In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear; Above the world, on wings of Love, I rise— I know its worst, and can that worst despise; Let Prudence’ direst bodements on me fall, M[ontgomer]y, rich reward, o’erpays them all!
Mild zephyrs waft thee to life’s farthest shore, Nor think of me and my distress more,— Falsehood accurst! No! still I beg a place, Still near thy heart some little, little trace: For that dear trace the world I would resign: O let me live, and die, and think it mine!
“I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn By driving winds the crackling flames are borne;” Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night, Then bless the hour that charm’d my guilty sight: In vain the laws their feeble force oppose, Chain’d at Love’s feet, they groan, his vanquish’d foes. In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye, I dare not combat, but I turn and fly: Conscience in vain upbraids th’ unhallow’d fire, Love grasps her scorpions—stifled they expire! Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,
Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone; Each thought intoxicated homage yields, And riots wanton in forbidden fields. By all on high adoring mortals know! By all the conscious villain fears below! By your dear self!—the last great oath I swear, Not life, nor soul, were ever half so dear!
Song—She’s Fair And Fause
She’s fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo’ed her meikle and lang; She’s broken her vow, she’s broken my heart, And I may e’en gae hang. A coof cam in wi’ routh o’ gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear; But Woman is but warld’s gear, Sae let the bonie lass gang.
Whae’er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind; Nae ferlie ’tis tho’ fickle she prove, A woman has’t by kind. O Woman lovely, Woman fair! An angel form’s faun to thy share, ’Twad been o’er meikle to gi’en thee mair— I mean an angel mind.
Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell
On Returning a Newspaper.
Your News and Review, sir. I’ve read through and through, sir, With little admiring or blaming; The Papers are barren Of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends, the Reviewers, Those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, sir; But of meet or unmeet, In a fabric complete, I’ll boldly pronounce they are none, sir;
My goose-quill too rude is To tell all your goodness Bestow’d on your servant, the Poet; Would to God I had one Like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, sir, should know it!
Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig
Sent with some of the Author’s Poems.
O could I give thee India’s wealth, As I this trifle send; Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend.
But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy— An honest bard’s esteem.
Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell
Dear, Sir, at ony time or tide, I’d rather sit wi’ you than ride, Though ’twere wi’ royal Geordie: And trowth, your kindness, soon and late, Aft gars me to mysel’ look blate— The Lord in Heav’n reward ye!
R. Burns. Ellisland.
Caledonia—A Ballad
Tune—“Caledonian Hunts’ Delight” of Mr. Gow.
There was once a day, but old Time wasythen young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heav’nly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg’d her their godheads to warrant it good.
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— “Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue!” With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav’rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.
Long quiet she reigned; till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria’s strand: Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken’d the air, and they plunder’d the land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They’d conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died.
The Cameleon-Savage disturb’d her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok’d beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb’d him at once of his hopes and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin’d the Tweed’s silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood.
The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: O’er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail’d, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail’d, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.
Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be; I’ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: Rectangle—triangle, the figure we’ll chuse: The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia’s the hypothenuse; Then, ergo, she’ll match them, and match them always.
To Miss Cruickshank
A very Young Lady
Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by the Author.
Beauteous Rosebud, young and gay, Blooming in thy early May, Never may’st thou, lovely flower, Chilly shrink in sleety shower! Never Boreas’ hoary path, Never Eurus’ pois’nous breath, Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew!
May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem; Till some ev’ning, sober, calm, Dropping dews, and breathing balm, While all around the woodland rings, And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent Earth The loveliest form she e’er gave birth.
Beware O’ Bonie Ann
Ye gallants bright, I rede you right, Beware o’ bonie Ann; Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace, Your heart she will trepan: Her een sae bright, like stars by night, Her skin sae like the swan; Sae jimply lac’d her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span.
Youth, Grace, and Love attendant move, And pleasure leads the van: In a’ their charms, and conquering arms, They wait on bonie Ann. The captive bands may chain the hands, But love enslaves the man: Ye gallants braw, I rede you a’, Beware o’ bonie Ann!
Ode On The Departed Regency Bill
(March, 1789)
Daughter of Chaos’ doting years, Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears, Whether thy airy, insubstantial shade (The rights of sepulture now duly paid) Spread abroad its hideous form On the roaring civil storm, Deafening din and warring rage Factions wild with factions wage; Or under-ground, deep-sunk, profound, Among the demons of the earth, With groans that make the mountains shake, Thou mourn thy ill-starr’d, blighted birth; Or in the uncreated Void, Where seeds of future being fight, With lessen’d step thou wander wide, To greet thy Mother—Ancient Night. And as each jarring, monster-mass is past, Fond recollect what once thou wast: In manner due, beneath this sacred oak, Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke! By a Monarch’s heaven-struck fate, By a disunited State, By a generous Prince’s wrongs. By a Senate’s strife of tongues, By a Premier’s sullen pride, Louring on the changing tide; By dread Thurlow’s powers to awe Rhetoric, blasphemy and law; By the turbulent ocean— A Nation’s commotion, By the harlot-caresses Of borough addresses, By days few and evil, (Thy portion, poor devil!) By Power, Wealth, and Show, (The Gods by men adored,) By nameless Poverty, (Their hell abhorred,) By all they hope, by all they fear, Hear! and appear!