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Part XXIVPart XXIV
Part XXIV
song-My Lord A-Hunting
Chorus.-My lady`s gown, there`s gairs upon`t,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon`t;
But Jenny`s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks meikle mair upon`t.
My lord a-hunting he is gone,
But hounds or hawks wi` him are nane;
By Colin`s cottage lies his game,
If Colin`s Jenny be at hame.
My lady`s gown, &c.
My lady`s white, my lady`s red,
And kith and kin o` Cassillis` blude;
But her ten-pund lands o` tocher gude;
Were a` the charms his lordship lo`ed.
My lady`s gown, &c.
Out o`er yon muir, out o`er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks thro` the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin`s bonie lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
My lady`s gown, &c.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o`lovers` hymns:
The diamond-dew in her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady`s gown, &c.
My lady`s dink, my lady`s drest,
The flower and fancy o` the west;
But the lassie than a man lo`es best,
O that`s the lass to mak him blest.
My lady`s gown, &c.
Epigram At Roslin Inn
My blessings on ye, honest wife!
I ne`er was here before;
Ye`ve wealth o` gear for spoon and knife-
Heart could not wish for more.
Heav`n keep you clear o` sturt and strife,
Till far ayont fourscore,
And while I toddle on thro` life,
I`ll ne`er gae by your door!
Epigram Addressed To An Artist
Dear _____, I`ll gie ye some advice,
You`ll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel`s kittle wark,
Wi` Nick, there`s little danger:
You`ll easy draw a lang-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger.-R. B.
The Book-Worms
Through and through th` inspir`d leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O respect his lordship`s taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
On Elphinstone`s Translation Of Martial`s Epigrams
O Thou whom Poetry abhors,
Whom Prose has turned out of doors,
Heard`st thou yon groan?-proceed no further,
`Twas laurel`d Martial calling murther.
song-A Bottle And Friend
There`s nane that`s blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.
Here`s a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o` care, man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.
Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms-confess:
True it is, she had one failing,
Had a woman ever less?
Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh
Ye maggots, feed on Nicol`s brain,
For few sic feasts you`ve gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol`s heart,
For deil a bit o`t`s rotten.
Epitaph For Mr. William Michie
Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.
Here lie Willie Michie`s banes;
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o` your weans,
For clever deils he`ll mak them!
Boat song-Hey, Ca` Thro`
Up wi` the carls o` Dysart,
And the lads o` Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o` Largo,
And the lasses o` Leven.
Chorus.-Hey, ca` thro`, ca` thro`,
For we hae muckle ado.
Hey, ca` thro`, ca` thro`,
For we hae muckle ado;
We hae tales to tell,
An` we hae sangs to sing;
We hae pennies tae spend,
An` we hae pints to bring.
Hey, ca` thro`, &c.
We`ll live a` our days,
And them that comes behin`,
Let them do the like,
An` spend the gear they win.
Hey, ca` thro`, &c.
Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee
With an Impression of the Author`s Portrait.
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected;
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now `tis despis`d and neglected.
Tho` something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
A poor friendless wand`rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand`rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever`d on a throne:
My fathers have fallen to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry:
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title`s avow`d by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us th` Electoral stem?
If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I`m sure `twas as lucky for them.
But, loyalty, truce! we`re on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint`s dying prayer.
Now life`s chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night:
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.
Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church
Who was looking up the text during sermon.
Fair maid, you need not take the hint,
Nor idle texts pursue:
`Twas guilty sinners that he meant,
Not Angels such as you.
Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher
Auld chuckie Reekie`s^1 sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel burnish`d crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest
Can yield ava,
Her darling bird that she lo`es best-
Willie`s awa!
O Willie was a witty wight,
And had o` things an unco` sleight,
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,
And trig an` braw:
But now they`ll busk her like a fright, -
Willie`s awa!
The stiffest o` them a` he bow`d,
The bauldest o` them a` he cow`d;
They durst nae mair than he allow`d,
That was a law:
We`ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd;
Willie`s awa!
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;
He wha could brush them down to mools-
Willie`s awa!
[Footnote 1: Edinburgh.]
The brethren o` the Commerce-chaumer
May mourn their loss wi` doolfu` clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar
Among them a`;
I fear they`ll now mak mony a stammer;
Willie`s awa!
Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!
The adjutant o` a` the core-
Willie`s awa!
Now worthy Gregory`s Latin face,
Tytler`s and Greenfield`s modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, such a brace
As Rome ne`er saw;
They a` maun meet some ither place,
Willie`s awa!
Poor Burns ev`n Scotch Drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder`d chicken
Scar`d frae it`s minnie and the cleckin,
By hoodie-craw;
Grieg`s gien his heart an unco kickin,
Willie`s awa!
Now ev`ry sour-mou`d girnin blellum,
And Calvin`s folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic skellum
His quill may draw;
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum-
Willie`s awa!
Up wimpling stately Tweed I`ve sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure`s fled,
Willie`s awa!
May I be Slander`s common speech;
A text for Infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw;
When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
Tho` far awa!
