Poems and Songs of Robert Burns E-Book

Robert Burns

• Herausgeber: Phoemixx Classics Ebooks
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 641

Beschreibung

Poems and Songs of Robert Burns Robert Burns - Robert Burns (1759 – 1796) called himself "an Aeolian harp strung to every wind of heaven." His first volume of poems, entitled Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, was published in 1786. An immediate success, it established Burns's poetic reputation, which has grown over two centuries to the point where he is not only the Scottish national poet but the object of a cult unique in British poetry. The present volume contains 43 of his finest poems and songs, reprinted unabridged from an authoritative tenth-century edition. Included are "The Twa Dogs," a deft satire of the Scottish upper classes; "To a Mouse," one of the poet's best known, most charming works; "Address to the Unco Guid," an attack on Puritan hypocrisy; "Holy Willie's Prayer," one of the great verse-satires of all times; as well as such favorites as "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "To a Mountain Daisy," "The Holy Fair," "Address to the Deil," "The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie," and many more. It is not necessary here to attempt to disentangle or explain away the numerous amours in which he was engaged through the greater part of his life. It is evident that Burns was a man of extremely passionate nature and fond of conviviality; and the misfortunes of his lot combined with his natural tendencies to drive him to frequent excesses of self-indulgence. He was often remorseful, and he strove painfully, if intermittently, after better things. But the story of his life must be admitted to be in its externals a painful and somewhat sordid chronicle. That it contained, however, many moments of joy and exaltation is proved by the poems here printed. Burns' poetry falls into two main groups: English and Scottish. His English poems are, for the most part, inferior specimens of conventional eighteenth-century verse. But in Scottish poetry he achieved triumphs of a quite extraordinary kind. Since the time of the Reformation and the union of the crowns of England and Scotland, the Scots dialect had largely fallen into disuse as a medium for dignified writing. Shortly before Burns' time, however, Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson had been the leading figures in a revival of the vernacular, and Burns received from them a national tradition which he succeeded in carrying to its highest pitch, becoming thereby, to an almost unique degree, the poet of his people. He first showed complete mastery of verse in the field of satire. In "The Twa Herds," "Holy Willie's Prayer," "Address to the Unco Guid," "The Holy Fair," and others, he manifested sympathy with the protest of the so-called "New Light" party, which had sprung up in opposition to the extreme Calvinism and intolerance of the dominant "Auld Lichts." The fact that Burns had personally suffered from the discipline of the Kirk probably added fire to his attacks, but the satires show more than personal animus. The force of the invective, the keenness of the wit, and the fervor of the imagination which they displayed, rendered them an important force in the theological liberation of Scotland. The Kilmarnock volume contained, besides satire, a number of poems like "The Twa Dogs" and "The Cotter's Saturday Night," which are vividly descriptive of the Scots peasant life with which he was most familiar; and a group like "Puir Mailie" and "To a Mouse," which, in the tenderness of their treatment of animals, revealed one of the most attractive sides of Burns' personality. Many of his poems were never printed during his lifetime, the most remarkable of these being "The Jolly Beggars," a piece in which, by the intensity of his imaginative sympathy and the brilliance of his technique, he renders a picture of the lowest dregs of society in such a way as to raise it into the realm of great poetry

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Robert Burns

Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

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Preface

Robert Burns was born near Ayr, Scotland, 25th of January, 1759. He was the son of William Burnes, or Burness, at the time of the poet's birth a nurseryman on the banks of the Doon in Ayrshire. His father, though always extremely poor, attempted to give his children a fair education, and Robert, who was the eldest, went to school for three years in a neighboring village, and later, for shorter periods, to three other schools in the vicinity. But it was to his father and to his own reading that he owed the more important part of his education; and by the time that he had reached manhood he had a good knowledge of English, a reading knowledge of French, and a fairly wide acquaintance with the masterpieces of English literature from the time of Shakespeare to his own day. In 1766 William Burness rented on borrowed money the farm of Mount Oliphant, and in taking his share in the effort to make this undertaking succeed, the future poet seems to have seriously overstrained his physique. In 1771 the family move to Lochlea, and Burns went to the neighboring town of Irvine to learn flax-dressing. The only result of this experiment, however, was the formation of an acquaintance with a dissipated sailor, whom he afterward blamed as the prompter of his first licentious adventures. His father died in 1784, and with his brother Gilbert the poet rented the farm of Mossgiel; but this venture was as unsuccessful as the others. He had meantime formed an irregular intimacy with Jean Armour, for which he was censured by the Kirk-session. As a result of his farming misfortunes, and the attempts of his father-in-law to overthrow his irregular marriage with Jean, he resolved to emigrate; and in order to raise money for the passage he published (Kilmarnock, 1786) a volume of the poems which he had been composing from time to time for some years. This volume was unexpectedly successful, so that, instead of sailing for the West Indies, he went up to Edinburgh, and during that winter he was the chief literary celebrity of the season. An enlarged edition of his poems was published there in 1787, and the money derived from this enabled him to aid his brother in Mossgiel, and to take and stock for himself the farm of Ellisland in Dumfriesshire. His fame as poet had reconciled the Armours to the connection, and having now regularly married Jean, he brought her to Ellisland, and once more tried farming for three years. Continued ill-success, however, led him, in 1791, to abandon Ellisland, and he moved to Dumfries, where he had obtained a position in the Excise. But he was now thoroughly discouraged; his work was mere drudgery; his tendency to take his relaxation in debauchery increased the weakness of a constitution early undermined; and he died at Dumfries in his thirty-eighth year.

