No More Learning

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
Will make they hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled,
By barber woven, and by barber sold,
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care,
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare.
The hero of the mimic scene, no more
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;
Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms,
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms;
While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high,
And steal from me Maria's prying eye.
Blest Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress,
Now prouder still, Maria's temples press.
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war.
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,[110]
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;
The crafty colonel[111] leaves the tartan'd lines,
For other wars, where he a hero shines;
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head;
Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way;
The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks;
Though there, his heresies in church and state
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,
And dares the public like a noontide sun.
(What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger,
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom when
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,--
And pours his vengeance in the burning line,
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine;
The idiot strum of vanity bemused,
And even th' abuse of poesy abused!
Who call'd her verse, a parish workhouse made
For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd? )

A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose!
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep;
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,
And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
And make a vast monopoly of hell?
Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse,
The vices also, must they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin to others fall,
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls?
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit?
Who says, that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that deciphering defy,
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 110: Captain Gillespie. ]

[Footnote 111: Col. Macdouall. ]

* * * * *




CXXXIV.

POEM

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

[Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem being by
his brother, and though Robert Chambers declares that he "has scarcely
a doubt that it is not by the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his,
for I have no doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers of
the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the fourth, and the
concluding verses bear the Burns' stamp, which no one has been
successful in counterfeiting: they resemble the verses of Beattie, to
which Chambers has compared them, as little as the cry of the eagle
resembles the chirp of the wren. ]


Hail Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang,
To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives
Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters;
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grace;
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan--
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou's for ever!

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love;
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

* * * * *




CXXXV.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A

THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.

[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm
howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on
the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins
of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for
song of the thrush as a fortunate omen. ]


Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away.

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

* * * * *




CXXXVI.

SONNET,

ON THE

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.

OF GLENRIDDEL,

APRIL, 1794.

[The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of
Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland,
been his neighbor, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this
time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than
of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature,
and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the peasantry
against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what
the rustics of the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," is
now scattered or neglected: I have heard a competent judge say, that
they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland. ]


No more, ye warblers of the wood--no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer,
Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

* * * * *




CXXXVII.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MRS. R----'S BIRTHDAY.

[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart
which his verses "On a lady famed for her caprice" inflicted on the
accomplished Mrs. Riddel. ]


Old Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,--
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me;
'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

* * * * *




CXXXVIII.

LIBERTY.

A FRAGMENT.

[Fragment of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose
papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode
commemorating the achievement of liberty for America under the
directing genius of Washington and Franklin. ]


Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!

* * * * *




CXXXIX.

VERSES

TO A YOUNG LADY.

[This young lady was the daughter of the poet's friend, Graham of
Fintray; and the gift alluded to was a copy of George Thomson's
Select Scottish Songs: a work which owes many attractions to the lyric
genius of Burns. ]


Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,
Accept the gift;--tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears,
As modest want the tale of woe reveals;
While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

* * * * *




CXL.

THE VOWELS.

A TALE.

[Burns admired genius adorned by learning; but mere learning without
genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too
much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and to one, who
taxed him with writing obscure language in questionable grammar, he
said, "Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker between vowels and
consonants! "]


'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd,
The noisy domicile of pedant pride;
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And cruelty directs the thickening blows;
upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account. --

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on the way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, _ai! _

Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The justling tears ran down his honest face!
That name! that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!

In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art;
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him _eu_, and kick'd him from his sight.

* * * * *




CXLI.

VERSES

TO JOHN RANKINE.

[With the "rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adamhill, in
Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in
rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this
is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed,
that those lines were suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged
recruits:--

"I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat! "]


Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches,
"By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this d--d infernal clan. "
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
"L--d G--d! " quoth he, "I have it now,
There's just the man I want, i' faith! "
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

* * * * *




CXLII.

ON SENSIBILITY.

TO

MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP,

OF DUNLOP.

[These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments
contained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was
sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he
appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he
printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to,

"Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell! "

and so transferring the whole to another heroine. ]


Sensibility how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou host also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,
Finer feeling can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

* * * * *




CXLIII.

LINES,

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD

OFFENDED.

