Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 46

Address To Edinburgh

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs: From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in they honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labours plies; There Architecture's n.o.ble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise: Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale: Attentive still to Sorrow's wail, Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail!

And never Envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!

Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy s.h.i.+ne; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own His work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and ma.s.sy bar, Grim--rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood a.s.sailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that n.o.ble, stately Dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!

Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!

Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's b.l.o.o.d.y lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs; Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs: From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Address To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

Aboon them a' yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin was help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gus.h.i.+ng entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or frica.s.see wad make her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As f.e.c.kles as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro' blody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread.

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned, Like taps o' trissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer Gie her a haggis!

1787

To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems, For A New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.

Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin's simple tale.

Our s.e.x with guile, and faithless love, Is charg'd, perhaps too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you.

Mr. William Smellie--A Sketch

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came; The old c.o.c.k'd hat, the grey surtout the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night: His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd; Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting-rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

Rattlin', Roarin' Willie^1

As I cam by Crochallan, I cannilie keekit ben; Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en'; Sittin at yon boord-en, And amang gude companie; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, You're welcome hame to me!

Song--Bonie Dundee

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie!

My blessin's upon thy e'e-brie!

Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's aye the dearer, and dearer to me!

But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonie banks, Whare Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; An' I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

Extempore In The Court Of Session

Tune--"Killiercrankie."

Lord Advocate

He clenched his pamphlet in his fist, He quoted and he hinted, Till, in a declamation-mist, His argument he tint it: He gaped for't, he graped for't, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short, He eked out wi' law, man.