It is not necessary here to attempt to disentangle or explain away the numerous amours in which he was engaged through the greater part of his life. It is evident that Burns was a man of extremely passionate nature and fond of conviviality; and the misfortunes of his lot combined with his natural tendencies to drive him to frequent excesses of self-indulgence. He was often remorseful, and he strove painfully, if intermittently, after better things. But the story of his life must be admitted to be in its externals a painful and somewhat sordid chronicle. That it contained, however, many moments of joy and exaltation is proved by the poems here printed.

Burns' poetry falls into two main groups: English and Scottish. His English poems are, for the most part, inferior specimens of conventional eighteenth-century verse. But in Scottish poetry he achieved triumphs of a quite extraordinary kind. Since the time of the Reformation and the union of the crowns of England and Scotland, the Scots dialect had largely fallen into disuse as a medium for dignified writing. Shortly before Burns' time, however, Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson had been the leading figures in a revival of the vernacular, and Burns received from them a national tradition which he succeeded in carrying to its highest pitch, becoming thereby, to an almost unique degree, the poet of his people.

He first showed complete mastery of verse in the field of satire. In “The Twa Herds,” “Holy Willie's Prayer,” “Address to the Unco Guid,” “The Holy Fair,” and others, he manifested sympathy with the protest of the so-called “New Light” party, which had sprung up in opposition to the extreme Calvinism and intolerance of the dominant “Auld Lichts.” The fact that Burns had personally suffered from the discipline of the Kirk probably added fire to his attacks, but the satires show more than personal animus. The force of the invective, the keenness of the wit, and the fervor of the imagination which they displayed, rendered them an important force in the theological liberation of Scotland.

The Kilmarnock volume contained, besides satire, a number of poems like “The Twa Dogs” and “The Cotter's Saturday Night,” which are vividly descriptive of the Scots peasant life with which he was most familiar; and a group like “Puir Mailie” and “To a Mouse,” which, in the tenderness of their treatment of animals, revealed one of the most attractive sides of Burns' personality. Many of his poems were never printed during his lifetime, the most remarkable of these being “The Jolly Beggars,” a piece in which, by the intensity of his imaginative sympathy and the brilliance of his technique, he renders a picture of the lowest dregs of society in such a way as to raise it into the realm of great poetry.

But the real national importance of Burns is due chiefly to his songs. The Puritan austerity of the centuries following the Reformation had discouraged secular music, like other forms of art, in Scotland; and as a result Scottish song had become hopelessly degraded in point both of decency and literary quality. From youth Burns had been interested in collecting the fragments he had heard sung or found printed, and he came to regard the rescuing of this almost lost national inheritance in the light of a vocation. About his song-making, two points are especially noteworthy: first, that the greater number of his lyrics sprang from actual emotional experiences; second, that almost all were composed to old melodies. While in Edinburgh he undertook to supply material for Johnson's “Musical Museum,” and as few of the traditional songs could appear in a respectable collection, Burns found it necessary to make them over. Sometimes he kept a stanza or two; sometimes only a line or chorus; sometimes merely the name of the air; the rest was his own. His method, as he has told us himself, was to become familiar with the traditional melody, to catch a suggestion from some fragment of the old song, to fix upon an idea or situation for the new poem; then, humming or whistling the tune as he went about his work, he wrought out the new verses, going into the house to write them down when the inspiration began to flag. In this process is to be found the explanation of much of the peculiar quality of the songs of Burns. Scarcely any known author has succeeded so brilliantly in combining his work with folk material, or in carrying on with such continuity of spirit the tradition of popular song. For George Thomson's collection of Scottish airs he performed a function similar to that which he had had in the “Museum”; and his poetical activity during the last eight or nine years of his life was chiefly devoted to these two publications. In spite of the fact that he was constantly in severe financial straits, he refused to accept any recompense for this work, preferring to regard it as a patriotic service. And it was, indeed, a patriotic service of no small magnitude. By birth and temperament he was singularly fitted for the task, and this fitness is proved by the unique extent to which his productions were accepted by his countrymen, and have passed into the life and feeling of his race.

