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Part VIIIPart VIII
Part VIII
One Night As I Did Wander
Tune - "John Anderson, my jo."
One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree root;
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker`d to the seas;
A cushat crooded o`er me,
That echoed through the braes
. . . . . . .
Tho` Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part
Tune - "The Northern Lass."
Tho` cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart,
Should tenderly entwine.
Tho` mountains, rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
. . . . . . .
Song - Rantin`, Rovin` Robin^1
[Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.]
Tune - "Daintie Davie."
There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o` whatna style,
I doubt it`s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi` Robin.
Chor. - Robin was a rovin` boy,
Rantin`, rovin`, rantin`, rovin`,
Robin was a rovin` boy,
Rantin`, rovin`, Robin!
Our monarch`s hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun^2,
`Twas then a blast o` Janwar` win`
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
[Footnote 2: January 25, 1759, the date of my bardship`s vital existence.-R.
B.]
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo` scho, "Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof:
I think we`ll ca` him Robin."
Robin was, &c.
"He`ll hae misfortunes great an` sma`,
But aye a heart aboon them a`,
He`ll be a credit till us a`-
We`ll a` be proud o` Robin."
Robin was, &c.
"But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin`,
So leeze me on thee! Robin."
Robin was, &c.
"Guid faith," quo`, scho, "I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie aspar;
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur
So blessins on thee! Robin."
Robin was, &c.
Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^1
Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He`ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;
Cauld poverty, wi` hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
E`er mair come near him.
To tell the truth, they seldom fash`d him,
Except the moment that they crush`d him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush`d `em
Tho` e`er sae short.
Then wi` a rhyme or sang he lash`d `em,
And thought it sport.
[Footnote 1: Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or "burns," a translation of his
name.]
Tho`he was bred to kintra-wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin`s mark
To mak a man;
But tell him, he was learn`d and clark,
Ye roos`d him then!
Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock
Author Of The Gospel Recovered.-August, 1785
O Gowdie, terror o` the whigs,
Dread o` blackcoats and rev`rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an` looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin`, glowrin` Superstition!
Wae`s me, she`s in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock,^1 her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas, there`s ground for great suspicion
She`ll ne`er get better.
Enthusiasm`s past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin` consumption:
Not a` her quacks, wi` a` their gumption,
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She`ll soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An` fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,^2
Near unto death.
It`s you an` Taylor^3 are the chief
To blame for a` this black mischief;
[Footnote 1: The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.-R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Mr. Russell`s Kirk.-R. B.]
[Footnote 3: Dr. Taylor of Norwich.-R. B.]
But, could the Lord`s ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An` twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.
For me, my skill`s but very sma`,
An` skill in prose I`ve nane ava`;
But quietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho` they sud your sair misca`,
Ne`er fash your head.
E`en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
And still `mang hands a hearty bicker
O` something stout;
It gars an owthor`s pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There`s naething like the honest nappy;
Whare`ll ye e`er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an` sappy,
`Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I`ve seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, -
Ought less is little-
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg`s a whittle.
The Holy Fair^1
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison`d crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
[Footnote 1: "Holy Fair" is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a
sacramental occasion.-R. B.]
A mask that like the gorget show`d,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
Hypocrisy A-La-Mode
Upon a simmer Sunday morn
When Nature`s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An` snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs
Wi` glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
The lav`rocks they were chantin
Fu` sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowr`d abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o" dolefu` black,
But ane wi` lyart lining;
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu` gay that day.
The twa appear`d like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an` claes;
Their visage wither`d, lang an` thin,
An` sour as only slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an`-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An` wi`a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e`er she saw me,
Fu` kind that day.
Wi` bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I`m sure I`ve seen that bonie face
But yet I canna name ye."
Quo` she, an` laughin as she spak,
An` taks me by the han`s,
"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
Of a` the ten comman`s
A screed some day."
"My name is Fun-your cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An` this is Superstitution here,
An` that`s Hypocrisy.
I`m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin:
Gin ye`ll go there, yon runkl`d pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day."
