THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 25

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 25

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.

 

[Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wodrow,

minister of Tarbolton: he was a good preacher, a moderate man in

matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys.

His dependent condition depressed his spirits: he grew dissipated; and

finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, and died in a

foreign land.]

 

 

_Sept. 17th, 1785._

 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet,

Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they should blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it

And anathem her.

 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,

That I, a simple countra bardie,

Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Lowse hell upon me.

 

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces,

Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,

Their raxin' conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces,

Waur nor their nonsense.

 

There's Gaun,[45] miska't waur than a beast,

Wha has mair honour in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus't him.

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use't him.

 

See him, the poor man's friend in need,

The gentleman in word an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts

To gie the rascals their deserts,

I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,

An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,

Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,

But twenty times, I rather wou'd be

An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colours hid be

Just for a screen.

 

An honest man may like a glass,

An honest man may like a lass,

But mean revenge, an' malice fause

He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

 

They take religion in their mouth;

They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,

For what?--to gie their malice skouth

On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth,

To ruin straight.

 

All hail, Religion! maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,

Who in her rough imperfect line,

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatize false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

 

Tho' blotch'd an' foul wi' mony a stain,

An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain

To join with those,

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

In spite o' foes:

 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,

In spite of undermining jobs,

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,

But hellish spirit.

 

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,

Within thy presbyterial bound

A candid lib'ral band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too, renown'd,

An' manly preachers.

 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,

(Which gies you honour,)

Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

An' winning manner.

 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,

An' if impertinent I've been,

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ye.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 45: Gavin Hamilton, Esq.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXXVI.

 

TO A MOUSE,

 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,

 

NOVEMBER, 1785.

 

[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the

plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out: and a

man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard

at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he

was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what harm the poor mouse

had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman,

who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands,

and said, "What think you of our mouse now?"]

 

 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin;

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen!

 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary winter comin' fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

'Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men,

Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,

For promis'd joy.

 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXXVII.

 

SCOTCH DRINK.

 

"Gie him strong drink, until he wink,

That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief an' care;

There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more."

 

SOLOMON'S PROVERB, xxxi. 6, 7.

 

["I here enclose you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to his friend

Kennedy, "my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk,

to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock: when I intend we

shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."]

 

 

Let other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,

An' crabbit names and stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,

In glass or jug.

 

O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;

Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,

Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,

To sing thy name!

 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,

An' aits set up their awnie horn,

An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn,

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain!

 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

In souple scones, the wale o' food!

Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.

 

Food fills the wame an' keeps us livin';

Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'

When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin';

But, oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,'

Wi' rattlin' glee.

 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;

Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;

Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,

At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile.

 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,

Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

 

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs an' rants?

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspir'd,

When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

 

That merry night we get the corn in,

O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!

Or reekin' on a new-year morning

In cog or dicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,

An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,

O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath

I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like Death

At ev'ry chap.

 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;

The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,

Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

 

When skirlin' weanies see the light,

Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,

How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

 

When neibors anger at a plea,

An' just as wud as wud can be,

How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

 

Alake! that e'er my muse has reason

To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!

But monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!

Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!

Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,

O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor plackless devils like mysel',

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

 

May gravels round his blather wrench,

An' gouts torment him inch by inch,

Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch

Wi' honest men;

 

O whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks!

Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses!

Thou comes--they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's a----s!

 

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!

Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,

Is ta'en awa.

 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,

Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize!

Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d--n'd drinkers.

 

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill,

An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak' a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXXVIII.

 

THE AUTHOR'S

 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER

 

TO THE

 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES

 

IN THE

 

HOUSE OF COMMONS.

 

'Dearest of distillation! last and best!----

------How art thou lost!--------'

 

PARODY ON MILTON

 

["This Poem was written," says Burns, "before the act anent the

Scottish distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the

author return their most grateful thanks." Before the passing of this

lenient act, so sharp was the law in the North, that some distillers

relinquished their trade; the price of barley was affected, and

Scotland, already exasperated at the refusal of a militia, for which

she was a petitioner, began to handle her claymore, and was perhaps

only hindered from drawing it by the act mentioned by the poet. In an

early copy of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh Montgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton:--