THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 26

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 26

"Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,

If bardies e'er are represented,

I ken if that yere sword were wanted

Ye'd lend yere hand;

But when there's aught to say anent it

Yere at a stand."

 

The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think the compliment to

his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to his unready

tongue, and omitted the stanza.]

 

 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,

Wha represent our brughs an' shires,

An' doucely manage our affairs

In Parliament,

To you a simple Bardie's prayers

Are humbly sent.

 

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!

Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin' on her a--e

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin' out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust!

 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,

Scotland an' me's in great affliction,

E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction

On aqua-vitæ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier youth,

The honest, open, naked truth:

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,

His servants humble:

The muckie devil blaw ye south,

If ye dissemble!

 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?

Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!

Let posts an' pensions sink or soom

Wi' them wha grant 'em:

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want 'em.

 

In gath'rin votes you were na slack;

Now stand as tightly by your tack;

Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,

An' hum an' haw;

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack

Before them a'.

 

Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrizzle,

Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle:

An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle,

Seizin' a stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel

Or lampit shell.

 

Then on the tither hand present her,

A blackguard smuggler, right behint her,

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner,

Colleaguing join,

Picking her pouch as bare as winter

Of a' kind coin.

 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,

But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,

To see his poor auld mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat

By gallows knaves?

 

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,

Trode i' the mire out o' sight!

But could I like Montgomeries fight,

Or gab like Boswell,

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,

An' tie some hose well.

 

God bless your honours, can ye see't,

The kind, auld, canty carlin greet,

An' no get warmly on your feet,

An' gar them hear it!

An' tell them with a patriot heat,

Ye winna bear it?

 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,

To round the period an' pause,

An' wi' rhetorie clause on clause

To mak harangues:

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran';

Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;[46]

An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron,

The Laird o' Graham;[47]

An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarren,

Dundas his name.

 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;

True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay;

An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie:

An' monie ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

Might own for brithers.

 

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,

To get auld Scotland back her kettle:

Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,

Ye'll see't or lang,

She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle,

Anither sang.

 

This while she's been in crankous mood,

Her lost militia fir'd her bluid;

(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud

About her whiskey.

 

An' L--d, if once they pit her till't,

Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,

An' durk an' pistol at her belt,

She'll tak the streets,

An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' th' first she meets!

 

For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair,

An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,

An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,

To get remead.

 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,

May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;

But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the cadie!

An' send him to his dicing box,

An' sportin' lady.

 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's[48]

Nine times a-week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly seek.

 

Could he some commutation broach,

I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,

He need na fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,

The Coalition.

 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;

She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An' if she promise auld or young

To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be strung,

She'll no desert.

 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,

May still your mither's heart support ye,

Then, though a minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

 

God bless your honours a' your days,

Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,

That haunt St. Jamie's:

Your humble Poet signs an' prays

While Rab his name is.

 

POSTscRIPT.

 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies

See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe and frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

Tak aff their whiskey.

 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,

While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!

When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonour arms

In hungry droves.

 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther;

They downa bide the stink o' powther;

Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring swither

To stan' or rin,

Till skelp--a shot--they're aff, a' throther

To save their skin.

 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,

Clap in his check a Highland gill,

Say, such is royal George's will,

An' there's the foe,

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

 

Nae could faint-hearted doubtings tease him;

Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;

Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him

In faint huzzas!

 

Sages their solemn een may steek,

An' raise a philosophic reek,

An' physically causes seek,

In clime an' season;

But tell me whiskey's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reason.

 

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!

Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,

Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather

Ye tine your dam;

Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!--

Tak aff your dram!

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 46: Sir Adam Ferguson.]

 

[Footnote 47: The Duke of Montrose.]

 

[Footnote 48: A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where

he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XXXIX.

 

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID,

 

OR THE

 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

 

"My son, these maxims make a rule,

And lump them ay thegither;

The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

The Rigid Wise anither:

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight

May hae some pyles o' caff in;

So ne'er a fellow-creature slight

For random fits o' daffin."

 

SOLOMON.--Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

 

["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, "has written more from

his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External

nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven

and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains

of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed,

was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite

snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what

fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of

many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were,

to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted

to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they

owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet

found pleasure.]

 

 

I.

 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel',

Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell

Your neibor's fauts and folly!

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,

Supply'd wi' store o' water,

The heaped happer's ebbing still,

And still the clap plays clatter.

 

II.

 

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,

That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door

For glaikit Folly's portals;

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,

Would here propone defences,

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,

Their failings and mischances.

 

III.

 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd,

And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment's fair regard,

What maks the mighty differ?

Discount what scant occasion gave,

That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)

Your better art o' hiding.

 

IV.

 

Think, when your castigated pulse

Gies now and then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse,

That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;

But in the teeth o' baith to sail,

It makes an unco lee-way.

 

V.

 

See social life and glee sit down,

All joyous and unthinking,

'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown

Debauchery and drinking;

O would they stay to calculate

Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,

D--mnation of expenses!

 

VI.

 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,

Ty'd up in godly laces,

Before ye gie poor frailty names,

Suppose a change o' cases;

A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,

A treacherous inclination--

But, let me whisper, i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

 

VII.

 

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman;

Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,

To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving why they do it:

And just as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.

 

VIII.

 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord--its various tone,

Each spring--its various bias:

Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XL.

 

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.[49]

 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

 

POPE.

 

[Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who loved a

good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he

expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint Burns

wrote the Elegy: when Tam heard o' this he waited on the poet, caused

him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the

dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per

Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death

the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. "This poem has

always," says Hogg, "been a great country favourite: it abounds with

happy __EXPRESSION__s.

 

'In vain the burns cam' down like waters,

An acre braid.'

 

What a picture of a flooded burn! any other poet would have given us a

long description: Burns dashes it down at once in a style so graphic

no one can mistake it.

 

'Perhaps upon his mouldering breast

Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.'

 

Match that sentence who can."]

 

 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?

Or great M'Kinlay[50] thrawn his heel?

Or Robinson[51] again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

"Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel,

Tam Samson's dead!

 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane,

An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean,

In mourning weed;

To death, she's dearly paid the kane,

Tam Samson's dead!