[Footnote 10: The house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]
Prayer—O Thou Dread Power
Lying at a reverend friend’s house one night, the author left the following verses in the room where he slept:—
O Thou dread Power, who reign’st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love, I make this prayer sincere.
The hoary Sire—the mortal stroke, Long, long be pleas’d to spare; To bless this little filial flock, And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother’s joys, But spare a mother’s tears!
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth. In manhood’s dawning blush, Bless him, Thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent’s wish.
The beauteous, seraph sister-band— With earnest tears I pray— Thou know’st the snares on ev’ry hand, Guide Thou their steps alway.
When, soon or late, they reach that coast, O’er Life’s rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wand’rer lost, A family in Heaven!
Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr
Tune—“Roslin Castle.”
“I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.”—R. B.
The gloomy night is gath’ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatt’red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn By early Winter’s ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.
’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc’d with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those: The bursting tears my heart declare— Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!
Address To The Toothache
My curse upon your venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang, An’ thro’ my lug gies mony a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases— Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup!
In a’ the numerous human dools, Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy frien’s rak’d i’ the mools,— Sad sight to see! The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’fools, Thou bear’st the gree!
Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, Where a’ the tones o’ misery yell, An’ ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell, Amang them a’!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o’ discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore, a shoe-thick, Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal A townmond’s toothache!
Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1
This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third,
[Footnote 1: At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]
A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprackl’d up the brae, I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.
I’ve been at drucken writers’ feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly priests— Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken!— I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi’ a Lord!—stand out my shin, A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son! Up higher yet, my bonnet An’ sic a Lord!—lang Scoth ells twa, Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’, As I look o’er my sonnet.
But O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r! To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r, An’ how he star’d and stammer’d, When, goavin, as if led wi’ branks, An’ stumpin on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer’d.
I sidying shelter’d in a nook, An’ at his Lordship steal’t a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee, An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon.
I watch’d the symptoms o’ the Great, The gentle pride, the lordly state, The arrogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman.
Then from his Lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel’s another; Nae honest, worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother.
Masonic Song
Tune—“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I’ve little to say, but only to pray, As praying’s the ton of your fashion; A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse ’Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide, Who marked each element’s border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order:— Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention Or withered Envy ne’er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly Love be the centre!
Tam Samson’s Elegy
An honest man’s the noblest work of God—Pope.
When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.—R.B., 1787.
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2 again grown weel, To preach an’ read? “Na’ waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel, “Tam Samson’s dead!”
[Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide “The Ordination.” stanza ii.—R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,” stanza ix.—R.B.]
Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean, In mourning weed; To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane— Tam Samson’s dead!
The Brethren, o’ the mystic level May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel; Tam Samson’s dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the curlers flock, Wi’ gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? Tam Samson’s dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, He was the king o’ a’ the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar, In time o’ need; But now he lags on Death’s hog-score— Tam Samson’s dead!
Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail Tam Samson’s dead!
Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’; Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa; Tam Samson’s dead!
That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d, Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d, While pointers round impatient burn’d, Frae couples free’d; But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d! Tam Samson’s dead!
In vain auld age his body batters, In vain the gout his ancles fetters, In vain the burns cam down like waters, An acre braid! Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters “Tam Samson’s dead!”
Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward Death behind him jumpit, Wi’ deadly feid; Now he proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet, “Tam Samson’s dead!”