THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 14

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 14

VI.

 

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

 

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,

That led th' embattled Seraphim to war."

 

MILTON

 

[The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes

moved the heart on one of the coldest of our critics. "It was, I

think," says Gilbert Burns, "in the winter of 1784, as we were going

with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the

particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the 'Address to the

Deil.' The idea of the address was suggested to him by running over in

his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august

personage."]

 

 

O thou! whatever title suit thee,

Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,

Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,

An' let poor damned bodies be;

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us squeel!

 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;

Far kend an' noted is thy name;

An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

 

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,

For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;

Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin,

Tirlin the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

 

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way

Wi' eldricht croon.

 

When twilight did my Graunie summon,

To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!

Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,

Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sough.

 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake.

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quaick--

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,

Tell how wi' you, on rag weed nags,

They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags

Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues

Owre howkit dead.

 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,

May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain:

For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen

As yell's the bill.

 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse

On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;

When the best wark-lume i' the house

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit,

 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An' float the jinglin icy-boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction;

An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

 

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies

Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is,

The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys

Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.

 

When masons' mystic word an' grip

In storms an' tempests raise you up,

Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,

Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell!

 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard,

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,

An' all the soul of love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward,

In shady bow'r:

 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise incog.

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant world a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,

Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house an' hall,

While scabs an' botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava?

 

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,

A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin

To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you yet.

 

But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken--

Still hae a stake--

I'm wae to think upo' yon den

Ev'n for your sake!

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

[Illustration: "AULD MARE MAGGIE."]

 

VII.

 

THE AULD FARMER'S

 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS

 

AULD MARE MAGGIE,

 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR

 

["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to address or mention any

subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there

is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the

heart." The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of knight-errant, and

loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and well he might:

she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from

wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffest land; faced the steepest

brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness

of the loveliness of the load.]

 

 

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie:

Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,

I've seen the day

Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie

Out-owre the lay.

 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,

An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy,

I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie,

A bonny gray:

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,

Ance in a day.

 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,

A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank,

An set weel down a shapely shank,

As e'er tread yird;

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,

Like ony bird.

 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,

Sin' thou was my guid-father's Meere;

He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

An' fifty mark;

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

An' thou was stark.

 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,

Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie:

Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny,

Ye ne'er was donsie:

But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie,

An' unco sonsie.

 

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,

When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:

An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,

Wi' maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,

For sic a pair.

 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,

An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day, ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,

Far, far, behin'!

 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,

An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,

An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,

An' ca't thee mad.

 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,

We took the road ay like a swallow:

At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed;

But every tail thou pay't them hollow,

Where'er thou gaed.

 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,

Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,

An' gar't them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle

O' saugh or hazle.

 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn:

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

In guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'

For days thegither.

 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit,

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

Wi' pith an' pow'r,

'Till spiritty knowes wad rair't and risket,

An' slypet owre.

 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,

An' threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

 

In cart or car thou never reestit;

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;

Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,

Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,

Thou snoov't awa.

 

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a';

Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;

Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,

The vera worst.

 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

An, wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day, I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,

Wi' something yet.

 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan',

That now perhaps thou's less deservin,

An' thy auld days may end in starvin,

For my last fow,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

 

We've worn to crazy years thegither;

We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;

Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

VIII.

 

TO A HAGGIS.

 

[The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its

merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both

are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose the

former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains

them; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four

quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the

minced pie the triumph of wealth.]

 

 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o' 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 o'er 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' bloody 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,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

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

Gie her a Haggis!