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Part XIXPart XIX
Part XIX
A Dedication
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
Expect na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth`rin Dedication,
To roose you up, an` ca` you guid,
An` sprung o` great an` noble bluid,
Because ye`re surnam`d like His Grace-
Perhaps related to the race:
Then, when I`m tir`d-and sae are ye,
Wi` mony a fulsome, sinfu` lie,
Set up a face how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may do-maun do, sir, wi` them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say-an` that`s nae flatt`rin-
It`s just sic Poet an` sic Patron.
The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!
He may do weel for a` he`s done yet,
But only-he`s no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me;
I winna lie, come what will o` me),
On ev`ry hand it will allow`d be,
He`s just-nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What`s no his ain, he winna tak it;
What ance he says, he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he`ll no refus`t,
Till aft his guidness is abus`d;
And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
Ev`n that, he does na mind it lang;
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for a`that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca` that;
It`s naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu` corrupt nature:
Ye`ll get the best o` moral works,
`Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he`s the poor man`s friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It`s no thro` terror of damnation;
It`s just a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o` thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whase stay an` trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!
No-stretch a point to catch a plack:
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal through the winnock frae a whore,
But point the rake that taks the door;
Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply ev`ry art o` legal thieving;
No matter-stick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile pray`rs, an` half-mile graces,
Wi` weel-spread looves, an` lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen`d groan,
And damn a` parties but your own;
I`ll warrant they ye`re nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
O ye wha leave the springs o` Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!
Ye sons of Heresy and Error,
Ye`ll some day squeel in quaking terror,
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath.
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav`n commission gies him;
While o`er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deep`ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, sir, for this digression:
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes `cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.
So, sir, you see `twas nae daft vapour;
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a` my works I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill),
I thought them something like yoursel`.
Then patronize them wi` your favor,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that`s a word I need na say;
For prayin, I hae little skill o`t,
I`m baith dead-sweer, an` wretched ill o`t;
But I`se repeat each poor man`s pray`r,
That kens or hears about you, sir-
"May ne`er Misfortune`s gowling bark,
Howl thro` the dwelling o` the clerk!
May ne`er his genrous, honest heart,
For that same gen`rous spirit smart!
May Kennedy`s far-honour`d name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen,
Are frae their nuptial labours risen:
Five bonie lasses round their table,
And sev`n braw fellows, stout an` able,
To serve their king an` country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the ev`ning o` his days;
Till his wee, curlie John`s ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"
I will not wind a lang conclusion,
With complimentary effusion;
But, whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with Fortune`s smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.
But if (which Pow`rs above prevent)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended, in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes, and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But, by a poor man`s hopes in Heav`n!
While recollection`s pow`r is giv`n-
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune`s strife,
I, thro` the tender-gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear;
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand-my Friend and Brother!
Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline
Friday first`s the day appointed
By the Right Worshipful anointed,
To hold our grand procession;
To get a blad o` Johnie`s morals,
And taste a swatch o` Manson`s barrels
I` the way of our profession.
The Master and the Brotherhood
Would a` be glad to see you;
For me I would be mair than proud
To share the mercies wi` you.
If Death, then, wi` skaith, then,
Some mortal heart is hechtin,
Inform him, and storm him,
That Saturday you`ll fecht him.
Robert Burns.
Mossgiel, An. M. 5790.
The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James` Lodge, Tarbolton.
tune-"Guidnight, and joy be wi` you a`."
Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu;
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favoured, enlighten`d few,
Companions of my social joy;
Tho` I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune`s slidd`ry ba`;
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I`ll mind you still, tho` far awa.
Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honour`d with supreme command,
Presided o`er the sons of light:
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but Craftsmen ever saw
Strong Mem`ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes, when far awa.
May Freedom, Harmony, and Love,
Unite you in the grand Design,
Beneath th` Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious Architect Divine,
That you may keep th` unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet`s law,
Till Order bright completely shine,
Shall be my pray`r when far awa.
And you, farewell! whose merits claim
Justly that highest badge to wear:
Heav`n bless your honour`d noble name,
To Masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here, -
When yearly ye assemble a`,
One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the Bard that`s far awa.
On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies
A` ye wha live by sowps o` drink,
A` ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A` ye wha live and never think,
Come, mourn wi` me!
Our billie `s gien us a` a jink,
An` owre the sea!
Lament him a` ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random splore;
Nae mair he`ll join the merry roar;
In social key;
For now he`s taen anither shore.
An` owre the sea!
The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives, an` a` may bless him
Wi` tearfu` e`e;
For weel I wat they`ll sairly miss him
That`s owre the sea!
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an` fumble,
`Twad been nae plea;
But he was gleg as ony wumble,
That`s owre the sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An` stain them wi` the saut, saut tear;
`Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee:
He was her Laureat mony a year,
That`s owre the sea!
He saw Misfortune`s cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!
So, took a berth afore the mast,
An` owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune`s cummock,
On a scarce a bellyfu` o` drummock,
Wi` his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;
So, row`t his hurdies in a hammock,
An` owre the sea.
He ne`er was gien to great misguidin,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi` him it ne`er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:
The Muse was a` that he took pride in,
That`s owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An` hap him in cozie biel:
Ye`ll find him aye a dainty chiel,
An` fou o` glee:
He wad na wrang`d the vera deil,
That`s owre the sea.
Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonilie!
I`ll toast you in my hindmost gillie,
Tho` owre the sea!
song-Farewell To Eliza
tune-"Gilderoy."
From thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean`s roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!
But the latest throb that leaves my heart,
While Death stands victor by, -
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!
A Bard`s Epitaph
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life`s mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause-and, thro` the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain`d his name!
Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy`s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom`s root.
Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq.
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov`d, much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne`er made cold.
Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
The poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam`d;
But with such as he, where`er he be,
May I be sav`d or damn`d!
Epitaph On "Wee Johnie"
Hic Jacet wee Johnie.
Whoe`er thou art, O reader, know
That Death has murder`d Johnie;
An` here his body lies fu` low;
For saul he ne`er had ony.
The Lass O` Ballochmyle
tune-"Ettrick Banks."
`Twas even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wanton`d round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In ev`ry glen the mavis sang,
All nature list`ning seem`d the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o` Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray`d,
My heart rejoic`d in nature`s joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc`d to spy:
Her look was like the morning`s eye,
Her air like nature`s vernal smile:
Perfection whisper`d, passing by,
"Behold the lass o` Ballochmyle!"
Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild;
When roving thro` the garden gay,
Or wand`ring in the lonely wild:
But woman, nature`s darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foil`d
By the bonie lass o` Ballochmyle.
O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho` shelter`d in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland`s plain!
Thro` weary winter`s wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o` Ballochmyle.
Then pride might climb the slipp`ry steep,
Where frame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil;
And ev`ry day have joys divine
With the bonie lass o` Ballochmyle.
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