Quoth I, "Wi` a` my heart, I`ll do`t;
I`ll get my Sunday`s sark on,
An` meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we`se hae fine remarkin!"
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
An` soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi` mony a weary body
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
Are springing owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an` scarlets glitter;
Wi` sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
An` farls, bak`d wi` butter,
Fu` crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi` ha`pence,
A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
An` we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
On ev`ry side they`re gath`rin;
Some carrying dails, some chairs an` stools,
An` some are busy bleth`rin
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show`rs,
An` screen our countra gentry;
There Racer Jess,^2 an` twa-three whores,
Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o` tittlin jads,
Wi` heaving breast an` bare neck;
An` there a batch o` wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.
Here, some are thinkin on their sins,
An` some upo` their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl`d his shins,
Anither sighs an` prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi` screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o` chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses
To chairs that day.
O happy is that man, an` blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi` arms repos`d on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An`s loof upon her bosom,
Unkend that day.
Now a` the congregation o`er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie^3 speels the holy door,
Wi` tidings o` damnation:
[Footnote 2: Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of Possie Nansie.
She was a great pedestrian.]
[Footnote 3: Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.]
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
`Mang sons o` God present him,
The vera sight o` Moodie`s face,
To `s ain het hame had sent him
Wi` fright that day.
Hear how he clears the point o` faith
Wi` rattlin and wi` thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He`s stampin, an` he`s jumpin!
His lengthen`d chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel an` gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters
On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has chang`d its voice,
There`s peace an` rest nae langer;
For a` the real judges rise,
They canna sit for anger,
Smith^4 opens out his cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;
An` aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an` barrels
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral powers an` reason?
His English style, an` gesture fine
Are a` clean out o` season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne`er a word o` faith in
That`s right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison`d nostrum;
For Peebles,^5 frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
[Footnote 4: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]
[Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]
See, up he`s got, the word o` God,
An` meek an` mim has view`d it,
While Common-sense has taen the road,
An` aff, an` up the Cowgate^6
Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller^7 neist the guard relieves,
An` Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho` in his heart he weel believes,
An` thinks it auld wives` fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So, cannilie he hums them;
Altho` his carnal wit an` sense
Like hafflins-wise o`ercomes him
At times that day.
Now, butt an` ben, the change-house fills,
Wi` yill-caup commentators;
Here `s cryin out for bakes and gills,
An` there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an` thrang, an` loud an` lang,
Wi` logic an` wi` scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O` wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
It pangs us fou o` knowledge:
Be`t whisky-gill or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin deep,
To kittle up our notion,
By night or day.
The lads an` lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an` body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An` steer about the toddy:
[Footnote 6: A street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.-R. B.]
[Footnote 7: Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.]
On this ane`s dress, an` that ane`s leuk,
They`re makin observations;
While some are cozie i` the neuk,
An` forming assignations
To meet some day.
But now the Lord`s ain trumpet touts,
Till a` the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russell is na sparin:
His piercin words, like Highlan` swords,
Divide the joints an` marrow;
His talk o` Hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera "sauls does harrow"
Wi` fright that day!
A vast, unbottom`d, boundless pit,
Fill`d fou o` lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame, an` scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi` fear,
An` think they hear it roarin;
When presently it does appear,
`Twas but some neibor snorin
Asleep that day.
`Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past;
An` how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a` dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an` caups,
Amang the furms an` benches;
An` cheese an` bread, frae women`s laps,
Was dealt about in lunches
An` dawds that day.
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,
An` sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an` her knife;
The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
Frae side to side they bother;
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An` gies them`t like a tether,
Fu` lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma` need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu` ance yoursel`
How bonie lads ye wanted;
An` dinna for a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, wi` rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an` croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi` faith an` hope, an` love an` drink,
They`re a` in famous tune
For crack that day.
How mony hearts this day converts
O` sinners and o` lasses!
Their hearts o` stane, gin night, are gane
As saft as ony flesh is:
There`s some are fou o` love divine;
There`s some are fou o` brandy;
An` mony jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.
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