No More Learning

Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good new year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say,
"You're one year older this important day. "
If wiser too--he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word--"think! "

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way;
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle:
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
To yon old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you'll mind the important NOW!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours,
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

* * * * *




CVI.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines,
but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in
which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland
was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes. --Burns said his
players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two. ]


What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need nae toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword,
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord,
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman;
A woman--tho' the phrase may seem uncivil--
As able and as cruel as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best!
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle time, on' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,
"Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here! "
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good withers, shore before ye strike. --
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks:
God help us! we're but poor--ye'se get but thanks.

* * * * *




CVII.

SKETCH.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty
sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions,
was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was
afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops
served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of
General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished. ]


This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated follow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow--
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow--
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever. "
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on! "
Rest on--for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days more--a few years must--
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes--all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night. --

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important _now_ employ,
And live as those who never die. --

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight, pale envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

* * * * *




CVIII.

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO

CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in
which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in
court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of
Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still
singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit
Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all
passed to their account. ]


Kind Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks:
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt:
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin';
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin';
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in:
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a--s yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser. --
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So, gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!

_Ellisland, Monday morning_, 1790.

* * * * *




CIX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM;[76]

A SATIRE.

[FIRST VERSION. ]

[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill, one of the ministers of
Ayr, long suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions concerning
original sin and the Trinity, published "A Practical Essay on the
Death of Jesus Christ," which, in the opinion of the more rigid
portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism.
This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name
Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west
country was in a flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and
was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for the disquiet
he had occasioned, explained away or apologized for the challenged
passages in his Essay, and declared his adherence to the Standard
doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his
satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done so with
reluctance. ]


Orthodox, orthodox,
Wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
There's a heretic blast
Has been blawn in the wast,
That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac,[77] Dr. Mac,
You should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense
Upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John[78] is still deaf
To the church's relief,
And orator Bob[79] is its ruin.

D'rymple mild,[80] D'rymple mild,
Thro' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye,
Auld Satan must hav ye,
For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Rumble John,[81] Rumble John,
Mount the steps wi' a groan,
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;
Then lug out your ladle,
Deal brimstone like adle,
And roar every note of the danm'd.

Simper James,[82] Simper James,
Leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;
I'll lay on your head
That the pack ye'll soon lead.
For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney,[83] Singet Sawney,
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what evil await?
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,[84] Daddy Auld,
There's a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Though yo can do little skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster,[85] Davie Bluster,
If for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice of recruits;
Yet to worth let's be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose,[86] Jamy Goose,
Ye ha'e made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,
For the L--d's haly ark;
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie,[87] Poet Willie,
Fie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit;
O'er Pegasus' side
Ye ne'er laid astride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he ----.

Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk,
Ye may slander the book,
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye;
Ye are rich and look big,
But lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie,[89] Barr Steenie,
What mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may ha'e some pretence
To havins and sense,
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side,[90] Irvine side,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sum' is your share,
Ye've the figure 'tis true,
Even your faes will allow,
And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,[91] Muirland Jock,
When the L--d makes a rock
To crush Common sense for her sins,
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will,[92] Holy Will,
There was wit i' your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer is scant,
When ye're ta'en for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,
Seize your spir'tual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff,
Will be powther enough,
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,
Wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsie,
E'en tho' she were tipsie,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 76: This Poem was written a short time after the publication
of M'Gill's Essay. ]

[Footnote 77: Dr. M'Gill. ]

[Footnote 78: John Ballantyne. ]

[Footnote 79: Robert Aiken. ]

[Footnote 80: Dr. Dalrymple. ]

[Footnote 81: Mr. Russell. ]

[Footnote 82: Mr. M'Kinlay. ]

[Footnote 83: Mr. Moody, of Riccarton. ]

[Footnote 84: Mr. Auld of Mauchline. ]

[Footnote 85: Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree. ]

[Footnote 86: Mr. Young, of Cumnock. ]

[Footnote 87: Mr. Peebles, Ayr. ]

[Footnote 88: Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton. ]

[Footnote 89: Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr. ]

[Footnote 90: Mr. George Smith, of Galston. ]

[Footnote 91: Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. ]

[Footnote 92: Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline. ]

* * * * *




CX.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

A BALLAD.