1771 - 1779

Song—Handsome Nell^1

Tune—“I am a man unmarried.”

[Footnote 1: The first of my performances.—R. B.]      Once I lov'd a bonie lass,      Ay, and I love her still;      And whilst that virtue warms my breast,      I'll love my handsome Nell.      As bonie lasses I hae seen,      And mony full as braw;      But, for a modest gracefu' mein,      The like I never saw.      A bonie lass, I will confess,      Is pleasant to the e'e;      But, without some better qualities,      She's no a lass for me.      But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,      And what is best of a',      Her reputation is complete,      And fair without a flaw.      She dresses aye sae clean and neat,      Both decent and genteel;      And then there's something in her gait      Gars ony dress look weel.      A gaudy dress and gentle air      May slightly touch the heart;      But it's innocence and modesty      That polishes the dart.      'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,

Song—O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day

Tune—“Invercauld's Reel, or Strathspey.”

Choir.—O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,      Ye wadna been sae shy;      For laik o' gear ye lightly me,      But, trowth, I care na by.      Yestreen I met you on the moor,      Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour;      Ye geck at me because I'm poor,      But fient a hair care I.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      When coming hame on Sunday last,      Upon the road as I cam past,      Ye snufft and ga'e your head a cast—      But trowth I care't na by.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,      Because ye hae the name o' clink,      That ye can please me at a wink,      Whene'er ye like to try.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean,      Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,      Wha follows ony saucy quean,      That looks sae proud and high.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,      If that he want the yellow dirt,      Ye'll cast your head anither airt,      And answer him fu' dry.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      But, if he hae the name o' gear,      Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,      Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,      Be better than the kye.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice:      Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;      The deil a ane wad speir your price,      Were ye as poor as I.      O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.      There lives a lass beside yon park,      I'd rather hae her in her sark,      Than you wi' a' your thousand mark;

Song—I Dream'd I Lay

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing      Gaily in the sunny beam;      List'ning to the wild birds singing,      By a falling crystal stream:      Straight the sky grew black and daring;      Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;      Tress with aged arms were warring,      O'er the swelling drumlie wave.      Such was my life's deceitful morning,      Such the pleasures I enjoyed:      But lang or noon, loud tempests storming      A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.      Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me—      She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,      Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me—

Song—In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer

Tune—“Go from my window, Love, do.”

The sun he is sunk in the west,      All creatures retired to rest,      While here I sit, all sore beset,      With sorrow, grief, and woe:      And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!      The prosperous man is asleep,      Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;      But Misery and I must watch      The surly tempest blow:      And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!      There lies the dear partner of my breast;      Her cares for a moment at rest:      Must I see thee, my youthful pride,      Thus brought so very low!      And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!      There lie my sweet babies in her arms;      No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;      But for their sake my heart does ache,      With many a bitter throe:      And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!      I once was by Fortune carest:      I once could relieve the distrest:      Now life's poor support, hardly earn'd      My fate will scarce bestow:      And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!      No comfort, no comfort I have!      How welcome to me were the grave!      But then my wife and children dear—      O, wither would they go!      And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!      O whither, O whither shall I turn!

Tragic Fragment

All devil as I am—a damned wretch,      A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,      Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;      And with sincere but unavailing sighs      I view the helpless children of distress:      With tears indignant I behold the oppressor      Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,      Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.—      Ev'n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;      Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;      Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,      Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.      Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,      I had been driven forth like you forlorn,      The most detested, worthless wretch among you!      O injured God! Thy goodness has endow'd me      With talents passing most of my compeers,      Which I in just proportion have abused—

Tarbolton Lasses, The

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,      Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;      She kens her father is a laird,      And she forsooth's a leddy.      There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,      Besides a handsome fortune:      Wha canna win her in a night,      Has little art in courtin'.      Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,      And tak a look o' Mysie;      She's dour and din, a deil within,      But aiblins she may please ye.      If she be shy, her sister try,      Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny;      If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense—      She kens hersel she's bonie.      As ye gae up by yon hillside,      Speir in for bonie Bessy;      She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,      And handsomely address ye.      There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid,      In a' King George' dominion;      If ye should doubt the truth o' this—      It's Bessy's ain opinion!      Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear      Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.      Ah, woe is me, my mother dear!      A man of strife ye've born me:      For sair contention I maun bear;      They hate, revile, and scorn me.      I ne'er could lend on bill or band,      That five per cent. might blest me;      And borrowing, on the tither hand,      The deil a ane wad trust me.

Montgomerie's Peggy

Tune—“Galla Water.”

