THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 20

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 20

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,

My barmie noddle's working prime,

My fancy yerkit it up sublime

Wi' hasty summon:

Hae ye a leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin'?

 

Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash;

Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash:

Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.

 

The star that rules my luckless lot,

Has fated me the russet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But in requit,

Has blest me with a random shot

O' countra wit.

 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent,

To try my fate in guid black prent;

But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries "Hoolie!

I red you, honest man, tak tent!

Ye'll shaw your folly.

 

"There's ither poets much your betters,

Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,

Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,

A' future ages:

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,

Their unknown pages."

 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs,

To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang.

 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed

How never-halting moments speed,

Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;

Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

 

But why o' death begin a tale?

Just now we're living sound and hale,

Then top and maintop crowd the sail,

Heave care o'er side!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

 

This life, sae far's I understand,

Is a' enchanted fairy land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

 

The magic wand then let us wield;

For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,

See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field,

Wi' creepin' pace.

 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin',

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin';

An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',

An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman!

The joy of joys!

 

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,

Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!

Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,

We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,

To joy and play.

 

We wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And tho' the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,

For which they never toil'd nor swat;

They drink the sweet and eat the fat,

But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

 

With steady aim some Fortune chase;

Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;

Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,

And seize the prey;

Then cannie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

 

And others, like your humble servan',

Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin';

To right or left, eternal swervin',

They zig-zag on;

'Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin',

They aften groan.

 

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining--

But truce with peevish, poor complaining!

Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

Let's sing our sang.

 

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore,

"Tho' I should wander terra e'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Ay rowth o' rhymes.

 

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,

Till icicles hing frae their beards;

Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,

And maids of honour!

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds,

Until they sconner.

 

"A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

In cent. per cent.

But give me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

 

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,

I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,

Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,

Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the muses dinna fail

To say the grace."

 

An anxious e'e I never throws

Behint my lug, or by my nose;

I jouk beneath misfortune's blows

As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,

I rhyme away.

 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule,

Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,

Compar'd wi' you--O fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,

Your lives a dyke!

 

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces,

In your unletter'd nameless faces!

In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys,

The rattling squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes--

Ye ken the road--

 

Whilst I--but I shall haud me there--

Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where--

Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXIV.

 

THE VISION.

 

DUAN FIRST.[19]

 

[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be "the only

pieces by Burns which can be classed under the head of pure fiction:"

but Tam O' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equal

right to be classed with works of fiction. The edition of this poem

published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from the edition

which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as

to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection

triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed,

regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far

indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.]

 

 

The sun had clos'd the winter day,

The curlers quat their roaring play,

An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way

To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.

 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree

The lee-lang day had tired me;

And when the day had closed his e'e

Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,

I gaed to rest.

 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,

I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,

That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,

The auld clay biggin';

An' heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin'.

 

All in this mottie, misty clime,

I backward mused on wastet time,

How I had spent my youthfu' prime,

An' done nae thing,

But stringin' blethers up in rhyme,

For fools to sing.

 

Had I to guid advice but harkit,

I might, by this hae led a market,

Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit

My cash-account:

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,

Is a' th' amount.

 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof!

And heav'd on high my waukit loof,

To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath--

 

When, click! the string the snick did draw:

And, jee! the door gaed to the wa';

An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Now bleezin' bright,

A tight outlandish hizzie, braw

Come full in sight.

 

Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht;

The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;

I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht

In some wild glen;

When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,

And stepped ben.

 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs

Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows,

I took her for some Scottish Muse,

By that same token;

An' come to stop those reckless vows,

Wou'd soon be broken.

 

A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace"

Was strongly marked in her face;

A wildly-witty, rustic grace

Shone full upon her:

Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,

Beam'd keen with honour.

 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,

'Till half a leg was scrimply seen:

And such a leg! my bonnie Jean

Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,

Nane else came near it.

 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,

My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw

A lustre grand;

And seem'd to my astonish'd view,

A well-known land.

 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

There, mountains to the skies were tost:

Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,

With surging foam;

There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,

The lordly dome.

 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;

There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:

Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,

On to the shore;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,

With seeming roar.

 

Low, in a sandy valley spread,

An ancient borough rear'd her head;

Still, as in Scottish story read,

She boasts a race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,

And polish'd grace.

 

By stately tow'r, or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,

I could discern;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,

With feature stern.

 

My heart did glowing transport feel,

To see a race[20] heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel

In sturdy blows;

While back-recoiling seem'd to reel

Their southron foes.

 

His Country's Saviour,[21] mark him well!

Bold Richardton's[22] heroic swell;

The chief on Sark[23] who glorious fell,

In high command;

And He whom ruthless fates expel

His native land.

 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade[24]

Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,

I mark'd a martial race portray'd

In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd

They strode along.

 

Thro' many a wild romantic grove,[25]

Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove,

(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,)

In musing mood,

An aged judge, I saw him rove,

Dispensing good.

 

With deep-struck, reverential awe,[26]

The learned sire and son I saw,

To Nature's God and Nature's law,

They gave their lore,

This, all its source and end to draw;

That, to adore.

 

Brydone's brave ward[27] I well could spy,

Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye;

Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,

To hand him on,

Where many a Patriot-name on high

And hero shone.