Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man.
Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, Lovely Burns has charms—confess: True it is, she had one failing, Had a woman ever less?
Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh
Ye maggots, feed on Nicol’s brain, For few sic feasts you’ve gotten; And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart, For deil a bit o’t’s rotten.
Epitaph For Mr. William Michie
Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.
Here lie Willie Michie’s banes; O Satan, when ye tak him, Gie him the schulin o’ your weans, For clever deils he’ll mak them!
Boat song—Hey, Ca’ Thro’
Up wi’ the carls o’ Dysart, And the lads o’ Buckhaven, And the kimmers o’ Largo, And the lasses o’ Leven.
Chorus.—Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, For we hae muckle ado. Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’, For we hae muckle ado;
We hae tales to tell, An’ we hae sangs to sing; We hae pennies tae spend, An’ we hae pints to bring. Hey, ca’ thro’, &c.
We’ll live a’ our days, And them that comes behin’, Let them do the like, An’ spend the gear they win. Hey, ca’ thro’, &c.
Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee
With an Impression of the Author’s Portrait.
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected; A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now ’tis despis’d and neglected.
Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh, Still more if that wand’rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne: My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry: Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title’s avow’d by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th’ Electoral stem? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them.
But, loyalty, truce! we’re on dangerous ground; Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter!
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer.
Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night: But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.
Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church
Who was looking up the text during sermon.
Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue: ’Twas guilty sinners that he meant, Not Angels such as you.
Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher
Auld chuckie Reekie’s^1 sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel burnish’d crest, Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo’es best— Willie’s awa!
O Willie was a witty wight, And had o’ things an unco’ sleight, Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, And trig an’ braw: But now they’ll busk her like a fright,— Willie’s awa!
The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d, The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d; They durst nae mair than he allow’d, That was a law: We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd; Willie’s awa!
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, Frae colleges and boarding schools, May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw; He wha could brush them down to mools— Willie’s awa!
[Footnote 1: Edinburgh.]
The brethren o’ the Commerce-chaumer May mourn their loss wi’ doolfu’ clamour; He was a dictionar and grammar Among them a’; I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer; Willie’s awa!
Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and poets pour, And toothy critics by the score, In bloody raw! The adjutant o’ a’ the core— Willie’s awa!
Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face, Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, such a brace As Rome ne’er saw; They a’ maun meet some ither place, Willie’s awa!
Poor Burns ev’n Scotch Drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken Scar’d frae it’s minnie and the cleckin, By hoodie-craw; Grieg’s gien his heart an unco kickin, Willie’s awa!
Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin blellum, And Calvin’s folk, are fit to fell him; Ilk self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum— Willie’s awa!
Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks, now roaring red, While tempests blaw; But every joy and pleasure’s fled, Willie’s awa!
May I be Slander’s common speech; A text for Infamy to preach; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw; When I forget thee, Willie Creech, Tho’ far awa!
May never wicked Fortune touzle him! May never wicked men bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessed new Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa!
Note To Mr. Renton Of Lamerton
Your billet, Sir, I grant receipt; Wi’ you I’ll canter ony gate, Tho’ ’twere a trip to yon blue warl’, Whare birkies march on burning marl: Then, Sir, God willing, I’ll attend ye, And to his goodness I commend ye.
R. Burns
Elegy On “Stella”
The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of “The voice of Cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone’s language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.—R.B.
Strait is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below.
Pardon my transport, gentle shade, While o’er the turf I bow; Thy earthy house is circumscrib’d, And solitary now.
Not one poor stone to tell thy name, Or make thy virtues known: But what avails to me—to thee, The sculpture of a stone?
I’ll sit me down upon this turf, And wipe the rising tear: The chill blast passes swiftly by, And flits around thy bier.
Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, And sad their house of rest: Low lies the head, by Death’s cold arms In awful fold embrac’d.
I saw the grim Avenger stand Incessant by thy side; Unseen by thee, his deadly breath Thy lingering frame destroy’d.
Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, And wither’d was thy bloom, Till the slow poison brought thy youth Untimely to the tomb.
Thus wasted are the ranks of men— Youth, Health, and Beauty fall; The ruthless ruin spreads around, And overwhelms us all.
Behold where, round thy narrow house, The graves unnumber’d lie; The multitude that sleep below Existed but to die.
Some, with the tottering steps of Age, Trod down the darksome way; And some, in youth’s lamented prime, Like thee were torn away:
Yet these, however hard their fate, Their native earth receives; Amid their weeping friends they died, And fill their fathers’ graves.
From thy lov’d friends, when first thy heart Was taught by Heav’n to glow, Far, far remov’d, the ruthless stroke Surpris’d and laid thee low.
At the last limits of our isle, Wash’d by the western wave, Touch’d by thy face, a thoughtful bard Sits lonely by thy grave.
Pensive he eyes, before him spread The deep, outstretch’d and vast; His mourning notes are borne away Along the rapid blast.
And while, amid the silent Dead Thy hapless fate he mourns, His own long sorrows freshly bleed, And all his grief returns:
Like thee, cut off in early youth, And flower of beauty’s pride, His friend, his first and only joy, His much lov’d Stella, died.
Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate Resistless bears along; And the same rapid tide shall whelm The Poet and the Song.
The tear of pity which he sheds, He asks not to receive; Let but his poor remains be laid Obscurely in the grave.
His grief-worn heart, with truest joy, Shall meet he welcome shock: His airy harp shall lie unstrung, And silent on the rock.