Altho' my bed were in yon muir,      Amang the heather, in my plaidie;      Yet happy, happy would I be,      Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.      When o'er the hill beat surly storms,      And winter nights were dark and rainy;      I'd seek some dell, and in my arms      I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.      Were I a baron proud and high,      And horse and servants waiting ready;

Ploughman's Life, The

As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,      I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;      And as he was singin', thir words he did say,—      There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.      The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,      And mount i' the air wi' the dew on her breast,      And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing,

1780

Ronalds Of The Bennals, The

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,      And proper young lasses and a', man;      But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,      They carry the gree frae them a', man.      Their father's laird, and weel he can spare't,      Braid money to tocher them a', man;      To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand      Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.      There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen      As bonie a lass or as braw, man;      But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,      And a conduct that beautifies a', man.      The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,      The mair admiration they draw, man;      While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,      They fade and they wither awa, man,      If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',      A hint o' a rival or twa, man;      The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,      If that wad entice her awa, man.      The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,      For mair than a towmond or twa, man;      The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,      If he canna get her at a', man.      Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,      The boast of our bachelors a', man:      Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,      She steals our affections awa, man.      If I should detail the pick and the wale      O' lasses that live here awa, man,      The fau't wad be mine if they didna shine      The sweetest and best o' them a', man.      I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,      My poverty keeps me in awe, man;      For making o' rhymes, and working at times,      Does little or naething at a', man.      Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,      Nor hae't in her power to say na, man:      For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,      My stomach's as proud as them a', man.      Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,      And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,      I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,      Though fluttering ever so braw, man.      My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,      O'pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man;      And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,      And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.      My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,      Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,      A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;      There are no mony poets sae braw, man.      I never had frien's weel stockit in means,      To leave me a hundred or twa, man;      Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants,

Song—Here's To Thy Health

Tune—“Laggan Burn.”

Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,      Gude nicht and joy be wi' thee;      I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door,      To tell thee that I lo'e thee.      O dinna think, my pretty pink,      But I can live without thee:      I vow and swear I dinna care,      How lang ye look about ye.      Thou'rt aye sae free informing me,      Thou hast nae mind to marry;      I'll be as free informing thee,      Nae time hae I to tarry:      I ken thy frien's try ilka means      Frae wedlock to delay thee;      Depending on some higher chance,      But fortune may betray thee.      I ken they scorn my low estate,      But that does never grieve me;      For I'm as free as any he;      Sma' siller will relieve me.      I'll count my health my greatest wealth,      Sae lang as I'll enjoy it;      I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,      As lang's I get employment.      But far off fowls hae feathers fair,      And, aye until ye try them,      Tho' they seem fair, still have a care;      They may prove waur than I am.      But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright,

Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The^1

[Footnote 1: The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant       wench, daughter of a  “Farmer Lang”.]      A Song of Similes      Tune—“If he be a Butcher neat and trim.”

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;      Could I describe her shape and mein;      Our lasses a' she far excels,      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      She's sweeter than the morning dawn,      When rising Phoebus first is seen,      And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      She's stately like yon youthful ash,      That grows the cowslip braes between,      And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,      With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,      When purest in the dewy morn;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her looks are like the vernal May,      When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,      While birds rejoice on every spray;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her hair is like the curling mist,      That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,      When flow'r-reviving rains are past;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,      When gleaming sunbeams intervene      And gild the distant mountain's brow;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,      The pride of all the flowery scene,      Just opening on its thorny stem;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her bosom's like the nightly snow,      When pale the morning rises keen,      While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,      That sunny walls from Boreas screen;      They tempt the taste and charm the sight;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,      With fleeces newly washen clean,      That slowly mount the rising steep;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,      That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,      When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;      An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.      Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,

Song—Bonie Peggy Alison

Tune—“The Braes o' Balquhidder.”

Chor.—And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,      And I'll kiss thee o'er again:      And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,      My bonie Peggy Alison.      Ilk care and fear, when thou art near      I evermair defy them, O!      Young kings upon their hansel throne      Are no sae blest as I am, O!      And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.      When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,      I clasp my countless treasure, O!      I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share      Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!      And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.      And by thy een sae bonie blue,      I swear I'm thine for ever, O!      And on thy lips I seal my vow,

Song—Mary Morison

Tune—“Bide ye yet.”      O Mary, at thy window be,      It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!      Those smiles and glances let me see,      That make the miser's treasure poor:      How blythely was I bide the stour,      A weary slave frae sun to sun,      Could I the rich reward secure,      The lovely Mary Morison.      Yestreen, when to the trembling string      The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',      To thee my fancy took its wing,      I sat, but neither heard nor saw:      Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,      And yon the toast of a' the town,      I sigh'd, and said among them a',      “Ye are na Mary Morison.”      Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,      Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?      Or canst thou break that heart of his,      Whase only faut is loving thee?      If love for love thou wilt na gie,

1781

Winter: A Dirge

The wintry west extends his blast,      And hail and rain does blaw;      Or the stormy north sends driving forth      The blinding sleet and snaw:      While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,      And roars frae bank to brae;      And bird and beast in covert rest,      And pass the heartless day.      “The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,”       The joyless winter day      Let others fear, to me more dear      Than all the pride of May:      The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,      My griefs it seems to join;      The leafless trees my fancy please,      Their fate resembles mine!      Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme      These woes of mine fulfil,      Here firm I rest; they must be best,      Because they are Thy will!

Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art,      Surpasses me to know;      Yet sure I am, that known to Thee      Are all Thy works below.      Thy creature here before Thee stands,      All wretched and distrest;      Yet sure those ills that wring my soul      Obey Thy high behest.      Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act      From cruelty or wrath!      O, free my weary eyes from tears,      Or close them fast in death!      But, if I must afflicted be,      To suit some wise design,

Paraphrase Of The First Psalm

The man, in life wherever plac'd,      Hath happiness in store,      Who walks not in the wicked's way,      Nor learns their guilty lore!      Nor from the seat of scornful pride      Casts forth his eyes abroad,      But with humility and awe      Still walks before his God.      That man shall flourish like the trees,      Which by the streamlets grow;      The fruitful top is spread on high,      And firm the root below.      But he whose blossom buds in guilt      Shall to the ground be cast,      And, like the rootless stubble, tost      Before the sweeping blast.      For why? that God the good adore,

First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend      Of all the human race!      Whose strong right hand has ever been      Their stay and dwelling place!      Before the mountains heav'd their heads      Beneath Thy forming hand,      Before this ponderous globe itself      Arose at Thy command;      That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds      This universal frame,      From countless, unbeginning time      Was ever still the same.      Those mighty periods of years      Which seem to us so vast,      Appear no more before Thy sight      Than yesterday that's past.      Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,      Is to existence brought;      Again Thou say'st, “Ye sons of men,      Return ye into nought!”      Thou layest them, with all their cares,      In everlasting sleep;      As with a flood Thou tak'st them off      With overwhelming sweep.

Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause      Of all my hope and fear!      In whose dread presence, ere an hour,      Perhaps I must appear!      If I have wander'd in those paths      Of life I ought to shun,      As something, loudly, in my breast,      Remonstrates I have done;      Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me      With passions wild and strong;      And list'ning to their witching voice      Has often led me wrong.      Where human weakness has come short,      Or frailty stept aside,      Do Thou, All-Good—for such Thou art—      In shades of darkness hide.      Where with intention I have err'd,      No other plea I have,

Stanzas, On The Same Occasion

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?      Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?      Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between—      Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms,      Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?      Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?      For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms:      I tremble to approach an angry God,      And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod.      Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul offence,”       Fain promise never more to disobey;      But, should my Author health again dispense,      Again I might desert fair virtue's way;      Again in folly's part might go astray;      Again exalt the brute and sink the man;      Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray      Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?      Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?      O Thou, great Governor of all below!      If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,      Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,      Or still the tumult of the raging sea:      With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me,      Those headlong furious passions to confine,      For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,

1782

Fickle Fortune: A Fragment

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,      She pormis'd fair and perform'd but ill;      Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,      Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.      I'll act with prudence as far 's I'm able,      But if success I must never find,      Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,

Raging Fortune—Fragment Of Song

O raging Fortune's withering blast      Has laid my leaf full low, O!      O raging Fortune's withering blast      Has laid my leaf full low, O!      My stem was fair, my bud was green,      My blossom sweet did blow, O!      The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,      And made my branches grow, O!      But luckless Fortune's northern storms      Laid a' my blossoms low, O!

Impromptu—“I'll Go And Be A Sodger”

O why the deuce should I repine,      And be an ill foreboder?      I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine,      I'll go and be a sodger!      I gat some gear wi' mickle care,      I held it weel thegither;      But now it's gane, and something mair—      I'll go and be a sodger!

Song—“No Churchman Am I”

Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let's fly.”

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,      No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,      No sly man of business contriving a snare,      For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.      The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;      I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;      But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,      And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.      Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;      There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;      But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?      There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.      The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;      for sweet consolation to church I did fly;      I found that old Solomon proved it fair,      That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.      I once was persuaded a venture to make;      A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;      But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,      With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.      “Life's cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down      By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;      And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,

A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,      And honours masonic prepare for to throw;      May ev'ry true Brother of the Compass and Square      Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.

My Father Was A Farmer

Tune—“The weaver and his shuttle, O.”

