THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 15

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 15

IX.

 

A PRAYER,

 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

 

["There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, "that my spirit

was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and

indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by

the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy.

In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet

shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid

intervals, in one of which I composed the following."]

 

 

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art

Surpasses me to know;

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all Thy works below.

 

Thy creature here before Thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul

Obey Thy high behest.

 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,

Or close them fast in death!

 

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then, man my soul with firm resolves

To bear and not repine!

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

X.

 

A PRAYER

 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

 

[I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by

scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the

Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning

is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion

overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful to

the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o'ermastering gifts.]

 

 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear?

In whose dread presence, ere an hour

Perhaps I must appear!

 

If I have wander'd in those paths

Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,

Remonstrates I have done;

 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me,

With passions wild and strong;

And list'ning to their witching voice

Has often led me wrong.

 

Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art,

In shades of darkness hide.

 

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XI.

 

STANZAS

 

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

 

[These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls "Misgivings in

the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death." He elsewhere says they

were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms of a

pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, first put nature on the

alarm.]

 

 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

How I so found it full of pleasing charms?

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;

I tremble to approach an angry God,

And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

 

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"

Fain promise never more to disobey;

But, should my Author health again dispense,

Again I might desert fair virtue's way:

Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man;

Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

 

O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,

Or still the tumult of the raging sea:

With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me

Those headlong furious passions to confine;

For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;

O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XII.

 

A WINTER NIGHT.

 

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are

That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!

How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you

From seasons such as these?"

 

SHAKSPEARE.

 

["This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, "is worth several

homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns,

indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms

of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."]

 

 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;

When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r

Far south the lift,

Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r,

Or whirling drift:

 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,

Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,

While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,

Wild-eddying swirl.

Or through the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

 

Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle,

I thought me on the ourie cattle,

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle

Beneath a scar.

 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,

That, in the merry months o' spring,

Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,

An' close thy e'e?

 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,

Lone from your savage homes exiled,

The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled

My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,

Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;

Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,

Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain

Slow, solemn, stole:--

 

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!

And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost:

Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!

Not all your rage, as now united, shows

More hard unkindness, unrelenting,

Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows;

See stern oppression's iron grip,

Or mad ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!

Even in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side,

The parasite empoisoning her ear.

With all the servile wretches in the rear,

Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;

And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glittering show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,

Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,

With lordly honour's lofty brow,

The powers you proudly own?

Is there, beneath love's noble name,

Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,

To bless himself alone!

Mark maiden innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares,

This boasted honour turns away,

Shunning soft pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!

Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest,

She strains your infant to her joyless breast,

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create,

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,

Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call,

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,

While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!

Think on the dungeon's grim confine,

Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!

Guilt, erring man, relenting view!

But shall thy legal rage pursue

The wretch, already crushed low

By cruel fortune's undeserved blow?

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer

Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hailed the morning with a cheer--

A cottage-rousing craw!

 

But deep this truth impressed my mind--

Through all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles GOD.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XIII.

 

REMORSE.

 

A FRAGMENT.

 

["I entirely agree," says Burns, "with the author of the _Theory of

Moral Sentiments_, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment that can

embitter the human bosom; an ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up

admirably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we

ourselves have had no hand; but when our follies or crimes have made

us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time

have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious

effort of self-command."]

 

 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,

Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.

In every other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'

But when to all the evil of misfortune

This sting is added--'Blame thy foolish self!'

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,--

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!

O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,

There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;

And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?

O, happy! happy! enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XIV.

 

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.

 

A CANTATA.

 

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet

lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces,

by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have surmised that

it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the

original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put

into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by

Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigen-gillan;

the song of "For a' that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with

his name, in the _Musical Museum_ of February, 1790. Cromek admired,

yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in the _Reliques_, for

which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in the _Quarterly

Review._ The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nancy had

her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is

supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been

given.]

 

 

RECITATIVO.

 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,

Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;

When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte

And infant frosts begin to bite,

In hoary cranreuch drest;

Ae night at e'en a merry core

O' randie, gangrel bodies,

In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,

To drink their orra duddies:

Wi' quaffing and laughing,

They ranted an' they sang;

Wi' jumping and thumping,

The vera girdle rang.

 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,

Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,

And knapsack a' in order;

His doxy lay within his arm,

Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm--

She blinket on her sodger:

An' ay he gies the tozie drab

The tither skelpin' kiss,

While she held up her greedy gab

Just like an aumous dish.

Ilk smack still, did crack still,

Just like a cadger's whip,

Then staggering and swaggering

He roar'd this ditty up--

 

AIR.

 

Tune--"_Soldiers' Joy._"

 

I am a son of Mars,

Who have been in many wars,

And show my cuts and scars

Wherever I come;

This here was for a wench,

And that other in a trench,

When welcoming the French

At the sound of the drum.

Lal de daudle, &c.

 

My 'prenticeship I past

Where my leader breath'd his last,

When the bloody die was cast

On the heights of Abram;

I served out my trade

When the gallant game was play'd,

And the Moro low was laid

At the sound of the drum.

Lal de daudle, &c.

 

I lastly was with Curtis,

Among the floating batt'ries,

And there I left for witness

An arm and a limb;

Yet let my country need me,

With Elliot to head me,

I'd clatter on my stumps

At the sound of a drum.

Lal de dandle, &c.

 

And now tho' I must beg,

With a wooden arm and leg,

And many a tatter'd rag

Hanging over my bum

I'm as happy with my wallet,

My bottle and my callet,

As when I used in scarlet

To follow a drum.

Lal de daudle, &c.

 

What tho' with hoary locks

I must stand the winter shocks,

Beneath the woods and rocks

Oftentimes for a home,

When the tother bag I sell,

And the tother bottle tell,

I could meet a troop of hell,

At the sound of a drum.

Lal de daudle, &c.

 

RECITATIVO.

 

He ended; and kebars sheuk

Aboon the chorus roar;

While frighted rattons backward leuk,

And seek the benmost bore;

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,

He skirl'd out--encore!

But up arose the martial Chuck,

And laid the loud uproar.

 

AIR.