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The Complete Works

CXLI. VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE

[With the “rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,” of Adamhill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o’-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed, that those lines were suggested by Falstaff’s account of his ragged recruits:—

 
“I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat!”]
Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl’
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Asham’d himsel’ to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin’ at the bitches,
“By G—d, I’ll not be seen behint them,
Nor ‘mang the sp’ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this d—d infernal clan.”
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
“L—d G—d!” quoth he, “I have it now,
There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”
And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.
 

CXLII. ON SENSIBILITY. TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP

[These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments contained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to,

“Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell!”

and so transferring the whole to another heroine.]

 
Sensibility how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou host also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o’er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o’er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,
Finer feeling can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
 

CXLIII. LINES, SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED

[The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repentant strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary Wolstonecroft and her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously offended.]

 
The friend whom wild from wisdom’s way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
’Tis thine to pity and forgive.
 

CXLIV. ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT

[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.]

 
Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
“Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes,
“I know your bent—these are no laughing times:
Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dissolve in pause—and sentimental tears;
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?”
I could no more—askance the creature eyeing,
D’ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I’ll laugh, that’s poz—nay more, the world shall know it;
And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief,
That Misery’s another word for Grief;
I also think—so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye;
Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive—
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch!
Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, us the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—
Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at their follies—laugh e’en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.
 

CXLV. ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER

[The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of her personations he alludes: she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.]

 
Sweet naiveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning nature, torturing art;
Loves and graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou’dst act a part.
 

R. B.

CXLVI. TO CHLORIS

[Chloris was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and sorrow were strongly mingled in her early history: that she did not look so lovely in other eyes as she did in those of Burns is well known: but he had much of the taste of an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the harmony of her motion, as much as he did her blooming face and sweet voice.]

 
’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
The moralizing muse.
Since thou in all thy youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,
(A world ‘gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few.
Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast,
Chill came the tempest’s lower;
(And ne’er misfortune’s eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower.)
Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more,
Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store—
The comforts of the mind!
Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour’s part;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,
Thine friendship’s truest heart.
The joys refin’d of sense and taste,
With every muse to rove:
And doubly were the poet blest,
These joys could he improve.
 

CXLVII. POETICAL INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE

[It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French Revolution to plant trees of Liberty, and raise altars to Independence. Heron of Kerroughtree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage in an election contest, and these noble lines served the purpose of announcing the candidate’s sentiments on freedom.]

 
Thou of an independent mind,
With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d;
Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.
 

CXLVIII. THE HERON BALLADS

[BALLAD FIRST]

[This is the first of several party ballads which Burns wrote to serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which he was opposed, first, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and secondly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a personal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle with the strains in which the poet recorded the contest between Miller and Johnstone. They are printed here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will be displeased, and some will smile.]

 
I.
Whom will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a’ that?
Or wha in a’ the country round
The best deserves to fa’ that?
For a’ that, and a’ that;
Thro Galloway and a’ that;
Where is the laird or belted knight
That best deserves to fa’ that?
II.
Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett,
And wha is’t never saw that?
Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree meets
And has a doubt of a’ that?
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that,
The independent patriot,
The honest man, an’ a’ that.
III.
Tho’ wit and worth in either sex,
St. Mary’s Isle can shaw that;
Wi’ dukes and lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a’ that.
IV.
But why should we to nobles jouk,
And it’s against the law that;
For why, a lord may be a gouk,
Wi’ ribbon, star, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that!
A lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi’ ribbon, star, an’ a’ that.
V.
A beardless boy comes o’er the hills,
Wi’ uncle’s purse an’ a’ that;
But we’ll hae ane frae ‘mang oursels,
A man we ken, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that!
For we’re not to be bought an’ sold
Like naigs, an’ nowt, an’ a’ that.
VI.
Then let us drink the Stewartry,
Kerroughtree’s laird, an’ a’ that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he’s worthy a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Here’s Heron yet for a’ that,
A House of Commons such as he,
They would be blest that saw that.
 