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,      And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;      He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O;      For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.      Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;      Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;      My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:      Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.      In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune's favour, O;      Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;      Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;      And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.      Then sore harass'd and tir'd at last, with Fortune's vain delusion, O,      I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;      The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;      But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.      No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;      So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;      To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;      For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.      Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,      Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:      No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;      I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.      But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,      Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:      I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O:      But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.      When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,      Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, O;      Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur'd folly, O:      But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.      All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,      The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:      Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,

John Barleycorn: A Ballad

There was three kings into the east,      Three kings both great and high,      And they hae sworn a solemn oath      John Barleycorn should die.      They took a plough and plough'd him down,      Put clods upon his head,      And they hae sworn a solemn oath      John Barleycorn was dead.      But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,      And show'rs began to fall;      John Barleycorn got up again,      And sore surpris'd them all.      The sultry suns of Summer came,      And he grew thick and strong;      His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,      That no one should him wrong.      The sober Autumn enter'd mild,      When he grew wan and pale;      His bending joints and drooping head      Show'd he began to fail.      His colour sicken'd more and more,      He faded into age;      And then his enemies began      To show their deadly rage.      They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,      And cut him by the knee;      Then tied him fast upon a cart,      Like a rogue for forgerie.      They laid him down upon his back,      And cudgell'd him full sore;      They hung him up before the storm,      And turned him o'er and o'er.      They filled up a darksome pit      With water to the brim;      They heaved in John Barleycorn,      There let him sink or swim.      They laid him out upon the floor,      To work him farther woe;      And still, as signs of life appear'd,      They toss'd him to and fro.      They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,      The marrow of his bones;      But a miller us'd him worst of all,      For he crush'd him between two stones.      And they hae taen his very heart's blood,      And drank it round and round;      And still the more and more they drank,      Their joy did more abound.      John Barleycorn was a hero bold,      Of noble enterprise;      For if you do but taste his blood,      'Twill make your courage rise.      'Twill make a man forget his woe;

1783

Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie, The Author's Only Pet Yowe., The

An Unco Mournfu' Tale

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,      Was ae day nibbling on the tether,      Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,      An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:      There, groaning, dying, she did lie,      When Hughoc he cam doytin by.      Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's      Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;      He saw her days were near-hand ended,      But, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!      He gaped wide, but naething spak,      At langth poor Mailie silence brak.      “O thou, whase lamentable face      Appears to mourn my woefu' case!      My dying words attentive hear,      An' bear them to my Master dear.      “Tell him, if e'er again he keep      As muckle gear as buy a sheep—      O, bid him never tie them mair,      Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!      But ca' them out to park or hill,      An' let them wander at their will:      So may his flock increase, an' grow      To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!      “Tell him, he was a Master kin',      An' aye was guid to me an' mine;      An' now my dying charge I gie him,      My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.      “O, bid him save their harmless lives,      Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butcher's knives!      But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,      Till they be fit to fend themsel';      An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,      Wi' taets o' hay an' ripps o' corn.      “An' may they never learn the gaets,      Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets—      To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal      At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail!      So may they, like their great forbears,      For mony a year come thro the shears:      So wives will gie them bits o' bread,      An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.      “My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,      O, bid him breed him up wi' care!      An' if he live to be a beast,      To pit some havins in his breast!      “An' warn him—what I winna name—      To stay content wi' yowes at hame;      An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,      Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.      “An' neist, my yowie, silly thing,      Gude keep thee frae a tether string!      O, may thou ne'er forgather up,      Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;      But aye keep mind to moop an' mell,      Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!      “And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,      I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:      An' when you think upo' your mither,

Poor Mailie's Elegy

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,      Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;      Our bardie's fate is at a close,      Past a' remead!      The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes;      Poor Mailie's dead!      It's no the loss o' warl's gear,      That could sae bitter draw the tear,      Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear      The mourning weed:      He's lost a friend an' neebor dear      In Mailie dead.      Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;      A lang half-mile she could descry him;      Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,      She ran wi' speed:      A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,      Than Mailie dead.      I wat she was a sheep o' sense,      An' could behave hersel' wi' mense:      I'll say't, she never brak a fence,      Thro' thievish greed.      Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence      Sin' Mailie's dead.      Or, if he wanders up the howe,      Her living image in her yowe      Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe,      For bits o' bread;      An' down the briny pearls rowe      For Mailie dead.      She was nae get o' moorland tips,      Wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hips;      For her forbears were brought in ships,      Frae 'yont the Tweed.      A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips      Than Mailie's dead.      Wae worth the man wha first did shape      That vile, wanchancie thing—a raip!      It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,      Wi' chokin dread;      An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

Song—The Rigs O' Barley

Tune—“Corn Rigs are bonie.”

