THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 23

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 23

Enthusiasm's past redemption,

Gaen in a gallopin' consumption,

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,

Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption

Death soon will end her.

 

'Tis you and Taylor[44] are the chief,

Wha are to blame for this mischief,

But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,

A toom tar-barrel,

An' twa red peats wad send relief,

An' end the quarrel.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 44: Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXIX.

 

TO

 

J. LAPRAIK.

 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

 

_April 1st, 1785._

 

(FIRST EPISTLE.)

 

["The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, "was produced

exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term

derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their

spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument

is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of

meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking,

or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement

was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the

phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk

of going with their rokes as well as women."]

 

 

While briers an' woodbines budding green,

An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,

An' morning poussie whidden seen,

Inspire my muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'

I pray excuse.

 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin',

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin',

And there was muckle fun an' jokin',

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin'

At sang about.

 

There was ae sang, amang the rest,

Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,

That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife;

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,

A' to the life.

 

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel,

What gen'rous manly bosoms feel,

Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark?"

They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,

And sae about him there I spier't,

Then a' that ken't him round declar'd

He had injine,

That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine.

 

That, set him to a pint of ale,

An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel',

Or witty catches,

'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death

At some dyke-back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,

Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sel',

Does weel eneugh.

 

I am nae poet in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,

An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet what the matter?

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,

And say, "How can you e'er propose,

You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're may-be wrang.

 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,

Your Latin names for horns an' stools;

If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,

Or knappin-hammers.

 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes!

They gang in stirks and come out asses,

Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek!

 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire!

That's a' the learning I desire;

Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

 

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.

 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,

Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,

Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true--

I'm on your list.

 

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends an' folk that wish me well,

They sometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

 

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

I like the lasses--Gude forgie me!

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,

At dance or fair;

May be some ither thing they gie me

They weel can spare.

 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair;

I should be proud to meet you there!

We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,

If we forgather,

An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware

Wi' ane anither.

 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,

An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water;

Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,

To cheer our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better,

Before we part.

 

Awa, ye selfish, warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,

Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place

To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

 

But ye whom social pleasure charms,

Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

"Each aid the others,"

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

 

But, to conclude my lang epistle,

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXX.

 

To

 

J. LAPRAIK.

 

(SECOND EPISTLE.)

 

[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at

Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic worshipper

of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western

bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his

distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, beginning

 

"When I upon thy bosom lean."

 

He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved

that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled

power of soul.]

 

 

_April 21st_, 1785.

 

While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake,

An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,

This hour on e'enin's edge I take

To own I'm debtor,

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs,

Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,

Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten hours' bite,

My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,

I would na write.

 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,

She's saft at best, and something lazy,

Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy,

This month' an' mair,

That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,

An' something sair."

 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad:

"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad!

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,

This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

 

"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,

Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,

Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts,

An' thank him kindly?"

 

Sae I gat paper in a blink

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink:

Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;

An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!"

 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether

In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither,

Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;

But I shall scribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof.

 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,

Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp;

Come, kittle up your moorland-harp

Wi' gleesome touch!

Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp;

She's but a b--tch.

 

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,

Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;

But, by the L--d, tho' I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,

As lang's I dow!

 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer,

I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

 

Do ye envy the city gent,

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.

And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A bailie's name?

 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,

Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane,

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks!

 

"O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!

Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

In a' their pride!"

 

Were this the charter of our state,

"On pain' o' hell be rich an' great,"

Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

 

For thus the royal mandate ran,

When first the human race began,

"The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

An' none but he!"

 

O mandate, glorious and divine!

The followers o' the ragged Nine,

Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shine

In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,

Their worthless nievfu' of a soul

May in some future carcase howl

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,

To reach their native kindred skies,

And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,

In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each passing year!

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXXI.

 

TO

 

J. LAPRAIK.

 

(THIRD EPISTLE.)

 

[I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with

a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the

ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred,

however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin

one, and instanced, "tapetless," "ramfeezled," and "forjesket," as

intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen,

strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.]

 

 

_Sept._ 13th, 1785.

 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny,

Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonny;

Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y

To clear your head.

 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,

Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags

Come to the sack.

 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it,

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it,

Like ony clark.

 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor

For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,

Abusin' me for harsh ill nature

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better,

But mair profane.