[The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repentant
strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet
had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with
disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on
the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary
Wolstonecroft and her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel
affected to be grievously offended. ]


The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

* * * * *




CXLIV.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT

NIGHT.

[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre,
on the 4th of December, 1795. ]


Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
"I know your bent--these are no laughing times:
Can you--but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dissolve in pause--and sentimental tears;
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land? "

I could no more--askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz--nay more, the world shall know it;
And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;
I also think--so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive--
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face--the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, us the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur'st in desperate thought--a rope--thy neck--
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at their follies--laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder--that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

* * * * *




CXLV.

ON

SEEING MISS FONTENELLE

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER.

[The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased
others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of
her personations he alludes: she was a favourite on the Dumfries
boards. ]


Sweet naivete of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning nature, torturing art;
Loves and graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou'dst act a part.

R. B.

* * * * *




CXLVI.

TO CHLORIS.

[Chloris was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and sorrow were strongly mingled
in her early history: that she did not look so lovely in other eyes as
she did in those of Burns is well known: but he had much of the taste
of an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the harmony of
her motion, as much as he did her blooming face and sweet voice. ]


'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
The moralizing muse.

Since thou in all thy youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lower;
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower. )

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,
Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store--
The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour's part;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,
Thine friendship's truest heart.

The joys refin'd of sense and taste,
With every muse to rove:
And doubly were the poet blest,
These joys could he improve.

* * * * *




CXLVII.

POETICAL INSCRIPTION

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE.

[It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French Revolution to
plant trees of Liberty, and raise altars to Independence. Heron of
Kerroughtree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to
engage in an election contest, and these noble lines served the
purpose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on freedom. ]


Thou of an independent mind,
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;
Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.

* * * * *




CXLVIII.

THE HERON BALLADS.

[BALLAD FIRST. ]

[This is the first of several party ballads which Burns wrote to serve
Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections for the Stewartry of
Kirkcudbright, in which he was opposed, first, by Gordon of Balmaghie,
and secondly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a personal
bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle with the strains in
which the poet recorded the contest between Miller and Johnstone. They
are printed here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will
be displeased, and some will smile. ]


I.

Whom will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that;
Thro Galloway and a' that;
Where is the laird or belted knight
That best deserves to fa' that?

II.

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,
And wha is't never saw that?
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that,
The independent patriot,
The honest man, an' a' that.

III.

Tho' wit and worth in either sex,
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that;
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that.

IV.

But why should we to nobles jouk,
And it's against the law that;
For why, a lord may be a gouk,
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that.

V.

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,
Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels,
A man we ken, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
For we're not to be bought an' sold
Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that.

VI.

Then let us drink the Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he's worthy a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that,
A House of Commons such as he,
They would be blest that saw that.

* * * * *




CXLIX.

THE HERON BALLADS.

[BALLAD SECOND. ]

[In this ballad the poet gathers together, after the manner of "Fy!
let us a' to the bridal," all the leading electors of the Stewartry,
who befriended Heron, or opposed him; and draws their portraits in the
colours of light or darkness, according to the complexion of their
politics. He is too severe in most instances, and in some he is
venomous. On the Earl of Galloway's family, and on the Murrays of
Broughton and Caillie, as well as on Bushby of Tinwaldowns, he pours
his hottest satire. But words which are unjust, or undeserved, fall
off their victims like rain-drops from a wild-duck's wing. The Murrays
of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from the vulgar, the stigma
of treachery to the cause of Prince Charles Stewart: from such infamy
the family is wholly free: the traitor, Murray, was of a race now
extinct; and while he was betraying the cause in which so much noble
and gallant blood was shed, Murray of Broughton and Caillie was
performing the duties of an honourable and loyal man: he was, like his
great-grandson now, representing his native district in parliament. ]


THE ELECTION.

I.

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin' there;
For Murray's[112] light horse are to muster,
And O, how the heroes will swear!
An' there will be Murray commander,
And Gordon[113] the battle to win;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance an' kin.

II.

An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,[114]
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
And he get na hell for his haddin'
The deil gets na justice ava';
And there will Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane,
But, as for his fine nabob fortune,
We'll e'en let the subject alane.

III.

An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff,
Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord, what's become o' the head?
An' there will be Cardoness,[115] Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
For the devil the prey will despise.