It was upon a Lammas night,      When corn rigs are bonie,      Beneath the moon's unclouded light,      I held awa to Annie;      The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,      Till, 'tween the late and early,      Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed      To see me thro' the barley.      Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,      An' corn rigs are bonie:      I'll ne'er forget that happy night,      Amang the rigs wi' Annie.      The sky was blue, the wind was still,      The moon was shining clearly;      I set her down, wi' right good will,      Amang the rigs o' barley:      I ken't her heart was a' my ain;      I lov'd her most sincerely;      I kiss'd her owre and owre again,      Amang the rigs o' barley.      Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.      I lock'd her in my fond embrace;      Her heart was beating rarely:      My blessings on that happy place,      Amang the rigs o' barley!      But by the moon and stars so bright,      That shone that hour so clearly!      She aye shall bless that happy night      Amang the rigs o' barley.      Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.      I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;      I hae been merry drinking;      I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;      I hae been happy thinking:      But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Song Composed In August

Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns      Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;      The moorcock springs on whirring wings      Amang the blooming heather:      Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,      Delights the weary farmer;      And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,      To muse upon my charmer.      The partridge loves the fruitful fells,      The plover loves the mountains;      The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,      The soaring hern the fountains:      Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,      The path of man to shun it;      The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,      The spreading thorn the linnet.      Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,      The savage and the tender;      Some social join, and leagues combine,      Some solitary wander:      Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,      Tyrannic man's dominion;      The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,      The flutt'ring, gory pinion!      But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,      Thick flies the skimming swallow,      The sky is blue, the fields in view,      All fading-green and yellow:      Come let us stray our gladsome way,      And view the charms of Nature;      The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,      And ev'ry happy creature.      We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,      Till the silent moon shine clearly;

Song

Tune—“My Nanie, O.”

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,      'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,      The wintry sun the day has clos'd,      And I'll awa to Nanie, O.      The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;      The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;      But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal,      An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.      My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;      Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:      May ill befa' the flattering tongue      That wad beguile my Nanie, O.      Her face is fair, her heart is true;      As spotless as she's bonie, O:      The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,      Nae purer is than Nanie, O.      A country lad is my degree,      An' few there be that ken me, O;      But what care I how few they be,      I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O.      My riches a's my penny-fee,      An' I maun guide it cannie, O;      But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,      My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O.      Our auld guidman delights to view      His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;      But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh,      An' has nae care but Nanie, O.

Song—Green Grow The Rashes

A Fragment      Chor.—Green grow the rashes, O;      Green grow the rashes, O;      The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,      Are spent amang the lasses, O.      There's nought but care on ev'ry han',      In ev'ry hour that passes, O:      What signifies the life o' man,      An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.      Green grow, &c.      The war'ly race may riches chase,      An' riches still may fly them, O;      An' tho' at last they catch them fast,      Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.      Green grow, &c.      But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,      My arms about my dearie, O;      An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men,      May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!      Green grow, &c.      For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;      Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:      The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,      He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.      Green grow, &c.      Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Song—Wha Is That At My Bower-Door

Tune—“Lass, an I come near thee.”

“Wha is that at my bower-door?”       “O wha is it but Findlay!”       “Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here:”       “Indeed maun I,” quo' Findlay;      “What mak' ye, sae like a thief?”       “O come and see,” quo' Findlay;      “Before the morn ye'll work mischief:”       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay.      “Gif I rise and let you in”—      “Let me in,” quo' Findlay;      “Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;”       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay;      “In my bower if ye should stay”—      “Let me stay,” quo' Findlay;      “I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;”       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay.      “Here this night if ye remain”—      “I'll remain,” quo' Findlay;      “I dread ye'll learn the gate again;”       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay.      “What may pass within this bower”—

1784

Remorse: A Fragment

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,      That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish      Beyond comparison the worst are those      By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:      In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind      Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”       But, when to all the evil of misfortune      This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”       Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,      The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—      Of guilt, perhaps, when we've involved others,      The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;      Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!      O burning hell! in all thy store of torments      There's not a keener lash!      Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart      Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,      Can reason down its agonizing throbs;      And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton

Here Souter Hood in death does sleep;      To hell if he's gane thither,      Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;

Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton

Here lies Boghead amang the dead      In hopes to get salvation;      But if such as he in Heav'n may be,

Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father's Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill

An honest man here lies at rest      As e'er God with his image blest;      The friend of man, the friend of truth,      The friend of age, and guide of youth:      Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,      Few heads with knowledge so informed:      If there's another world, he lives in bliss;

Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father

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 fear'd no human pride;      The friend of man—to vice alone a foe;

Ballad On The American War

Tune—“Killiecrankie.”

When Guilford good our pilot stood      An' did our hellim thraw, man,      Ae night, at tea, began a plea,      Within America, man:      Then up they gat the maskin-pat,      And in the sea did jaw, man;      An' did nae less, in full congress,      Than quite refuse our law, man.      Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,      I wat he was na slaw, man;      Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,      And Carleton did ca', man:      But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,      Montgomery-like did fa', man,      Wi' sword in hand, before his band,      Amang his en'mies a', man.      Poor Tammy Gage within a cage      Was kept at Boston—ha', man;      Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe      For Philadelphia, man;      Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin      Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;      But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,      Sir-Loin he hacked sma', man.      Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,      Till Fraser brave did fa', man;      Then lost his way, ae misty day,      In Saratoga shaw, man.      Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,      An' did the Buckskins claw, man;      But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,      He hung it to the wa', man.      Then Montague, an' Guilford too,      Began to fear, a fa', man;      And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,      The German chief to thraw, man:      For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,      Nae mercy had at a', man;      An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,      An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.      Then Rockingham took up the game,      Till death did on him ca', man;      When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,      Conform to gospel law, man:      Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,      They did his measures thraw, man;      For North an' Fox united stocks,      An' bore him to the wa', man.      Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,      He swept the stakes awa', man,      Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,      Led him a sair faux pas, man:      The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,      On Chatham's boy did ca', man;      An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew,      “Up, Willie, waur them a', man!”      Behind the throne then Granville's gone,      A secret word or twa, man;      While slee Dundas arous'd the class      Be-north the Roman wa', man:      An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,      (Inspired bardies saw, man),      Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, “Willie, rise!      Would I hae fear'd them a', man?”

Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet,

That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.

I am a keeper of the law      In some sma' points, altho' not a';      Some people tell me gin I fa',      Ae way or ither,      The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',      Breaks a' thegither.      I hae been in for't ance or twice,      And winna say o'er far for thrice;      Yet never met wi' that surprise      That broke my rest;      But now a rumour's like to rise—

Epistle To John Rankine

Enclosing Some Poems      O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,      The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!      There's mony godly folks are thinkin,      Your dreams and tricks      Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin      Straught to auld Nick's.      Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants,      And in your wicked, drucken rants,      Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,      An' fill them fou;      And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,      Are a' seen thro'.      Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!      That holy robe, O dinna tear it!      Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it—      The lads in black;      But your curst wit, when it comes near it,      Rives't aff their back.      Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:      It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing      O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething      To ken them by      Frae ony unregenerate heathen,      Like you or I.      I've sent you here some rhyming ware,      A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;      Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,      I will expect,      Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,      And no neglect.      Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!      My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;      I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,      An' danc'd my fill!      I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,      At Bunkjer's Hill.      'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,      I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun,      An' brought a paitrick to the grun'—      A bonie hen;      And, as the twilight was begun,      Thought nane wad ken.      The poor, wee thing was little hurt;      I straikit it a wee for sport,      Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;      But, Deil-ma-care!      Somebody tells the poacher-court      The hale affair.      Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,      That sic a hen had got a shot;      I was suspected for the plot;      I scorn'd to lie;      So gat the whissle o' my groat,      An' pay't the fee.      But by my gun, o' guns the wale,      An' by my pouther an' my hail,      An' by my hen, an' by her tail,      I vow an' swear!      The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,      For this, niest year.      As soon's the clockin-time is by,      An' the wee pouts begun to cry,      Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by      For my gowd guinea,      Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye      For't in Virginia.      Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!      'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,

A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1

[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]      The First Instance That Entitled Him To      The Venerable Appellation Of Father

Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,      If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie,      Shall ever daunton me or awe me,      My bonie lady,      Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me      Tyta or daddie.      Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,      An' tease my name in kintry clatter,      The mair they talk, I'm kent the better,      E'en let them clash;      An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter      To gie ane fash.      Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,      Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,      And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,      Baith kirk and queir;      Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,      That I shall swear!      Wee image o' my bonie Betty,      As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,      As dear, and near my heart I set thee      Wi' as gude will      As a' the priests had seen me get thee      That's out o' hell.      Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,      My funny toil is now a' tint,      Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent,      Which fools may scoff at;      In my last plack thy part's be in't      The better ha'f o't.      Tho' I should be the waur bestead,      Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,      And thy young years as nicely bred      Wi' education,      As ony brat o' wedlock's bed,      In a' thy station.      Lord grant that thou may aye inherit      Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,      An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,      Without his failins,      'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,      Than stockit mailens.

Song—O Leave Novels^1

[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]      O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,      Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;      Such witching books are baited hooks      For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel;      Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,      They make your youthful fancies reel;      They heat your brains, and fire your veins,      And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.      Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,      A heart that warmly seems to feel;      That feeling heart but acts a part—      'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.      The frank address, the soft caress,      Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;

Fragment—The Mauchline Lady

Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

When first I came to Stewart Kyle,      My mind it was na steady;      Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,      A mistress still I had aye.      But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,      Not dreadin anybody,      My heart was caught, before I thought,      And by a Mauchline lady.

Fragment—My Girl She's Airy

Tune—“Black Jock.”

My girl she's airy, she's buxom and gay;      Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;      A touch of her lips it ravishes quite: