O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! A loss these evil days can ne’er repair! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway’d her rod: Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, She sank, abandon’d to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now, gay in hope, explore the paths of men: See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry: Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times, View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtle Litigation’s pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale, And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours the unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains, Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains: Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign; Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure— That would degenerate ages cannot cure.
Sylvander To Clarinda^1
Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the signature of “Clarinda” and entitled, On Burns saying he ’had nothing else to do.’
When dear Clarinda, matchless fair, First struck Sylvander’s raptur’d view, He gaz’d, he listened to despair, Alas! ’twas all he dared to do.
Love, from Clarinda’s heavenly eyes, Transfixed his bosom thro’ and thro’; But still in Friendships’ guarded guise, For more the demon fear’d to do.
That heart, already more than lost, The imp beleaguer’d all perdue; For frowning Honour kept his post— To meet that frown, he shrunk to do.
His pangs the Bard refused to own, Tho’ half he wish’d Clarinda knew; But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan— Who blames what frantic Pain must do?
That heart, where motley follies blend, Was sternly still to Honour true: To prove Clarinda’s fondest friend, Was what a lover sure might do.
[Footnote 1: A grass-widow, Mrs. M’Lehose.]
The Muse his ready quill employed, No nearer bliss he could pursue; That bliss Clarinda cold deny’d— “Send word by Charles how you do!”
The chill behest disarm’d his muse, Till passion all impatient grew: He wrote, and hinted for excuse, ’Twas, ’cause “he’d nothing else to do.”
But by those hopes I have above! And by those faults I dearly rue! The deed, the boldest mark of love, For thee that deed I dare uo do!
O could the Fates but name the price Would bless me with your charms and you! With frantic joy I’d pay it thrice, If human art and power could do!
Then take, Clarinda, friendship’s hand, (Friendship, at least, I may avow;) And lay no more your chill command,— I’ll write whatever I’ve to do.
1788
Love In The Guise Of Friendship
Your friendship much can make me blest, O why that bliss destroy! Why urge the only, one request You know I will deny!
Your thought, if Love must harbour there, Conceal it in that thought; Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought.
Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care
For thee is laughing Nature gay, For thee she pours the vernal day; For me in vain is Nature drest, While Joy’s a stranger to my breast.
Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul
Clarinda, mistres of my soul, The measur’d time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv’d of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy?
We part—but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes, No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise!
She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?
I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet
Chorus.—I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young to marry yet; I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet.
I am my mammny’s ae bairn, Wi’ unco folk I weary, sir; And lying in a man’s bed, I’m fley’d it mak me eerie, sir. I’m o’er young, &c.
My mammie coft me a new gown, The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, I’m feared ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. I’m o’er young, &c.
Hallowmass is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, sir, And you an’ I in ae bed, In trowth, I dare na venture, sir. I’m o’er young, &c.
Fu’ loud an’ shill the frosty wind Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, sir; But if ye come this gate again; I’ll aulder be gin simmer, sir. I’m o’er young, &c.
To The Weavers Gin Ye Go
My heart was ance as blithe and free As simmer days were lang; But a bonie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang.
Chorus.—To the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids, To the weaver’s gin ye go; I rede you right, gang ne’er at night, To the weaver’s gin ye go.
My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o’t Has gart me sigh and sab. To the weaver’s, &c.
A bonie, westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi’ a net, In every knot and thrum. To the weaver’s, &c.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And aye I ca’d it roun’; But every shot and evey knock, My heart it gae a stoun. To the weaver’s, &c.
The moon was sinking in the west, Wi’ visage pale and wan, As my bonie, westlin weaver lad Convoy’d me thro’ the glen. To the weaver’s, &c.
But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa’ me gin I tell; But Oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel’s myself! To the weaver’s, &c.
M’Pherson’s Farewell
Tune—“M’Pherson’s Rant.”
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch’s destinie! M’Pherson’s time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree.
Chorus.—Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round, Below the gallows-tree.
O, what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I’ve dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again! Sae rantingly, &c.
Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring me to my sword; And there’s no a man in all Scotland But I’ll brave him at a word. Sae rantingly, &c.
I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be. Sae rantingly, &c.
Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Sae rantingly, &c.
Stay My Charmer
Tune—“An gille dubh ciar-dhubh.”
Stay my charmer, can you leave me? Cruel, cruel to deceive me; Well you know how much you grieve me; Cruel charmer, can you go! Cruel charmer, can you go!
By my love so ill-requited, By the faith you fondly plighted, By the pangs of lovers slighted, Do not, do not liave me so! Do not, do not leave me so!
Song—My Hoggie
What will I do gin my Hoggie die? My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! My only beast, I had nae mae, And vow but I was vogie! The lee-lang night we watch’d the fauld, Me and my faithfu’ doggie; We heard nocht but the roaring linn, Amang the braes sae scroggie.
But the houlet cry’d frau the castle wa’, The blitter frae the boggie; The tod reply’d upon the hill, I trembled for my Hoggie. When day did daw, and cocks did craw, The morning it was foggie; An unco tyke, lap o’er the dyke, And maist has kill’d my Hoggie!
Raving Winds Around Her Blowing
Tune—“M’Grigor of Roro’s Lament.”
I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M’Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudoun, who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances.—R.B., 1971.
Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray’d deploring—
“Farewell, hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
“O’er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes.