Learn three-mile pray’rs, an’ half-mile graces, Wi’ weel-spread looves, an’ lang, wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan, And damn a’ parties but your own; I’ll warrant they ye’re nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin! Ye sons of Heresy and Error, Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror, When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath. And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav’n commission gies him; While o’er the harp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, sir, for this digression: I maist forgat my Dedication; But when divinity comes ’cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me.
So, sir, you see ’twas nae daft vapour; But I maturely thought it proper, When a’ my works I did review, To dedicate them, sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill), I thought them something like yoursel’.
Then patronize them wi’ your favor, And your petitioner shall ever— I had amaist said, ever pray, But that’s a word I need na say; For prayin, I hae little skill o’t, I’m baith dead-sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t; But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r, That kens or hears about you, sir—
“May ne’er Misfortune’s gowling bark, Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk! May ne’er his genrous, honest heart, For that same gen’rous spirit smart! May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonie lasses round their table, And sev’n braw fellows, stout an’ able, To serve their king an’ country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days; Till his wee, curlie John’s ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!”
I will not wind a lang conclusion, With complimentary effusion; But, whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours, I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.
But if (which Pow’rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended, in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor? But, by a poor man’s hopes in Heav’n! While recollection’s pow’r is giv’n— If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune’s strife, I, thro’ the tender-gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear; If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand—my Friend and Brother!
Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline
Friday first’s the day appointed By the Right Worshipful anointed,
To hold our grand procession; To get a blad o’ Johnie’s morals, And taste a swatch o’ Manson’s barrels
I’ the way of our profession. The Master and the Brotherhood Would a’ be glad to see you; For me I would be mair than proud
To share the mercies wi’ you. If Death, then, wi’ skaith, then, Some mortal heart is hechtin, Inform him, and storm him, That Saturday you’ll fecht him.
Robert Burns. Mossgiel, An. M. 5790.
The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton.
Tune—“Guidnight, and joy be wi’ you a’.”
Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu; Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favoured, enlighten’d few, Companions of my social joy; Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’; With melting heart, and brimful eye, I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa.
Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft, honour’d with supreme command, Presided o’er the sons of light: And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but Craftsmen ever saw Strong Mem’ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes, when far awa.
May Freedom, Harmony, and Love, Unite you in the grand Design, Beneath th’ Omniscient Eye above, The glorious Architect Divine, That you may keep th’ unerring line, Still rising by the plummet’s law, Till Order bright completely shine, Shall be my pray’r when far awa.
And you, farewell! whose merits claim Justly that highest badge to wear: Heav’n bless your honour’d noble name, To Masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here,— When yearly ye assemble a’, One round, I ask it with a tear, To him, the Bard that’s far awa.
On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies
A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink, A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, A’ ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi’ me! Our billie ’s gien us a’ a jink, An’ owre the sea!
Lament him a’ ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random splore; Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar; In social key; For now he’s taen anither shore. An’ owre the sea!
The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him: The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him Wi’ tearfu’ e’e; For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him That’s owre the sea!
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble, ’Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That’s owre the sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear; ’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee: He was her Laureat mony a year, That’s owre the sea!
He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be! So, took a berth afore the mast, An’ owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune’s cummock, On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock, Wi’ his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock, An’ owre the sea.
He ne’er was gien to great misguidin, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The Muse was a’ that he took pride in, That’s owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An’ hap him in cozie biel: Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel, An’ fou o’ glee: He wad na wrang’d the vera deil, That’s owre the sea.
Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonilie! I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie, Tho’ owre the sea!
Song—Farewell To Eliza
Tune—“Gilderoy.”
From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean’s roar: But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more! But the latest throb that leaves my heart, While Death stands victor by,— That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh!
A Bard’s Epitaph
Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, Wild as the wave, Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear, Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn the wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain’d his name!
Reader, attend! whether thy soul Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit: Know, prudent, cautious, self-control Is wisdom’s root.
Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq.
Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov’d, much honoured name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.