THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 13

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 13

"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,

O, bid him breed him up wi' care;

An' if he live to be a beast,

To pit some havins in his breast!

An' warn him what I winna name,

To stay content wi' yowes at hame

An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,

Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

 

"An' niest my yowie, silly thing,

Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

O, may thou ne'er forgather up

Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop,

But ay keep mind to moop an' mell

Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

 

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath

I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:

An' when you think upo' your mither,

Mind to be kind to ane anither.

 

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail

To tell my master a' my tale;

An' bid him burn this cursed tether,

An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather."

 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,

And clos'd her een amang the dead.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 2: A neibor herd-callan.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

III.

 

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

 

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the

lament for Mailie, intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg

calls it a very elegant morsel: but says that it resembles too closely

"The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admired as original: the

shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's "Life

and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."]

 

 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,

Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;

Our bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead.

 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear,

That could sae bitter draw the tear,

Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed;

He's lost a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him;

A long half-mile she could descry him;

Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,

She run wi' speed:

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,

Than Mailie dead.

 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense,

An' could behave hersel wi' mense:

I'll say't, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, tamely, keeps the spence

Sin' Mailie's dead.

 

Or, if he wonders up the howe,

Her living image in her yowe

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

 

She was nae get o' moorland tips,[3]

Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships

Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie dead.

 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape

That vile, wanchancie thing--a rape!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi' chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,

For Mailie dead.

 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!

Come, join the melancholious croon

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 3: VARIATION.

 

'She was nae get o' runted rams,

Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams;

She was the flower o' Farlie lambs,

A famous breed!

Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams

O' Mailie dead.']

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

IV.

 

FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

 

A BROTHER POET

 

[In the summer of 1781, Burns, while at work in the garden, repeated

this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who was much pleased with the

performance, which he considered equal if not superior to some of

Allan Ramsay's Epistles, and said if it were printed he had no doubt

that it would be well received by people of taste.]

 

--_January_, [1784.]

 

 

I.

 

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,

And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,

And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,

That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker and canker

To see their cursed pride.

 

II.

 

It's hardly in a body's power

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd;

How best o' chiels are whiles in want.

While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't;

But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,

Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,

As lang's we're hale and fier:

"Muir spier na, nor fear na,"[4]

Auld age ne'er mind a feg,

The last o't, the warst o't,

Is only but to beg.

 

III.

 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;

Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste

O' truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,

However Fortune kick the ba',

Has ay some cause to smile:

And mind still, you'll find still,

A comfort this nae sma';

Nae mair then, we'll care then,

Nae farther we can fa'.

 

IV.

 

What tho', like commoners of air,

We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hall?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,

And blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound

To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,

We'll sit and sowth a tune;

Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,

And sing't when we hae done.

 

V.

 

It's no in titles nor in rank;

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;

It's no in makin muckle mair;

It's no in books, it's no in lear,

To make us truly blest;

If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,

But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,

Could make us happy lang;

The heart ay's the part ay

That makes us right or wrang.

 

VI.

 

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,

Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,

Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while?

Alas! how aft, in haughty mood

God's creatures they oppress!

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,

They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless

Of either heaven or hell!

Esteeming and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

 

VII.

 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;

Nor make one scanty pleasures less,

By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,

I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,

An's thankfu' for them yet.

They gie the wit of age to youth;

They let us ken oursel';

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill.

Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,

Ye'll find nae other where.

 

VIII.

 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flatt'ry I detest,)

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy:

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,

The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg your dearest part,

And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,

To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!

 

IX.

 

O, all ye pow'rs who rule above!

O, Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,

Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief

And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray'r!

Still take her, and make her

Thy most peculiar care!

 

X.

 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!

The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's thorny ways

Had number'd out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,

In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing hand,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!

 

XI.

 

O, how that name inspires my style

The words come skelpin, rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,

As Phoebus and the famous Nine

Were glowrin owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

'Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

An' rin an unco fit:

But least then, the beast then

Should rue this hasty ride,

I'll light now, and dight now

His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 4: Ramsay.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

V.

 

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

 

A BROTHER POET.

 

[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time

master of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholar

and a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed

at Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his early

comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: he

died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at the

age of seventy.]

 

 

AULD NIBOR,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,

For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;

Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair.

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.

 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;

Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war'ly cares,

Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;

I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until yo fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,

Be hain't who like.

 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin' the words to gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

Commen' me to the Bardie clan;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',

Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin';

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.

 

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,

My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

At hame, a-fiel', at work, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:

The warl' may play you monie a shavie;

But for the Muse she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er so puir,

Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.