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Part XXIIPart XXII
Part XXII
Masonic Song
tune-"Shawn-boy," or "Over the water to Charlie."
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honoured station.
I`ve little to say, but only to pray,
As praying`s the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse
`Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o`er the wind, and the tide,
Who marked each element`s border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order:-
Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention
Or withered Envy ne`er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly Love be the centre!
Tam Samson`s Elegy
An honest man`s the noblest work of God-Pope.
When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he
supposed it was to be, in Ossian`s phrase, "the last of his fields," and
expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the
author composed his elegy and epitaph.-R.B., 1787.
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson^2 again grown weel,
To preach an` read?
"Na` waur than a`! cries ilka chiel,
"Tam Samson`s dead!"
[Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide "The
Ordination." stanza ii.-R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at
that time ailing. For him see also "The Ordination," stanza ix.-R.B.]
Kilmarnock lang may grunt an` grane,
An` sigh, an` sab, an` greet her lane,
An` cleed her bairns, man, wife, an` wean,
In mourning weed;
To Death she`s dearly pay`d the kane-
Tam Samson`s dead!
The Brethren, o` the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu` bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;
Death`s gien the Lodge an unco devel;
Tam Samson`s dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock,
Wi` gleesome speed,
Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson`s dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
He was the king o` a` the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar,
In time o` need;
But now he lags on Death`s hog-score-
Tam Samson`s dead!
Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp`d wi` crimson hail,
And eels, weel-ken`d for souple tail,
And geds for greed,
Since, dark in Death`s fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson`s dead!
Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a`;
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu` braw
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa;
Tam Samson`s dead!
That woefu` morn be ever mourn`d,
Saw him in shooting graith adorn`d,
While pointers round impatient burn`d,
Frae couples free`d;
But och! he gaed and ne`er return`d!
Tam Samson`s dead!
In vain auld age his body batters,
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev`ry auld wife, greetin, clatters
"Tam Samson`s dead!"
Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
An` aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi` deadly feid;
Now he proclaims wi` tout o` trumpet,
"Tam Samson`s dead!"
When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel`d his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger,
Wi` weel-aimed heed;
"Lord, five!" he cry`d, an` owre did stagger-
Tam Samson`s dead!
Ilk hoary hunter mourn`d a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan`d a father;
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
"Tam Samson`s dead!"
There, low he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould`ring breast
Some spitefu` muirfowl bigs her nest
To hatch an` breed:
Alas! nae mair he`ll them molest!
Tam Samson`s dead!
When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave,
O` pouther an` lead,
Till Echo answer frae her cave,
"Tam Samson`s dead!"
Heav`n rest his saul whare`er he be!
Is th` wish o` mony mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Ae social, honest man want we:
Tam Samson`s dead!
The Epitaph
Tam Samson`s weel-worn clay here lies
Ye canting zealots, spare him!
If honest worth in Heaven rise,
Ye`ll mend or ye win near him.
Per Contra
Go, Fame, an` canter like a filly
Thro` a` the streets an` neuks o` Killie;^3
Tell ev`ry social honest billie
To cease his grievin`;
For, yet unskaithed by Death`s gleg gullie.
Tam Samson`s leevin`!
Epistle To Major Logan
Hail, thairm-inspirin`, rattlin` Willie!
Tho` fortune`s road be rough an` hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unback`d filly,
Proud o` her speed.
[Footnote 3: Kilmarnock.-R. B.]
When, idly goavin`, whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us; then the scathe an` banter
We`re forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O` this wild warl`.
Until you on a crummock driddle,
A grey hair`d carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon
A fifth or mair
The melancholious, lazy croon
O` cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day,
Nae "lente largo" in the play,
But "allegretto forte" gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-
Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An` never think o` right an` wrang
By square an` rule,
But, as the clegs o` feeling stang,
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
May fireside discords jar a base
To a` their parts.
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I` th` ither warl`, if there`s anither,
An` that there is, I`ve little swither
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
I`se ne`er bid better.
We`ve faults and failings-granted clearly,
We`re frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve`s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa`;
But still, but still, I like them dearly-
God bless them a`!
Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa` foul o` earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs`d, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi` girnin`spite.
By by yon moon!-and that`s high swearin-
An` every star within my hearin!
An` by her een wha was a dear ane!
I`ll ne`er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I`ll seek my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf I`ll yet be dinted;
Then vive l`amour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An` trowth my rhymin ware`s nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour`s leisure,
Be`t light, be`t dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.
Robert Burns.
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
Fragment On Sensibility
Rusticity`s ungainly form
May cloud the highest mind;
But when the heart is nobly warm,
The good excuse will find.
Propriety`s cold, cautious rules
Warm fervour may o`erlook:
But spare poor sensibility
Th` ungentle, harsh rebuke.
A Winter Night
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe`er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop`d and window`d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?-Shakespeare.
When biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro` the leafless bow`r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv`d glow`r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark`ning thro` the flaky show`r,
Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi` snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl;
Or, thro` the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl:
List`ning the doors an` winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O` winter war,
And thro` the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird,-wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o` spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o` thee?
Whare wilt thou cow`r thy chittering wing,
An` close thy e`e?
Ev`n you, on murdering errands toil`d,
Lone from your savage homes exil`d,
The blood-stain`d roost, and sheep-cote spoil`d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats!
Now Phoebe in her midnight reign,
Dark-muff`d, view`d the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plantive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole:-
"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting.
Than heaven-illumin`d Man on brother Man bestows!
"See stern Oppression`s iron grip,
Or mad Ambition`s gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, Want, and Murder o`er a land!
Ev`n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper`d Luxury, Flatt`ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o`er proud Property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple, rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the glitt`ring show-
A creature of another kind,
Some coarser substance, unrefin`d-
Plac`d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!
"Where, where is Love`s fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour`s lofty brow,
The pow`rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love`s noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone?
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love-pretending snares:
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity`s rising sway,
Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray`rs!
Perhaps this hour, in Misery`s squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother`s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!
"Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill-satisfy`d keen nature`s clamorous call,
Stretch`d on his straw, he lays himself to sleep;
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill, o`er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon`s grim confine,
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view,
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel Fortune`s undeserved blow?
Affliction`s sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail`d the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.
But deep this truth impress`d my mind-
Thro` all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
song-Yon Wild Mossy Mountains
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o` the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro` the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Not Gowrie`s rich valley, nor Forth`s sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o`yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream,
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi` my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o`er us unheeded flie the swift hours o`love.
She is not the fairest, altho` she is fair;
O` nice education but sma` is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo`e the dear lassie because she lo`es me.
To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish`d her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e`e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I`m clasp`d in her arms,
O, these are my lassie`s all-conquering charms!
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