CXLIX. THE HERON BALLADS

[BALLAD SECOND]

[In this ballad the poet gathers together, after the manner of “Fy! let us a’ to the bridal,” all the leading electors of the Stewartry, who befriended Heron, or opposed him; and draws their portraits in the colours of light or darkness, according to the complexion of their politics. He is too severe in most instances, and in some he is venomous. On the Earl of Galloway’s family, and on the Murrays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on Bushby of Tinwaldowns, he pours his hottest satire. But words which are unjust, or undeserved, fall off their victims like rain-drops from a wild-duck’s wing. The Murrays of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of Prince Charles Stewart: from such infamy the family is wholly free: the traitor, Murray, was of a race now extinct; and while he was betraying the cause in which so much noble and gallant blood was shed, Murray of Broughton and Caillie was performing the duties of an honourable and loyal man: he was, like his great-grandson now, representing his native district in parliament.]

THE ELECTION

 
I.
Fy, let us a’ to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin’ there;
For Murray’s^[114] light horse are to muster,
And O, how the heroes will swear!
An’ there will be Murray commander,
And Gordon^[115] the battle to win;
Like brothers they’ll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance an’ kin.
II.
An’ there will be black-lippit Johnnie,^[116]
The tongue o’ the trump to them a’;
And he get na hell for his haddin’
The deil gets na justice ava’;
And there will Kempleton’s birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane,
But, as for his fine nabob fortune,
We’ll e’en let the subject alane.
III.
An’ there will be Wigton’s new sheriff,
Dame Justice fu’ brawlie has sped,
She’s gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord, what’s become o’ the head?
An’ there will be Cardoness,^[117] Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness’ eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
For the devil the prey will despise.
IV.
An’ there will be Douglasses^[118] doughty,
New christ’ning towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissing the – o’ a peer;
An’ there will be Kenmure^[119] sae gen’rous,
Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name to the firm.
V.
But we winna mention Redcastle,^[120]
The body, e’en let him escape!
He’d venture the gallows for siller,
An’ ’twere na the cost o’ the rape.
An’ where is our king’s lord lieutenant,
Sae fam’d for his gratefu’ return?
The billie is gettin’ his questions,
To say in St. Stephen’s the morn.
VI.
An’ there will be lads o’ the gospel,
Muirhead,^[121] wha’s as gude as he’s true;
An’ there will be Buittle’s^[122] apostle,
Wha’s more o’ the black than the blue;
An’ there will be folk from St. Mary’s,^[123]
A house o’ great merit and note,
The deil ane but honours them highly,—
The deil ane will gie them his vote!
VII.
An’ there will be wealthy young Richard,^[124]
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck;
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,
His merit had won him respect:
An’ there will be rich brother nabobs,
Tho’ nabobs, yet men of the first,
An’ there will be Collieston’s^[125] whiskers,
An’ Quintin, o’ lads not the worst.
VIII.
An’ there will be stamp-office Johnnie,^[126]
Tak’ tent how ye purchase a dram;
An’ there will be gay Cassencarrie,
An’ there will be gleg Colonel Tam;
An’ there will be trusty Kerroughtree,^[127]
Whose honour was ever his law,
If the virtues were pack’d in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a’.
IX.
An’ can we forget the auld major,
Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the Greys,
Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other,
Him only ’tis justice to praise.
An’ there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming’s gude knight,
An’ there will be roarin’ Birtwhistle,
Wha luckily roars in the right.
X.
An’ there, frae the Niddisdale borders,
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves;
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an’ Walie,
That griens for the fishes an’ loaves;
An’ there will be Logan Mac Douall,^[128]
Sculdudd’ry an’ he will be there,
An’ also the wild Scot of Galloway,
Sodgerin’, gunpowder Blair.
XI.
Then hey the chaste interest o’ Broughton,
An’ hey for the blessings ’twill bring?
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom ’twould make him a king;
An’ hey for the sanctified M–y,
Our land who wi’ chapels has stor’d;
He founder’d his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.
 

