Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 63

Epode

And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year?

In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here!

O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier, While down the wretched Vital Part is driven!

The cave-lodged Beggar,with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven.

Pegasus At Wanlockhead

With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo, weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying.

Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty caulker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol's business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster; My Pegasus is poorly shod, I'll pay you like my master.

Sappho Redivivus--A Fragment

By all I lov'd, neglected and forgot, No friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot; Shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest, The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest!

Ev'n the poor support of my wretched life, s.n.a.t.c.hed by the violence of legal strife.

Oft grateful for my very daily bread To those my family's once large bounty fed; A welcome inmate at their homely fare, My griefs, my woes, my sighs, my tears they share: (Their vulgar souls unlike the souls refin'd, The fas.h.i.+oned marble of the polished mind).

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear; Above the world, on wings of Love, I rise-- I know its worst, and can that worst despise; Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, M[ontgomer]y, rich reward, o'erpays them all!

Mild zephyrs waft thee to life's farthest sh.o.r.e, Nor think of me and my distress more,-- Falsehood accurst! No! still I beg a place, Still near thy heart some little, little trace: For that dear trace the world I would resign: O let me live, and die, and think it mine!

"I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn By driving winds the crackling flames are borne;"

Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night, Then bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight: In vain the laws their feeble force oppose, Chain'd at Love's feet, they groan, his vanquish'd foes.

In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye, I dare not combat, but I turn and fly: Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire, Love grasps her scorpions--stifled they expire!

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,

Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone; Each thought intoxicated homage yields, And riots wanton in forbidden fields.

By all on high adoring mortals know!

By all the conscious villain fears below!

By your dear self!--the last great oath I swear, Not life, nor soul, were ever half so dear!

Song--She's Fair And Fause

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo'ed her meikle and lang; She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear; But Woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonie la.s.s gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind; Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind.

O Woman lovely, Woman fair!

An angel form's faun to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gi'en thee mair-- I mean an angel mind.

Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell

On Returning a Newspaper.

Your News and Review, sir.

I've read through and through, sir, With little admiring or blaming; The Papers are barren Of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming.

Our friends, the Reviewers, Those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, sir; But of meet or unmeet, In a fabric complete, I'll boldly p.r.o.nounce they are none, sir;

My goose-quill too rude is To tell all your goodness Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; Would to G.o.d I had one Like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, sir, should know it!

Lines To John M'Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig

Sent with some of the Author's Poems.

O could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send; Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy-- An honest bard's esteem.

Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell

Dear, Sir, at ony time or tide, I'd rather sit wi' you than ride, Though 'twere wi' royal Geordie: And trowth, your kindness, soon and late, Aft gars me to mysel' look blate-- The Lord in Heav'n reward ye!

R. Burns.

Ellisland.

Caledonia--A Ballad

Tune--"Caledonian Hunts' Delight" of Mr. Gow.