[SECOND VERSION. ]

[This version is from the papers of Miss Logan, of Afton. The origin
of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself:
"Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant
fire Which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the
Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one
of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor
man! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the
whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that
ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in
imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy
of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I
confess too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though
I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in
it too. " The Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801.
Cromek calls it, "A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the
gospel, in Ayrshire. "]


I.

Orthodox, orthodox,
Who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience--
There's a heretic blast,
Has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense,
Orthodox,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II.

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
Ye should stretch on a rack,
And strike evil doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense,
Upon any pretence,
Was heretic damnable error,
Doctor Mac,
Was heretic damnable error.

III.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was rash I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John is still deaf,
To the church's relief,
And orator Bob is its ruin,
Town Of Ayr,
And orator Bob is its ruin.

IV.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild,
Tho' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye,
Old Satan must have ye
For preaching that three's are an' twa,
D'rymple mild,
For preaching that three's are an' twa.

V.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,
Seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition ye never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff,
Will be powder enough,
And your skulls are a storehouse of lead,
Calvin's sons,
And your skulls are a storehouse of lead.

VI.

Rumble John, Rumble John,
Mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd;
Then lug out your ladle,
Deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar every note o' the damn'd,
Rumble John,
And roar every note o' the damn'd.

VII.

Simper James, Simper James,
Leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;
I'll lay on your head,
That the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few,
Simper James,
For puppies like you there's but few.

VIII.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits?
With a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,
For Hannibal's just at your gates,
Singet Sawnie,
For Hannibal's just at your gates.

IX.

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,
Ye may slander the book,
And the book nought the waur--let me tell you;
Tho' ye're rich and look big,
Yet lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value,
Andrew Gowk,
And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value.

X.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,
Gie the doctor a volley,
Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit;
O'er Pegasus' side,
Ye ne'er laid a stride
Ye only stood by when he ----,
Poet Willie,
Ye only stood by when he ----.

XI.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence, man,
To havins and sense, man,
Wi' people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie,
Wi' people that ken ye nae better.

XII.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,
Ye hae made but toom roose,
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the doctor's your mark,
For the L--d's holy ark,
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't,
Jamie Goose,
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.

XIII.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,
For a saunt if ye muster,
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits,
Yet to worth let's be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass were the king o' the brutes,
Davie Bluster,
If the ass were the king o' the brutes.

XIV.

Muirland George, Muirland George,
Whom the Lord made a scourge,
To claw common sense for her sins;
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit,
To confound the poor doctor at ance,
Muirland George,
To confound the poor doctor at ance.

XV.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
O' manhood but sma' is your share;
Ye've the figure, it's true,
Even our faes maun allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,
Cessnockside,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI.

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,
There's a tod i' the fauld
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93]
Tho' ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark,
Daddie Auld,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

XVII.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,
Wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Tho' your Muse is a gipsy,
Yet were she even tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

* * * * *

POSTSCRIPT.

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird,
When your pen can be spar'd,
A copy o' this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score
I mentioned before,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,
Afton's Laird,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 93: Gavin Hamilton. ]

* * * * *




CXI.

PEG NICHOLSON.

[These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of
the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him on account of
the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of
Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest
and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic
virago who attempted to murder George the Third. ]


Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
As ever trode on airn;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's flouting down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was;
As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

* * * * *




CXII.

ON

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS

IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered? "

SHAKSPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless heav'nly light!

[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and
great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined
constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire
Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or
joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, "I loved
the man much, and have not flattered his memory.
" Henderson seems
indeed to have been universally liked. "In our travelling party," says
Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, "was Matthew Henderson, then
(1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of
Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of
foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with
truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more
estimable character, than Matthew Henderson. " _Memoirs of Campbell, of
Ardkinglass_, p. 17. ]


O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,
O'er hurcheon hides,
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie
Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil'd!

Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,
Wi' toddlin' din,
Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow'rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at its head,
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed
I' th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood! --
He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels:
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r,
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
'Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains:
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
The gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear
For him that's dead!

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear:
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air
The roaring blast,
Wide, o'er the naked world declare
The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,
Ne'er to return.