IV.

An' there will be Douglasses[116] doughty,
New christ'ning towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissing the ---- o' a peer;
An' there will be Kenmure[117] sae gen'rous,
Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name to the firm.

V.

But we winna mention Redcastle,[118]
The body, e'en let him escape!
He'd venture the gallows for siller,
An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape.
An' where is our king's lord lieutenant,
Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return?
The billie is gettin' his questions,
To say in St. Stephen's the morn.

VI.

An' there will be lads o' the gospel,
Muirhead,[119] wha's as gude as he's true;
An' there will be Buittle's[120] apostle,
Wha's more o' the black than the blue;
An' there will be folk from St. Mary's,[121]
A house o' great merit and note,
The deil ane but honours them highly,--
The deil ane will gie them his vote!

VII.

An' there will be wealthy young Richard,[122]
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck;
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,
His merit had won him respect:
An' there will be rich brother nabobs,
Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first,
An' there will be Collieston's[123] whiskers,
An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst.

VIII.

An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie,[124]
Tak' tent how ye purchase a dram;
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie,
An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam;
An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree,[125]
Whose honour was ever his law,
If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a'.

IX.

An' can we forget the auld major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys,
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,
Him only 'tis justice to praise.
An' there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming's gude knight,
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle,
Wha luckily roars in the right.

X.

An' there, frae the Niddisdale borders,
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves;
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Walie,
That griens for the fishes an' loaves;
An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,[126]
Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there,
An' also the wild Scot of Galloway,
Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair.

XI.

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton,
An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring?
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom 'twould make him a king;
An' hey for the sanctified M----y,
Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 112: Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. ]

[Footnote 113: Gordon of Balmaghie. ]

[Footnote 114: Bushby, of Tinwald-Downs. ]

[Footnote 115: Maxwell, of Cardoness. ]

[Footnote 116: The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle-Douglas. ]

[Footnote 117: Gordon, afterwards Viscount Kenmore. ]

[Footnote 118: Laurie, of Redcastle. ]

[Footnote 119: Morehead, Minister of Urr. ]

[Footnote 120: The Minister of Buittle. ]

[Footnote 121: Earl of Selkirk's family. ]

[Footnote 122: Oswald, of Auchuncruive. ]

[Footnote 123: Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood. ]

[Footnote 124: John Syme, of the Stamp-office. ]

[Footnote 125: Heron, of Kerroughtree. ]

[Footnote 126: Colonel Macdouall, of Logan. ]

* * * * *




CL.

THE HERON BALLADS.

[BALLAD THIRD. ]

[This third and last ballad was written on the contest between Heron
and Stewart, which followed close on that with Gordon. Heron carried
the election, but was unseated by the decision of a Committee of the
House of Commons: a decision which it is said he took so much to heart
that it affected his health, and shortened his life. ]


AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG.

Tune. --"_Buy broom besoms. _"

Wha will buy my troggin,
Fine election ware;
Broken trade o' Broughton,
A' in high repair.
Buy braw troggin,
Frae the banks o' Dee;
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me.

There's a noble Earl's[127]
Fame and high renown
For an auld sang--
It's thought the gudes were stown.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth o' Broughton[128]
In a needle's ee;
Here's a reputation
Tint by Balmaghie.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's an honest conscience
Might a prince adorn;
Frae the downs o' Tinwald--[129]
So was never worn.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's its stuff and lining,
Cardoness'[130] head;
Fine for a sodger
A' the wale o' lead.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's a little wadset
Buittle's[131] scrap o' truth,
Pawn'd in a gin-shop
Quenching holy drouth.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's armorial bearings
Frae the manse o' Urr;[132]
The crest, an auld crab-apple
Rotten at the core.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Satan's picture,
Like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle,[133]
Sprawlin' as a taed.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth and wisdom
Collieston[134] can boast;
By a thievish midge
They had been nearly lost.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Murray's fragments
O' the ten commands;
Gifted by black Jock[135]
To get them aff his hands.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Saw ye e'er sic troggin?
If to buy ye're slack,
Hornie's turnin' chapman,
He'll buy a' the pack.
Buy braw troggin,
Frae the banks o' Dee;
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 127: The Earl of Galloway. ]

[Footnote 128: Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. ]

[Footnote 129: Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. ]

[Footnote 130: Maxwell, of Cardoness. ]

[Footnote 131: The Minister of Buittle. ]

[Footnote 132: Morehead, of Urr. ]

[Footnote 133: Laurie, of Redcastle. ]

[Footnote 134: Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood. ]

[Footnote 135: John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. ]

* * * * *




CLI.

