Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 47

Mr. Erskine

Collected, Harry stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man;

[Footnote 1: William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles, a convivial club.]

His Lords.h.i.+p sat wi' ruefu' e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man: Like wind-driven hail it did a.s.sail'

Or torrents owre a lin, man: The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, "No storied urn nor animated bust;"

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust.

Additional Stanzas

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired, Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state, And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives A brother Bard--he can no more bestow: But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, A n.o.bler monument than Art can shew.

Inscribed Under Fergusson's Portrait

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure.

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!

Why is the Bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

[Footnote 1: The stone was erected at Burns' expenses in February--March, 1789.]

Epistle To Mrs. Scott

Gudewife of Wauchope--House, Roxburghs.h.i.+re.

Gudewife,

I Mind it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh; An, tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and la.s.s, Still shearing, and clearing The t.i.ther stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa.

E'en then, a wish, (I mind its pow'r), A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spar'd the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang, In formless jumble, right an' wrang, Wild floated in my brain; 'Till on that har'st I said before, May partner in the merry core, She rous'd the forming strain; I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pawky een That gart my heart-strings tingle; I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bas.h.i.+ng, and das.h.i.+ng, I feared aye to speak.

Health to the s.e.x! ilk guid chiel says: Wi' merry dance in winter days, An' we to share in common; The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu' o' your mither; She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her: Ye're wae men, ye're nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; 'Twad please me to the nine.

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, Douce hingin owre my curple, Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial purple.

Farewell then, lang hale then, An' plenty be your fa; May losses and crosses Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

R. Burns March, 1787

Verses Intended To Be Written Below A n.o.ble Earl's Picture^1

Whose is that n.o.ble, dauntless brow?

And whose that eye of fire?

And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire?

Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works admire.

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian Seraph eyes with awe The n.o.ble Ward he loves.

Among the ill.u.s.trious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern, Mark Scotia's fond-returning eye,-- It dwells upon Glencairn.

Prologue

Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787.

When, by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted--honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue's glow, But heaves impa.s.sion'd with the grateful throe?

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song; But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war.

Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear!

Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear?

[Footnote 1: The n.o.bleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.]

Where every science, every n.o.bler art, That can inform the mind or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.

Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam; Here History paints with elegance and force The tide of Empire's fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, And Harley rouses all the G.o.d in man.

When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace Can only charm us in the second place), Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here!

But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge--you're candid to forgive.

No hundred--headed riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet; Nor Insolence a.s.sumes fair Freedom's name: Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to s.h.i.+eld the honour'd land!

Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise, with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; Still Self-dependent in her native sh.o.r.e, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.