May never wicked Fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld`s Methusalem
He canty claw!
Then to the blessed new Jerusalem,
Fleet wing awa!
Note To Mr. Renton Of Lamerton
Your billet, Sir, I grant receipt;
Wi` you I`ll canter ony gate,
Tho` `twere a trip to yon blue warl`,
Whare birkies march on burning marl:
Then, Sir, God willing, I`ll attend ye,
And to his goodness I commend ye.
R. Burns
Elegy On "Stella"
The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who
deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of "The voice of Cona" in
his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in
Shenstone`s language, they would have been no discredit even to that
elegant poet.-R.B.
Strait is the spot and green the sod
From whence my sorrows flow;
And soundly sleeps the ever dear
Inhabitant below.
Pardon my transport, gentle shade,
While o`er the turf I bow;
Thy earthy house is circumscrib`d,
And solitary now.
Not one poor stone to tell thy name,
Or make thy virtues known:
But what avails to me-to thee,
The sculpture of a stone?
I`ll sit me down upon this turf,
And wipe the rising tear:
The chill blast passes swiftly by,
And flits around thy bier.
Dark is the dwelling of the Dead,
And sad their house of rest:
Low lies the head, by Death`s cold arms
In awful fold embrac`d.
I saw the grim Avenger stand
Incessant by thy side;
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath
Thy lingering frame destroy`d.
Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,
And wither`d was thy bloom,
Till the slow poison brought thy youth
Untimely to the tomb.
Thus wasted are the ranks of men-
Youth, Health, and Beauty fall;
The ruthless ruin spreads around,
And overwhelms us all.
Behold where, round thy narrow house,
The graves unnumber`d lie;
The multitude that sleep below
Existed but to die.
Some, with the tottering steps of Age,
Trod down the darksome way;
And some, in youth`s lamented prime,
Like thee were torn away:
Yet these, however hard their fate,
Their native earth receives;
Amid their weeping friends they died,
And fill their fathers` graves.
From thy lov`d friends, when first thy heart
Was taught by Heav`n to glow,
Far, far remov`d, the ruthless stroke
Surpris`d and laid thee low.
At the last limits of our isle,
Wash`d by the western wave,
Touch`d by thy face, a thoughtful bard
Sits lonely by thy grave.
Pensive he eyes, before him spread
The deep, outstretch`d and vast;
His mourning notes are borne away
Along the rapid blast.
And while, amid the silent Dead
Thy hapless fate he mourns,
His own long sorrows freshly bleed,
And all his grief returns:
Like thee, cut off in early youth,
And flower of beauty`s pride,
His friend, his first and only joy,
His much lov`d Stella, died.
Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate
Resistless bears along;
And the same rapid tide shall whelm
The Poet and the Song.
The tear of pity which he sheds,
He asks not to receive;
Let but his poor remains be laid
Obscurely in the grave.
His grief-worn heart, with truest joy,
Shall meet he welcome shock:
His airy harp shall lie unstrung,
And silent on the rock.
O, my dear maid, my Stella, when
Shall this sick period close,
And lead the solitary bard
To his belov`d repose?
The Bard At Inverary
Whoe`er he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he comes to wait upon
The Lord their God, His Grace.
There`s naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,
`Twas surely in his anger.
Epigram To Miss Jean Scott
O had each Scot of ancient times
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art;
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.
On The Death Of John M`Leod, Esq,
Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author`s.
Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella`s arms.
Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella`s morn
The sun propitious smil`d;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil`d.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That Nature finest strung;
So Isabella`s heart was form`d,
And so that heart was wrung.
Dread Omnipotence alone
Can heal the wound he gave-
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue`s blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella`s spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.
Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair
The lamp of day, with-ill presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
Th` inconstant blast howl`d thro` the dark`ning air,
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander`d by each cliff and dell,
Once the lov`d haunts of Scotia`s royal train;^1
Or mus`d where limpid streams, once hallow`d well,^2
Or mould`ring ruins mark the sacred fane.^3
Th` increasing blast roar`d round the beetling rocks,
The clouds swift-wing`d flew o`er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
[Footnote 1: The King`s Park at Holyrood House.-R. B.]
[Footnote 2: St. Anthony`s well.-R. B.]
[Footnote 3: St. Anthony`s Chapel.-R. B.]
The paly moon rose in the livid east.
And `mong the cliffs disclos`d a stately form
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
And mix`d her wailings with the raving storm
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
`Twas Caledonia`s trophied shield I view`d:
Her form majestic droop`d in pensive woe,
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers`d that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl`d,
That like a deathful meteor gleam`d afar,
And brav`d the mighty monarchs of the world.
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried;
"Low lies the hand oft was stretch`d to save,
Low lies the heart that swell`d with honest pride.
"A weeping country joins a widow`s tear;
The helpless poor mix with the orphan`s cry;
The drooping arts surround their patron`s bier;
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom`s blossoms richly blow:
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
"My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother`s tender cares,
Thro` future times to make his virtues last;
That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"-
She said, and vanish`d with the sweeping blast.
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