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Part XXXIPart XXXI
Part XXXI
Sketch In Verse
Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.
How wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite,
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white,
How Genius, th` illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction,
I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I-let the Critics go whistle!
But now for a Patron whose name and whose glory,
At once may illustrate and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of `em e`er could go wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of `em e`er could go right;
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses,
For using thy name, offers fifty excuses.
Good Lord, what is Man! for as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks;
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all he`s a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours,
That, like th` old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours:
Mankind are his show-box-a friend, would you know him?
Pull the string, Ruling Passion the picture will show him,
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,
One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss`d him;
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,
Mankind is a science defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,
And think human nature they truly describe;
Have you found this, or t`other? There`s more in the wind;
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you`ll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that wonderful creature called Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim.
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall imply you`ve the other.
But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse
Whose rhymes you`ll perhaps, Sir, ne`er deign to peruse:
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels,
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels?
My much-honour`d Patron, believe your poor poet,
Your courage, much more than your prudence, you show it:
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle:
He`ll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle:
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal `em,
He`d up the back stairs, and by God, he would steal `em,
Then feats like Squire Billy`s you ne`er can achieve `em;
It is not, out-do him-the task is, out-thieve him!
The Wounded Hare
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb`rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wand`rer of the wood and field!
The bitter little that of life remains:
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o`er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
Perhaps a mother`s anguish adds its woe;
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side;
Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide
That life a mother only can bestow!
Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I`ll miss thee sporting o`er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian`s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
Delia, An Ode
"To the Editor of The Star.-Mr. Printer-If the productions of a simple
ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the
other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of
genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future
communications from-Yours, &c., R. Burns.
Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789."
Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op`ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty shows.
Sweet the lark`s wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour`d busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet`s limpid lapse
To the sun-brown`d Arab`s lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;
O let me steal one liquid kiss,
For Oh! my soul is parch`d with love.
The Gard`ner Wi` His Paidle
tune-"The Gardener`s March."
When rosy May comes in wi` flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours,
The Gard`ner wi` his paidle.
The crystal waters gently fa`,
The merry bards are lovers a`,
The scented breezes round him blaw-
The Gard`ner wi` his paidle.
When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare;
Then thro` the dews he maun repair-
The Gard`ner wi` his paidle.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o` Nature`s rest,
He flies to her arms he lo`es the best,
The Gard`ner wi` his paidle.
On A Bank Of Flowers
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep opprest;
When Willie, wand`ring thro` the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued;
He gaz`d, he wish`d
He fear`d, he blush`d,
And trembled where he stood.
Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath`d,
Were seal`d in soft repose;
Her lip, still as she fragrant breath`d,
It richer dyed the rose;
The springing lilies, sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast;
He gaz`d, he wish`d,
He mear`d, he blush`d,
His bosom ill at rest.
Her robes, light-waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace;
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole;
He gaz`d, he wish`d,
He fear`d, he blush`d,
And sigh`d his very soul.
As flies the partridge from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting, half-awake,
Away affrighted springs;
But Willie follow`d-as he should,
He overtook her in the wood;
He vow`d, he pray`d,
He found the maid
Forgiving all, and good.
Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad
Young Jockie was the blythest lad,
In a` our town or here awa;
Fu` blythe he whistled at the gaud,
Fu` lightly danc`d he in the ha`.
He roos`d my een sae bonie blue,
He roos`d my waist sae genty sma`;
An` aye my heart cam to my mou`,
When ne`er a body heard or saw.
My Jockie toils upon the plain,
Thro` wind and weet, thro` frost and snaw:
And o`er the lea I leuk fu` fain,
When Jockie`s owsen hameward ca`.
An` aye the night comes round again,
When in his arms he taks me a`;
An` aye he vows he`ll be my ain,
As lang`s he has a breath to draw.
The Banks Of Nith
The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Comyns ance had high command.
When shall I see that honour`d land,
That winding stream I love so dear!
Must wayward Fortune`s adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here!
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom;
And sweetly spread thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton through the broom.
Tho` wandering now must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!
Jamie, Come Try Me
Chorus.-Jamie, come try me,
Jamie, come try me,
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me.
If thou should ask my love,
Could I deny thee?
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me!
Jamie, come try me, &c.
If thou should kiss me, love,
Wha could espy thee?
If thou wad be my love,
Jamie, come try me!
Jamie, come try me, &c.
I Love My Love In Secret
My Sandy gied to me a ring,
Was a` beset wi` diamonds fine;
But I gied him a far better thing,
I gied my heart in pledge o` his ring.
Chorus.-My Sandy O, my Sandy O,
My bonie, bonie Sandy O;
Tho` the love that I owe
To thee I dare na show,
Yet I love my love in secret, my Sandy O.
My Sandy brak a piece o` gowd,
While down his cheeks the saut tears row`d;
He took a hauf, and gied it to me,
And I`ll keep it till the hour I die.
My Sand O, &c.
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar
O wilt thou go wi` me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi` me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money,
I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly;
But sae that thou`lt hae me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar.
The Captain`s Lady
Chorus.-O mount and go, mount and make you ready,
O mount and go, and be the Captain`s lady.
When the drums do beat, and the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state, and see thy love in battle:
When the drums do beat, and the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state, and see thy love in battle.
O mount and go, &c.
When the vanquish`d foe sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we`ll go, and in love enjoy it:
When the vanquish`d foe sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we`ll go, and in love enjoy it.
O mount and go, &c.
John Anderson, My Jo
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day, John,
We`ve had wi` ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we`ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
My Love, She`s But A Lassie Yet
My love, she`s but a lassie yet,
My love, she`s but a lassie yet;
We`ll let her stand a year or twa,
She`ll no be half sae saucy yet;
I rue the day I sought her, O!
I rue the day I sought her, O!
Wha gets her needs na say she`s woo`d,
But he may say he`s bought her, O.
Come, draw a drap o` the best o`t yet,
Come, draw a drap o` the best o`t yet,
Gae seek for pleasure whare you will,
But here I never miss`d it yet,
We`re a` dry wi` drinkin o`t,
We`re a` dry wi` drinkin o`t;
The minister kiss`d the fiddler`s wife;
He could na preach for thinkin o`t.
song-Tam Glen
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len`,
To anger them a` is a pity,
But what will I do wi` Tam Glen?
I`m thinking, wi` sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen;
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam Glen!
There`s Lowrie the Laird o` Dumeller-
"Gude day to you, brute!" he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o` his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen!
My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o` young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me,
But wha can think sae o` Tam Glen!
My daddie says, gin I`ll forsake him,
He`d gie me gude hunder marks ten;
But, if it`s ordain`d I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen!
Yestreen at the Valentine`s dealing,
My heart to my mou` gied a sten`;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written "Tam Glen"!
The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken,
His likeness came up the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks o` Tam Glen!
Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don`t tarry;
I`ll gie ye my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo`e dearly, Tam Glen.
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