THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 18

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 18

O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,

Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,

A' for thy glory,

And no for ony gude or ill

They've done afore thee!

 

I bless and praise thy matchless might,

Whan thousands thou hast left in night,

That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts and grace,

A burnin' and a shinin' light

To a' this place.

 

What was I, or my generation,

That I should get sic exaltation,

I wha deserve sic just damnation,

For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,

Thro' Adam's cause.

 

When frae my mither's womb I fell,

Thou might hae plunged me in hell,

To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,

In burnin' lake,

Whar damned devils roar and yell,

Chain'd to a stake.

 

Yet I am here a chosen sample;

To show thy grace is great and ample;

I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example,

To a' thy flock.

 

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,

At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;

And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,

Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defil'd in sin.

 

O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi' Meg--

Thy pardon I sincerely beg,

O! may't ne'er be a livin' plague

To my dishonour,

An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.

 

Besides, I farther maun allow,

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow--

But Lord, that Friday I was fou,

When I came near her,

Or else, thou kens, thy servant true

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn,

Beset thy servant e'en and morn,

Lest he owre high and proud should turn,

'Cause he's sae gifted;

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne

Until thou lift it.

 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,

For here thou hast a chosen race:

But God confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace

And public shame.

 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,

He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts,

Yet has sae mony takin' arts,

Wi' grit and sma',

Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts

He steals awa.

 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore,

Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,

As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us;--

Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail and potatoes.

 

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare

Upo' their heads,

Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare,

For their misdeeds.

 

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,

My very heart and saul are quakin',

To think how we stood groanin', shakin',

And swat wi' dread,

While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin'

And hung his head.

 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,

Lord, visit them wha did employ him,

And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,

Nor hear their pray'r;

But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,

And dinna spare.

 

But, Lord, remember me an mine,

Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,

That I for gear and grace may shine,

Excell'd by nane,

And a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen!

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XVIII.

 

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

 

[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, that when he was clerk in

Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns came in one morning and said, "I have

just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat

it." He repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph; Hamilton came in at

the moment, and having read them with delight, ran laughing with them

in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy Willie was other than

godly; in one of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was

needful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found dead in the

morning.]

 

 

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay

Takes up its last abode;

His saul has ta'en some other way,

I fear the left-hand road.

 

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,

Poor, silly body, see him;

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,

Observe wha's standing wi' him.

 

Your brunstane devilship I see,

Has got him there before ye;

But hand your nine-tail cat a wee,

Till ance you've heard my story.

 

Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye hae nane;

Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,

And mercy's day is gaen.

 

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,

Look something to your credit;

A coof like him wad stain your name,

If it were kent ye did it.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XIX.

 

THE INVENTORY;

 

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR

 

OF THE TAXES.

 

[We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humorous inventory of

his effects, so moved the commissioners of the income tax, that they

remitted all claim on him then and forever; we know not that this very

humorous inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the

surveyor of the taxes. It is dated "Mossgiel, February 22d, 1786," and

is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the information which

it gives us of the poet's habits, household, and agricultural

implements.]

 

 

Sir, as your mandate did request,

I send you here a faithfu' list,

O' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith,

To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

 

_Imprimis_, then, for carriage cattle,

I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,

As ever drew afore a pettle.

My lan' afore's[8] a gude auld has been,

An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been.

My lan ahin's[9] a weel gaun fillie,

That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,[10]

An' your auld burro' mony a time,

In days when riding was nae crime--

But ance, whan in my wooing pride,

I like a blockhead boost to ride,

The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,

(L--d pardon a' my sins an' that too!)

I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,

She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie.

My fur ahin's[11] a wordy beast,

As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd.

The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,

A d--n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie!

Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale,

As ever ran afore a tail.

If he be spar'd to be a beast,

He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.--

Wheel carriages I ha'e but few,

Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;

Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,

Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken;

I made a poker o' the spin'le,

An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

 

For men I've three mischievous boys,

Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise;

A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other.

Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.

I rule them as I ought, discreetly,

An' aften labour them completely;

An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly,

I on the Questions targe them tightly;

Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg,

Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,

He'll screed you aff Effectual calling,

As fast as ony in the dwalling.

I've nane in female servan' station,

(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!)

I ha'e nae wife--and that my bliss is,

An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;

An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,

I ken the devils darena touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,

Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted.

My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess,

She stares the daddy in her face,

Enough of ought ye like but grace;

But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,

I've paid enough for her already,

An' gin ye tax her or her mither,

B' the L--d! ye'se get them a'thegither.

 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,

Nae kind of license out I'm takin';

Frae this time forth, I do declare

I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;

My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,

I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit.

The kirk and you may tak' you that,

It puts but little in your pat;

Sae dinna put me in your buke.

Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

 

This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it,

the day and date as under noted;

Then know all ye whom it concerns,

 

_Subscripsi huic_ ROBERT BURNS.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 8: The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.]

 

[Footnote 9: The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.]

 

[Footnote 10: Kilmarnock.]

 

[Footnote 11: The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XX.

 

THE HOLY FAIR.

 

A robe of seeming truth and trust

Did crafty observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,

The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget show'd,

Dye-varying on the pigeon;

And for a mantle large and broad,

He wrapt him in Religion.

 

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

 

[The scene of this fine poem is the church-yard of Mauchline, and the

subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners

visible in matters so solemn and terrible as the administration of the

sacrament. "This was indeed," says Lockhart, "an extraordinary

performance: no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had

formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in

the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to

respect, were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the

sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in

the hands of a national poet." "It is no doubt," says Hogg, "a

reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever one, and must have cut to

the bone. But much as I admire the poem I must regret that it is

partly borrowed from Ferguson."]

 

 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin';

The hares were hirplin down the furs,

The lav'rocks they were chantin'

Fu' sweet that day.

 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,

To see a scene sae gay,

Three hizzies, early at the road,

Cam skelpin up the way;

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,

Was in the fashion shining

Fu' gay that day.

 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,

In feature, form, an' claes;

Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin,

An' sour as ony slaes:

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,

As light as ony lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,

I think ye seem to ken me;

I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,

But yet I canna name ye."

Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,

An' taks me by the hands,

"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck,

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

 

"My name is Fun--your cronie dear,

The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair,

To spend an hour in daffin:

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We will get famous laughin'

At them this day."

 

Quoth I, "With a' my heart I'll do't;

I'll get my Sunday's sark on,

An' meet you on the holy spot;

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!"

Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time

An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,

Wi' monie a wearie body,

In droves that day.

 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith

Gaed hoddin by their cottars;

There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

Are springin' o'er the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,

An' farls bak'd wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

 

When by the plate we set our nose,

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,

A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,

An' we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show,

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin',

Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools,

An' some are busy blethrin'

Right loud that day.

 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,

An' screen our countra gentry,

There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res,

Are blinkin' at the entry.

Here sits a raw of titlin' jades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,

An' there's a batch o' wabster lads,

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock

For fun this day.