt an’ mire,

  May to Patrician rights aspire;

  Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,

  To watch an’ premier owre the pack vile!

  An’ whare will ye get Howes an’ Clintons

  To bring them to a right repentance,

  To cowe the rebel generation,

  An’ save the honor o’ the nation?

  They, an’ be damned! what right hae they

  To meat or sleep or light o’ day,

  Far less to riches, pow’r or freedom,

  But what your lordships please to gie them?

  But hear, my lord! Glengary, hear!

  Your hand’s owre light on them, I fear:

  Your factors, greives, trustees and bailies,

  I canna say but they do gaylies:

  They lay aside a’ tender mercies,

  An’ tirl the hallions to the birsies;

  Yet while they’re only poin’d and herriet,

  They’ll keep their stubborn Highlan spirit.

  But smash them! crush them a’ to spails!

  And rot the dyvors i’ the jails!

  The young dogs, swinge them to the labour,

  Let wark an’ hunger mak them sober!

  The hizzies, if they’re oughtlins fausont,

  Let them in Drury Lane be lesson’d!

  An’ if the wives, an’ dirty brats,

  Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts,

  Flaffan wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beese,

  Frightan awa your deucks an’ geese,

  Get out a horsewhip, or a jowler,

  The langest thong, the fiercest growler,

  And gar the tatter’d gipseys pack

  Wi’ a’ their bastarts on their back!

  Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,

  An’ in my ‘house at hame’ to greet you;

  Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle:

  The benmost newk, beside the ingle

  At my right hand, assign’d your seat

  ’Tween Herod’s hip, an’

  Polycrate, Or (if you on your station tarrow)

  Between Almagro and Pizarro;

  A seat, I’m sure ye’re weel deservin’t;

  An’ till ye come – your humble servant,

  Beelzebub.

  Hell,

  1st June, Anno Mundi 5790

  A Bard’s Epitaph

  Is there a whim-inspir’d fool,

  Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

  Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

  Let him draw near;

  And o’er this grassy heap sing dool,

  And drap a tear.

  Is there a Bard of rustic song,

  Who, noteless, steals the crouds among,

  That weekly this area throng,

  O, pass not by!

  But with a frater-feeling strong,

  Here, heave a sigh.

  Is there a man whose judgment clear,

  Can others teach the course to steer,

  Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,

  Wild as the wave,

  Here pause – and thro’ the starting tear,

  Survey this grave.

  The poor Inhabitant below

  Was quick to learn and wise to know,

  And keenly felt the friendly glow,

  And softer flame;

  But thoughtless follies laid him low,

  And stain’d his name!

  Reader attend – whether thy soul

  Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,

  Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

  In low pursuit,

  Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul

  Is Wisdom’s root.

  To a Haggis

  Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

  Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!

  Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

  Painch, tripe, or thairm:

  Weel are ye wordy of a grace

  As lang’s my arm.

  The groaning trencher there ye fill,

  Your hurdies like a distant hill,

  Your pin wad help to mend a mill

  In time o’ need,

  While thro’ your pores the dews distil

  Like amber bead.

  His knife see Rustic-labour dight,

  An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,

  Trenching your gushing entrails bright

  Like onie ditch;

  And then, O what a glorious sight,

  Warm-reekin, rich!

  Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,

  Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

  Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

  Are bent like drums;

  Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

  Bethankit hums.

  Is there that owre his French ragout,

  Or olio that wad staw a sow,

  Or fricassee wad mak her spew

  Wi’ perfect sconner,

  Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

  On sic a dinner?

  Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

  As feckless as a wither’d rash,

  His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,

  His nieve a nit;

  Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,

  O how unfit!

  But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

  The trembling earth resounds his tread,

  Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

  He’ll mak it whissle;

  An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

  Like taps o’ thrissle.

  Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

  An’ dish them out their bill o’ fare,

  Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

  That jaups in luggies;

  But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

  Gie her a Haggis!

  My Peggy’s Face

  My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,

  The frost of hermit age might warm;

  My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,

  Might charm the first of humankind.

  I love my Peggy’s angel air,

  Her face so truly heavn’ly fair,

  Her native grace so void of art,

  But I adore my Peggy’s heart.

  The lily’s hue, the rose’s die,

  The kindling lustre of an eye;

  Who but owns their magic sway,