CL. THE HERON BALLADS

[BALLAD THIRD]

[This third and last ballad was written on the contest between Heron and Stewart, which followed close on that with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was unseated by the decision of a Committee of the House of Commons: a decision which it is said he took so much to heart that it affected his health, and shortened his life.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG.

 
Tune.—“Buy broom besoms.”
Wha will buy my troggin,
Fine election ware;
Broken trade o’ Broughton,
A’ in high repair.
Buy braw troggin,
Frae the banks o’ Dee;
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me.
There’s a noble Earl’s^[129]
Fame and high renown
For an auld sang—
It’s thought the gudes were stown.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s the worth o’ Broughton^[130]
In a needle’s ee;
Here’s a reputation
Tint by Balmaghie.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s an honest conscience
Might a prince adorn;
Frae the downs o’ Tinwald—^[131]
So was never worn.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s its stuff and lining,
Cardoness’^[132] head;
Fine for a sodger
A’ the wale o’ lead.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s a little wadset
Buittle’s^[133] scrap o’ truth,
Pawn’d in a gin-shop
Quenching holy drouth.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s armorial bearings
Frae the manse o’ Urr;^[134]
The crest, an auld crab-apple
Rotten at the core.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Satan’s picture,
Like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle,^[135]
Sprawlin’ as a taed.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s the worth and wisdom
Collieston^[136] can boast;
By a thievish midge
They had been nearly lost.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Murray’s fragments
O’ the ten commands;
Gifted by black Jock^[137]
To get them aff his hands.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Saw ye e’er sic troggin?
If to buy ye’re slack,
Hornie’s turnin’ chapman,
He’ll buy a’ the pack.
Buy braw troggin,
Frae the banks o’ Dee;
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me.
 

CLI. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE. DUMFRIES, 1796

[The gentlemen to whom this very modest, and, under the circumstances, most affecting application for his salary was made, filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and generous nature: but few were aware that the poet was suffering both from ill-health and poverty.]

 
Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil
Wi’ a’ his witches
Are at it, skelpin’ jig and reel,
In my poor pouches!
I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it,
If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi’ life-blood dunted
I’d bear’t in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin
To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.
POSTSCRIPT
Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been licket,
And by felt death was nearly nicket;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turn’d a neuk.
But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t,
And by that life, I’m promised mair o’t,
My hale and weel I’ll tak a care o’t,
A tentier way:
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t,
For ance and aye!
 

CLII. TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES. WITH JOHNSON’S ‘MUSICAL MUSEUM.’

[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daughter: for this she has the silent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns; she has received more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined soon to die.]

 
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet’s prayer;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name:
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill—but chief, man’s felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind—
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.
 

June 26, 1796.

CLIII. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER. DUMFRIES, 1796

[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided himself on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Americans. He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sciences: he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verses.]

 
My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet’s weal;
Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty warld were it,
Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,
As they deserve!
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne, wha wad starve?)
Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
I’ve found her still,
Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
’Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,
Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on
Wi’ felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on—
He’s aff like fire.
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;
Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O’ hell’s damn’d waft.
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld danm’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy,
And hellish pleasure;
Already in thy fancy’s eye,
Thy sicker treasure!
Soon heels-o’er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd’ring wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet’s tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a’ intentions evil,
I quat my pen:
The Lord preserve us frae the devil,
Amen! amen!
 

EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, ETC., ETC.

I. ON THE AUTHOR’S FATHER

[William Burness merited his son’s eulogiums: he was an example of piety, patience, and fortitude.]

 
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains,
The tender father and the gen’rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
“For ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.”
 

II. ON R.A., ESQ.

[Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom “The Cotter’s Saturday Night” is addressed: a kind and generous man.]

 
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov’d, much honour’d name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.