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Part XXIIIPart XXIII
Part XXIII
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 noble 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 shine;
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 massy bar,
Grim-rising o`er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell`d th` invader`s shock.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, 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 bloody 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 gushing 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 fricassee 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 feckles 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!
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 sex 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 cock`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.
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 Lordship sat wi` ruefu` e`e,
And ey`d the gathering storm, man:
Like wind-driven hail it did assail`
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 nobler 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, Roxburghshire.
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 lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither 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 bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.
Health to the sex! 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 Noble Earl`s Picture^1
Whose is that noble, 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 noble Ward he loves.
Among the illustrious 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 impassion`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 Nobleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.]
Where every science, every nobler 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 God 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 assumes fair Freedom`s name:
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.
O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch`d to shield 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 shore,
Bold may she brave grim Danger`s loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.
The Bonie Moor-Hen
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,
O`er moors and o`er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discover`d a bonie moor-hen.
Chorus.-I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men,
I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men;
Take some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.
Sweet-brushing the dew from the brown heather bells
Her colours betray`d her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage outlustr`d the pride o` the spring
And O! as she wanton`d sae gay on the wing.
I rede you, &c.
Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep`d o`er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;
He levell`d his rays where she bask`d on the brae-
His rays were outshone, and but mark`d where she lay.
I rede you,&c.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads wi` the best o` their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.
I rede you, &c.
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