O, Henderson! the man--the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone for ever?
And hast thou crost that unknown river
Life's dreary bound?
Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around?

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great,
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!
But by thy honest turf I'll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E'er lay in earth.

THE EPITAPH.

Stop, passenger! --my story's brief,
And truth I shall relate, man;
I tell nae common tale o' grief--
For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast,
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man,
A look of pity hither cast--
For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art,
That passest by this grave, man,
There moulders here a gallant heart--
For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon light, man,
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise--
For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship's sacred ca'
Wad life itself resign, man,
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'--
For Matthew was a kind man!

If thou art staunch without a stain,
Like the unchanging blue, man,
This was a kinsman o' thy ain--
For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man,
This was thy billie, dam and sire--
For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggish whingin sot,
To blame poor Matthew dare, man,
May dool and sorrow be his lot!
For Matthew was a rare man.

* * * * *




CXIII.

THE FIVE CARLINS.

A SCOTS BALLAD.

Tune--_Chevy Chase. _

[This is a local and political Poem composed on the contest between
Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of Westerhall, for
the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs.
Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy personates
Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of Solway-side, Annan; Whiskey Jean,
Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all
the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the
Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone: the poet's heart was with
the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old
affections: after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind
remembered, the Whig interest prevailed. ]


There were five carlins in the south,
They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to London town,
To bring them tidings hame.

Not only bring them tidings hame,
But do their errands there;
And aiblins gowd and honour baith
Might be that laddie's share.

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith,
A dame wi' pride eneugh;
And Marjory o' the mony lochs,
A carlin auld and teugh.

And blinkin' Bess of Annandale,
That dwelt near Solway-side;
And whiskey Jean, that took her gill
In Galloway sae wide.

And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel,
O' gipsey kith an' kin;--
Five wighter carlins were na found
The south countrie within.

To send a lad to London town,
They met upon a day;
And mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae.

O mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae;
But nae ane could their fancy please,
O ne'er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted knight,
Bred of a border band;
And he wad gae to London town,
Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the court
Wad bid to him gude-day.

The neist cam in a sodger youth,
And spak wi' modest grace,
And he wad gae to London town,
If sae their pleasure was.

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an honest heart,
Wad ne'er desert his friend.

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse,
At strife thir carlins fell;
For some had gentlefolks to please,
And some wad please themsel'.

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith,
And she spak up wi' pride,
And she wad send the sodger youth,
Whatever might betide.

For the auld gudeman o' London court
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the sodger youth
To greet his eldest son.

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs
And wrinkled was her brow;
Her ancient weed was russet gray,
Her auld Scotch heart was true.

"The London court set light by me--
I set as light by them;
And I wilt send the sodger lad
To shaw that court the same. "

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale,
And swore a deadly aith,
Says, "I will send the border-knight
Spite o' you carlins baith.

"For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,
And fools o' change are fain;
But I hae try'd this border-knight,
I'll try him yet again. "

Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink,
"Ye weel ken, kimmersa',
The auld gudeman o' London court,
His back's been at the wa'.

"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup,
Is now a fremit wight;
But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean,--
We'll send the border-knight. "

Says black Joan o' Crighton-peel,
A carlin stoor and grim,--
"The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman,
For me may sink or swim.

"For fools will prate o' right and wrang,
While knaves laugh in their sleeve;
But wha blaws best the horn shall win,
I'll spier nae courtier's leave. "

So how this mighty plea may end
There's naebody can tell:
God grant the king, and ilka man,
May look weel to himsel'!

* * * * *




CXIV.

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH.

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates
pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which
came over the Duke of Queensberry's opinions, when he supported the
right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent
of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness, in 1788. ]

The laddies by the banks o' Nith,
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie,
But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King,
Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.

Up and waur them a', Jamie,
Up and waur them a';
The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't,
Ye turncoat Whigs awa'.

The day he stude his country's friend,
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie:
Or frae puir man a blessin' wan,
That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

But wha is he, his country's boast?
Like him there is na twa, Jamie,
There's no a callant tents the kye,
But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,[94]
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;
And Maxwell true o' sterling blue:
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 94: Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector. ]

* * * * *




CXV.