POEM,

ADDRESSED TO

MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

[The gentlemen to whom this very modest, and, under the circumstances,
most affecting application for his salary was made, filled the office
of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and
generous nature: but few were aware that the poet was suffering both
from ill-health and poverty. ]


Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil
Wi' a' his witches
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel,
In my poor pouches!

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it,
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
I'd bear't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin
To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.

* * * * *

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
And by felt death was nearly nicket;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't,
A tentier way:
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!

* * * * *




CLII.

TO

MISS JESSY LEWARS,

DUMFRIES.

WITH JOHNSON'S 'MUSICAL MUSEUM. '

[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with
the affectionate reverence of a daughter: for this she has the silent
gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns; she has received
more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined
soon to die. ]


Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name:
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill--but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind--
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.

_June_ 26, 1796.

* * * * *




CLIII.

POEM ON LIFE,

ADDRESSED TO

COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or
conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was
Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns
was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided himself on
having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and
Americans. He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war
the noblest of all sciences: he affected a taste for literature, and
wrote verses. ]


My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,
And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,
Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,
As they deserve!
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne, wha wad starve? )

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
I've found her still,
Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on--
He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;
Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld danm'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;
Already in thy fancy's eye,
Thy sicker treasure!

Soon heels-o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd'ring wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,
I quat my pen:
The Lord preserve us frae the devil,
Amen! amen!

* * * * *




EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS,

ETC. , ETC.


I.

ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

[William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he was an example of
piety, patience, and fortitude. ]


O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
The tender father and the gen'rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
"For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side. "

* * * * *




II.

ON R. A. , ESQ.

[Robert Aiken, Esq. , to whom "The Cotter's Saturday Night" is
addressed: a kind and generous man. ]


Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

* * * * *




III.

ON A FRIEND.

[The name of this friend is neither mentioned nor alluded to in any of
the poet's productions. ]


An honest man here lies at rest
As e'er God with his image blest!
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth;
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

* * * * *




IV.

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON.

[These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured for
presuming to ride on Sunday, and say, "damn it," in the presence of
the minister of Mauchline. ]


The poor man weeps--here Gavin sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam'd:
But with such as he, where'er he be,
May I be sav'd or damn'd!

* * * * *




V.

ON WEE JOHNNY.

HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY.

[Wee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edition of
Burns's Poems: he doubted the success of the speculation, and the poet
punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of their
meaning. ]


Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
That death has murder'd Johnny!
An' here his body lies fu' low--
For saul he ne'er had ony.

* * * * *




VI.

ON JOHN DOVE,

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.

[John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline: his religion is made
to consist of a comparative appreciation of the liquors he kept. ]


Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
What was his religion?
Wha e'er desires to ken,
To some other warl'
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution--
Small beer, persecution,
A dram was _memento mori_;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.

* * * * *




VII.

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

[This laborious and useful wag was the "Dear Smith, thou sleest pawkie
thief," of one of the poet's finest epistles: he died in the West
Indies. ]


Lament him, Mauchline husbands a',
He aften did assist ye;
For had ye staid whole weeks awa,
Your wives they ne'er had missed ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
To school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on his grass,--
Perhaps he was your father.

* * * * *




VIII.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

[Souter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his
impertinent inquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of
Burns. ]


Here souter Hood in death does sleep;--
To h--ll, if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither.

* * * * *




IX.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

[This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of James Humphrey: he
astonished Cromek by an eloquent dissertation on free grace,
effectual-calling, and predestination. ]


Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes:
O Death, it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' b--ch
Into thy dark dominion!

* * * * *




X.

ON MISS JEAN SCOTT.

[The heroine of these complimentary lines lived in Ayr, and cheered
the poet with her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks.