[Footnote 1: The stone was erected at Burns’ expenses in February—March, 1789.]
Epistle To Mrs. Scott
Gudewife of Wauchope—House, Roxburghshire.
Gudewife,
I Mind it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh; An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon’d was, An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, Wearing the day awa.
E’en then, a wish, (I mind its pow’r), A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake Some usefu’ plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, An’ spar’d the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e’er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o’ sang, In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, Wild floated in my brain; ’Till on that har’st I said before, May partner in the merry core, She rous’d the forming strain; I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pawky een That gart my heart-strings tingle; I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I feared aye to speak.
Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says: Wi’ merry dance in winter days, An’ we to share in common; The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe, The saul o’ life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu’ o’ your mither; She, honest woman, may think shame That ye’re connected with her: Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; ’Twad please me to the nine. I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap, Douce hingin owre my curple, Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial purple. Farewell then, lang hale then, An’ plenty be your fa; May losses and crosses Ne’er at your hallan ca’!
R. Burns March, 1787
Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture^1
Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E’en rooted foes admire?
Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works admire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian Seraph eyes with awe The noble Ward he loves.
Among the illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may’st discern, Mark Scotia’s fond-returning eye,— It dwells upon Glencairn.
Prologue
Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787.
When, by a generous Public’s kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted—honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor’s lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue’s glow, But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barb’rous throng, It needs no Siddons’ powers in Southern’s song; But here an ancient nation, fam’d afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war. Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I’m honour’d to appear?
[Footnote 1: The Nobleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.]
Where every science, every nobler art, That can inform the mind or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam; Here History paints with elegance and force The tide of Empire’s fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, And Harley rouses all the God in man. When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace Can only charm us in the second place), Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I’ve met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive. No hundred—headed riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet; Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name: Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.
O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise, with generous disdain At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain; Still Self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.
The Bonie Moor-Hen
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discover’d a bonie moor-hen.
Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men, I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men; Take some on the wing, and some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.
Sweet—brushing the dew from the brown heather bells Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells; Her plumage outlustr’d the pride o’ the spring And O! as she wanton’d sae gay on the wing. I rede you, &c.
Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill, In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae— His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. I rede you,&c.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. I rede you, &c.
Song—My Lord A-Hunting
Chorus.—My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t.
My lord a-hunting he is gone, But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane; By Colin’s cottage lies his game, If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. My lady’s gown, &c.
My lady’s white, my lady’s red, And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude; But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher gude; Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. My lady’s gown, &c.
Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass, There wons auld Colin’s bonie lass, A lily in a wilderness. My lady’s gown, &c.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o’lovers’ hymns: The diamond-dew in her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims. My lady’s gown, &c.
My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, The flower and fancy o’ the west; But the lassie than a man lo’es best, O that’s the lass to mak him blest. My lady’s gown, &c.
Epigram At Roslin Inn
My blessings on ye, honest wife! I ne’er was here before; Ye’ve wealth o’ gear for spoon and knife— Heart could not wish for more. Heav’n keep you clear o’ sturt and strife, Till far ayont fourscore, And while I toddle on thro’ life, I’ll ne’er gae by your door!
Epigram Addressed To An Artist
Dear _____, I’ll gie ye some advice, You’ll tak it no uncivil: You shouldna paint at angels mair, But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel’s kittle wark, Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger: You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face, But no sae weel a stranger.—R. B.
The Book-Worms
Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But O respect his lordship’s taste, And spare his golden bindings.
On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams
O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed no further, ’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.
Song—A Bottle And Friend
There’s nane that’s blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c.
Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o’ care, man?