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN

SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

["I am too little a man," said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which
accompanied this poem, "to have any political attachment: I am deeply
indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both
parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a
country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character
that one cannot speak of with patience. " This Epistle was first
printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo
and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet
was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness. ]


Fintray, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,
Are ye as idle's I am?
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,
And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important cares
Of princes and their darlings;
And, bent on winning borough towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns,
And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad
Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Caesarean fight,
Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig's banner;
Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,
To win immortal honour.

M'Murdo[95] and his lovely spouse,
(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows! )
Led on the loves and graces:
She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part
Among their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch[96] led a light-arm'd corps,
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel,[97] skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,
And bar'd the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig[98] who set at nought
The wildest savage Tory:
And Welsh,[99] who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
'Mid Lawson's[100] port intrench'd his hold,
And threaten'd worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd,
With these what Tory warriors clos'd.
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate
Amid this mighty tulzie!
Grim Horror grinn'd--pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd,
And hell mix'd in the brulzie.

As highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,
Hurl down with crashing rattle:
As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods;
Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly
Before the approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,
And think on former daring:
The muffled murtherer[101] of Charles
The Magna Charter flag unfurls,
All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame.
Bold Scrimgeour[102] follows gallant Graham,[103]
Auld Covenanters shiver.
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now death and hell engulph thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever! )

Still o'er the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But fate the word has spoken:
For woman's wit and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can!
The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns
Her darling cubs' undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,
And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James!
Dear to his country by the names
Friend, patron, benefactor!
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save!
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!
And Stewart,[104] bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;
And Melville melt in wailing!
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,
Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,
A cool spectator purely;
So, when the storm the forests rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
And sober chirps securely.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 95: John M'Murdo, Esq. , of Drumlanrig. ]

[Footnote 96: Fergusson of Craigdarroch. ]

[Footnote 97: Riddel of Friars-Carse. ]

[Footnote 98: Provost Staig of Dumfries. ]

[Footnote 99: Sheriff Welsh. ]

[Footnote 100: A wine merchant in Dumfries. ]

[Footnote 101: The executioner of Charles I. was masked. ]

[Footnote 102: Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee. ]

[Footnote 103: Graham, Marquis of Montrose. ]

[Footnote 104: Stewart of Hillside. ]

* * * * *




CXVI.

ON

CAPTAIN GROSE'S

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE

ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

[This "fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful antiquary,
and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and
was conversant with the weapons and the armor of his own and other
countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and
there, at the social "board of Glenriddel," for the first time saw
Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic
sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn,
surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with
pleasure to the independent sentiments and humourous turns of
conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the
interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather
personal. ]


Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chiel's amang you taking notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,
That's he, mark weel--
And wow! he has an unco slight
O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, L--d save's! colleaguin'
At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour,
And you deep read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight b----s!

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And ta'en the--Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont guid;
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Afore the flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;
A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg:
The knife that nicket Abel's craig
He'll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gully. --

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Guid fellows wi' him;
And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose! --
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca' thee;
I'd take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

* * * * *




CXVII.

WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER,

ENCLOSING

A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE.

[Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary memoranda, respecting
certain ruins in Kyle, and enclosed them in a sheet of a paper to
Cardonnel, a northern antiquary. As his mind teemed with poetry he
could not, as he afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass of sending
a rhyming inquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the
condoling inquiry over the North--

"Is he slain by Highlan' bodies?
And eaten like a wether-haggis? "]


Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose?
Igo and ago,
If he's amang his friends or foes?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he south or is he north?
Igo and ago,
Or drowned in the river Forth?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highlan' bodies?
Igo and ago,
And eaten like a wether-haggis?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane?
Igo and ago,
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame?
Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the L--d be near him!
Igo and ago,
As for the deil, he daur na steer him!
Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit the enclosed letter,
Igo and ago,
Which will oblige your humble debtor,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may he hae auld stanes in store,
Igo and ago,
The very stanes that Adam bore,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,
Igo and ago,
The coins o' Satan's coronation!
Iram, coram, dago.

* * * * *




CXVIII.

TAM O' SHANTER.

A TALE.

"Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke.