Роберт Бернс
The Complete Works

LV. EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL

[Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.]

 
Ye maggots, feast on Nicol’s brain,
For few sic feasts ye’ve gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart,
For deil a bit o’t’s rotten.
 

LVI. ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO.

[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap dog.]

 
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;
Now half extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.
Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.
 

LVII. ON A NOTED COXCOMB

[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested the honour of producing the person on whom these lines were written:—coxcombs are the growth of all districts.]

 
Light lay the earth on Willy’s breast,
His chicken-heart so tender;
But build a castle on his head,
His skull will prop it under.
 

LVIII. ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY

[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrown amid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble house.]

 
What dost thou in that mansion fair?—
Flit, Galloway, and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind!
 

LIX. ON THE SAME

 
No Stewart art thou, Galloway,
The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.
 

LX. ON THE SAME

 
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro’ many a far-fam’d sire!
So ran the far-fam’d Roman way,
So ended in a mire.
 

LXI. TO THE SAME, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT

 
Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway,
In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.
 

LXII. ON A COUNTRY LAIRD

[Mr. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, exposed himself to the rhyming wrath of Burns, by his activity in the contested elections of Heron.]

 
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who said that not the soul alone
But body too, must rise:
For had he said, “the soul alone
From death I will deliver;”
Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
Then thou hadst slept for ever.
 

LXIII. ON JOHN BUSHBY

[Burns, in his harshest lampoons, always admitted the talents of Bushby: the peasantry, who hate all clever attorneys, loved to handle his character with unsparing severity.]

 
Here lies John Bushby, honest man!
Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can.
 

LXIV. THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES

[At a dinner-party, where politics ran high, lines signed by men who called themselves the true loyal natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns: he took a pencil, and at once wrote this reply.]

 
Ye true “Loyal Natives,” attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy or hatred your corps is exempt,
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?
 

LXV. ON A SUICIDE

[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hutchinson, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grave of a person who had committed suicide: on the paper these lines were pencilled.]

 
Earth’d up here lies an imp o’ hell,
Planted by Satan’s dibble—
Poor silly wretch, he’s damn’d himsel’
To save the Lord the trouble.
 

LXVI. EXTEMPORE PINNED ON A LADY’S COUCH

[“Printed,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “from a copy in Burns’s handwriting,” a slight alteration in the last line is made from an oral version.]

 
If you rattle along like your mistress’s tongue,
Your speed will outrival the dart:
But, a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road
If your stuff has the rot, like her heart.
 

LXVII. LINES TO JOHN RANKINE

[These lines were said to have been written by the poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward them when he died.]

 
He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
 

LXVIII. JESSY LEWARS

[Written on the blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhibiting in Dumfries. “Now,” said the poet, who was then very ill, “it is fit to be presented to a lady.”]

 
Talk not to me of savages
From Afric’s burning sun,
No savage e’er could rend my heart
As, Jessy, thou hast done.
But Jessy’s lovely hand in mine,
A mutual faith to plight,
Not even to view the heavenly choir
Would be so blest a sight.
 

LXIX. THE TOAST

[One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, he observed Jessy Lewars moving about the house with a light step lest she should disturb him. He took a crystal goblet containing wine-and-water for moistening his lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and presented it to her.]

 
Fill me with the rosy-wine,
Call a toast—a toast divine;
Give the Poet’s darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.
 

LXX. ON MISS JESSY LEWARS

[The constancy of her attendance on the poet’s sick-bed and anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. “You must not die yet,” said the poet: “give me that goblet, and I shall prepare you for the worst.” He traced these lines with his diamond, and said, “That will be a companion to ‘The Toast.’”]

 
Say, sages, what’s the charm on earth
Can turn Death’s dart aside?
It is not purity and worth,
Else Jessy had not died.
 

R. B.

LXXI. ON THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS

[A little repose brought health to the young lady. “I knew you would not die,” observed the poet, with a smile: “there is a poetic reason for your recovery;” he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.]

 
But rarely seen since Nature’s birth,
The natives of the sky;
Yet still one seraph’s left on earth,
For Jessy did not die.
 

R. B.

LXXII. TAM, THE CHAPMAN

[Tam, the chapman, is said by the late William Cobbett, who knew him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the west of Scotland. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet in 1834: it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the one was Thomas and the name of the other John.]

 
As Tam the Chapman on a day,
Wi’ Death forgather’d by the way,
Weel pleas’d he greets a wight so famous,
And Death was nae less pleas’d wi’ Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down the pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack;
His social, friendly, honest heart,
Sae tickled Death they could na part:
Sac after viewing knives and garters,
Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.
 

LXXIII.

[These lines seem to owe their origin to the precept of Mickle.

“The present moment is our ain,

The next we never saw.”]

 
Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad you wish for mair, man?
Wha kens before his life may end,
What his share may be o’ care, man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man?
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not ay when sought, man.
 

LXXIV.

[The sentiment which these lines express, was one familiar to Burns, in the early, as well as concluding days of his life.]

 
Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
She promis’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,
I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
 

LXXV. TO JOHN KENNEDY

[The John Kennedy to whom these verses and the succeeding lines were addressed, lived, in 1796, at Dumfries-house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet, that he submitted his “Cotter’s Saturday Night” and the “Mountain Daisy” to his judgment: he seems to have been of a social disposition.]

 
Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse
E’er bring you in by Mauchline Cross,
L—d, man, there’s lasses there wad force
A hermit’s fancy.
And down the gate in faith they’re worse
And mair unchancy.
But as I’m sayin’, please step to Dow’s,
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
Till some bit callan bring me news
That ye are there,
And if we dinna hae a bouze
I’se ne’er drink mair.
It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow,
Then like a swine to puke and wallow,
But gie me just a true good fellow,
Wi’ right ingine,
And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
And then we’ll shine.
Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
An’ sklent on poverty their joke
Wi’ bitter sneer,
Wi’ you nae friendship I will troke,
Nor cheap nor dear.
But if, as I’m informed weel,
Ye hate as ill’s the very deil
The flinty heart that canna feel—
Come, Sir, here’s tae you!
Hae, there’s my haun, I wiss you weel,
And gude be wi’ you.
 

Robert Burness.

Mossgiel, 3 March, 1786.

LXXVI. TO JOHN KENNEDY

Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you,

 
And ‘mang her favourites admit you!
If e’er Detraction shore to smit you,
May nane believe him!
And ony deil that thinks to get you,
Good Lord deceive him!
 

R. B.

Kilmarnock, August, 1786

LXXVII.

[Cromek found these characteristic lines among the poet’s papers.]

 
There’s naethin like the honest nappy!
Whaur’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,
Or women, sonsie, saft an’ sappy,
’Tween morn an’ morn
As them wha like to taste the drappie
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me daezt upon a time;
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime,
Ought less is little,
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.
 

LXXVIII. ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A WORK BY HANNAH MORE. PRESENTED BY MRS C–.

 
Thou flattering work of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor;
Though sweetly female every part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart,
Does both the sexes honour.
She showed her taste refined and just,
When she selected thee,
Yet deviating, own I must,
For so approving me!
But kind still, I’ll mind still
The giver in the gift;
I’ll bless her, and wiss her
A Friend above the Lift.
 

Mossgiel, April, 1786.

LXXIX. TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN OF THE MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLTON.

 
Within your dear mansion may wayward contention
Or withering envy ne’er enter:
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre.
 

Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787.

LXXX. IMPROMPTU

[The tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now among the treasures of Abbotsford.]

 
You’re welcome, Willie Stewart,
You’re welcome, Willie Stewart;
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May,
That’s half sae welcome’s thou art.
Come bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.
My foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it,
May woman on him turn her back,
That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.
 

LXXXI. PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR

[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, the maid-servant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call “the deed of shame,” Adam Armour, the brother of the poet’s bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, executed a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through the village, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood: an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly called “Riding the Stang.” This was resented by Geordie and Nanse, the girl’s master and mistress; law was restored to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these home-comings he met Burns who laughed when he heard the story, and said, “You have need of some one to pray for you.” “No one can do that better than yourself,” was the reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, as it is said, “clean off loof.” From Adam Armour I obtained the verses, and when he wrote them out, he told the story in which the prayer originated.]

 
Lord, pity me, for I am little,
An elf of mischief and of mettle,
That can like ony wabster’s shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Though scarce as lang’s a gude kale-whittle,
I’m unco queer.
Lord pity now our waefu’ case,
For Geordie’s Jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d her through the place,
‘Mang hundreds laughin’,
For which we daurna show our face
Within the clachan.
And now we’re dern’d in glens and hallows,
And hunted as was William Wallace,
By constables, those blackguard fellows,
And bailies baith,
O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows!
That cursed death.
Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie’s sel’,
O shake him ewre the mouth o’ hell,
And let him hing and roar and yell,
Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel
Just heave him in.
When Death comes in wi’ glimmering blink,
And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink’
Gaur Satan gie her a—e a clink
Behint his yett,
And fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,
Red reeking het!
There’s Jockie and the hav’rel Jenny,
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
And waft them in th’ infernal wherry,
Straught through the lake,
And gie their hides a noble curry,
Wi’ oil of aik.
As for the lass, lascivious body,
She’s had mischief enough already,
Weel stang’d by market, mill, and smiddie,
She’s suffer’d sair;
But may she wintle in a widdie,
If she wh—re mair.
 

SONGS AND BALLADS
“HANDSOME NELL.”

I. HANDSOME NELL

Tune.—“I am a man unmarried.”

[“This composition,” says Burns in his “Common-place Book,” “was the first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her.”]

 
I.
O once I lov’d a bonnie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that honour warms my breast,
I’ll love my handsome Nell.
II.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But for a modest gracefu’ mien
The like I never saw.
III.
A bonnie lass,
I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e,
But without some better qualities
She’s no a lass for me.
IV.
But Nelly’s looks are blithe and sweet,
And what is best of a’,
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
V.
She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel:
And then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
VI.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it’s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
VII.
’Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
’Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control
 

II. LUCKLESS FORTUNE

[Those lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of the air.]

 
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;
But luckless fortune’s northern storms
Laid a’ my blossoms low, O.
 

III. I DREAM’D I LAY

[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen years old: his early days were typical of his latter.]

 
I.
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;
Trees with aged arms were warring.
O’er the swelling drumlie wave.
II.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,
Such the pleasure I enjoy’d:
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,
I bear a heart shall support me still.
 

IV. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY

Tune—“Invercald’s Reel.”

[The Tibbie who “spak na, but gaed by like stoure,” was, it is said, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.]

Chorus.

 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o’ gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
I.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
But fient a hair care I.
II.
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.
III.
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.
IV.
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.
V.
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.
VI.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
VII.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would nae gie her in her sark,
For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousan’ mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
 

V. MY FATHER WAS A FARMER

Tune—“The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.”

[“The following song,” says the poet, “is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over.”]

 
I.
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.
II.
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.
III.
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.
IV.
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.
V.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I,
Nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat and broil,
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.
VI.
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.
VII.
But cheerful still, I am as well,
As a monarch in a 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.
VIII.
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.
IX.
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 adorn you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown
I will prefer before you, O.
 

VI. JOHN BARLEYCORN: A BALLAD

[Composed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has given an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales.]

 
I.
There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
II.
They took a plough and plough’d him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
III.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris’d them all.
IV.
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.
V.
The sober autumn enter’d mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His beading joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.
VI.
His colour sicken’d more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
VII.
They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
VIII.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell’d him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm.
And turn’d him o’er and o’er.
IX.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
X.
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.
XI.
They wasted o’er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d him worst of all—
He crush’d him ’tween the stones.
XII.
And they ha’e ta’en his very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
XIII.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
’Twill make your courage rise.
XIV.
’Twill make a man forget his woe;
’Twill heighten all his joy:
’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
XV.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!