He felt the powerful, high behest Thrill, vital, thro’ and thro’; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due: Propitious Powers screen’d the young flow’rs, From mildews of abortion; And low! the bard—a great reward— Has got a double portion!
Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns, The third of Libra’s equal sway, That gave another Burns, With future rhymes, an’ other times, To emulate his sire: To sing auld Coil in nobler style With more poetic fire.
Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes; And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys; Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow’r of ancient nations; And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, To endless generations!
Song—Willie Chalmers
Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:—
Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I’m got astride, And up Parnassus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi’ donwward crush, The doited beastie stammers; Then up he gets, and off he sets, For sake o’ Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na, lass, that weel ken’d name May cost a pair o’ blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, Tho’ wair’d on Willie Chalmers.
Auld Truth hersel’ might swear yer’e fair, And Honour safely back her; And Modesty assume your air, And ne’er a ane mistak her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers; Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart’s the royal blue, And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin’, glowrin’ countra laird May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And hoast up some palaver: My bonie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa wi’ Willie Chalmers.
Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom, Inspires my Muse to gie ’m his dues For deil a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours,— And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.
Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor
What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch, Your bodkin’s bauld; I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld.
What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, An’ jag-the-flea!
King David, o’ poetic brief, Wrocht ’mang the lasses sic mischief As filled his after-life wi’ grief, An’ bluidy rants, An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief O’ lang-syne saunts.
And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants, My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants, I’ll gie auld cloven’s Clootie’s haunts An unco slip yet, An’ snugly sit amang the saunts, At Davie’s hip yet!
But, fegs! the session says I maun Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan Than garrin lasses coup the cran, Clean heels ower body, An’ sairly thole their mother’s ban Afore the howdy.
This leads me on to tell for sport, How I did wi’ the Session sort; Auld Clinkum, at the inner port, Cried three times, “Robin! Come hither lad, and answer for’t, Ye’re blam’d for jobbin!”
Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on, An’ snoov’d awa before the Session: I made an open, fair confession— I scorn’t to lee, An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o’ me.
A fornicator-loun he call’d me, An’ said my faut frae bliss expell’d me; I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me, “But, what the matter? (Quo’ I) I fear unless ye geld me, I’ll ne’er be better!”
“Geld you! (quo’ he) an’ what for no? If that your right hand, leg or toe Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe, You should remember To cut it aff—an’ what for no Your dearest member?”
“Na, na, (quo’ I,) I’m no for that, Gelding’s nae better than ’tis ca’t; I’d rather suffer for my faut A hearty flewit, As sair owre hip as ye can draw’t, Tho’ I should rue it.
“Or, gin ye like to end the bother, To please us a’—I’ve just ae ither— When next wi’ yon lass I forgather, Whate’er betide it, I’ll frankly gie her ’t a’ thegither, An’ let her guide it.”
But, sir, this pleas’d them warst of a’, An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw, I said “Gude night,” an’ cam’ awa’, An’ left the Session; I saw they were resolved a’ On my oppression.
The Brigs Of Ayr
A Poem
Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton’d plovers grey, wild-whistling o’er the hill; Shall he—nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel’d. And train’d to arms in stern Misfortune’s field— Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose? No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. Still, if some patron’s gen’rous care he trace, Skill’d in the secret, to bestow with grace; When Ballantine befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.
’Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, Unnumber’d buds an’ flow’rs’ delicious spoils, Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom’d by Man, that tyrant o’er the weak, The death o’ devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek: The thundering guns are heard on ev’ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs, Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee, Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays.
’Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, Unknown and poor—simplicity’s reward!— Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson’s^1 wheel’d the left about: (Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander’d out, he knew not where or why:) The drowsy Dungeon-clock^2 had number’d two, and Wallace Tower^2 had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swoln firth, with sullen-sounding roar, Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore. All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e; The silent moon shone high o’er tower and tree; The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o’er the glittering stream— When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air; Swift as the gos^3 drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The other flutters o’er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcried The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, And even the very deils they brawly ken them). Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.