by Robert Burns
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne’er
But with the closing tomb!
Happy! ye sons of busy life, 15
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!
Ev’n when the wished end’s denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward: 20
Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev’ry sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same!
You, bustling, and justling, 25
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find ev’ry prospect vain.
How blest the solitary’s lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, 30
Within his humble cell,
The cavern, wild with tangling roots,
Sits o’er his newly gather’d fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or haply, to his ev’ning thought, 35
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint, collected dream;
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to heav’n on high, 40
As wand’ring, meand’ring,
He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit plac’d
Where never human footstep trac’d,
Less fit to play the part, 45
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste, 50
The solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here must cry here 55
At perfidy ingrate!
O, enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang’d for riper times, 60
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court, 65
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining age! 70
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106.
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, recommending a Boy
Recommending a Boy.
Mossgaville, May 3, 1786.
I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M’Gaun,
Was here to hire yon lad away
‘Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 5
An’ wad hae don’t aff han’;
But lest he learn the callan tricks —
An’ faith I muckle doubt him —
Like scrapin out auld Crummie’s nicks,
An’ tellin lies about them; 10
As lieve then, I’d have then
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, 15
An’ ‘bout a house that’s rude an’ rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught,
An’ get sic fair example straught,
I hae na ony fear. 20
Ye’ll catechise him, every quirk,
An’ shore him weel wi’ hell;
An’ gar him follow to the kirk —
Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then 25
Frae hame this comin’ Friday,
Then please, sir, to lea’e, sir,
The orders wi’ your lady.
My word of honour I hae gi’en,
In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en, 30
To meet the warld’s worm;
To try to get the twa to gree,
An’ name the airles an’ the fee,
In legal mode an’ form:
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 35
When simple bodies let him:
An’ if a Devil be at a’,
In faith he’s sure to get him.
To phrase you and praise you,.
Ye ken your Laureat scorns: 40
The pray’r still you share still
Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.
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107.
Versified Reply to an Invitation
SIR,
Yours this moment I unseal,
And faith I’m gay and hearty!
To tell the truth and shame the deil,
I am as fou as Bartie:
But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, 5
Expect me o’ your partie,
If on a beastie I can speel,
Or hurl in a cartie.
YOURS,
ROBERT BURNS.
MAUCHLIN, Monday night, 10 o’clock.
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108.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary? (Song)
Tune— “Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.”
WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia’s shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th’ Atlantic roar?
O sweet grows the lime and the orange, 5
And the apple on the pine;
But a’ the charms o’ the Indies
Can never equal thine.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; 10
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary, 15
Before I leave Scotia’s strand.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o’ time! 20
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109.
My Highland Lassie, O
Tune— “The deuks dang o’er my daddy”
NAE gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse’s care:
Their titles a’ arc empty show;
Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
Chorus. — Within the glen sae bushy, O, 5
Aboon the plain sae rashy, O,
I set me down wi’ right guid will,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.
O were yon hills and vallies mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine! 10
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland Lassie, O.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea!
But while my crimson currents flow, 15
I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.
Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour’s glow,
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 20
For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar,
For her I’ll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.
She has my heart, she
has my hand, 25
By secret troth and honour’s band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O.
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! 30
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.
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110.
Epistle to a Young Friend
May — , 1786.
I LANG hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme may gang, 5
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang:
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad;
And, Andrew dear, believe me, 10
Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev’n when your end’s attained;
And a’ your views may come to nought, 15
Where ev’ry nerve is strained.
I’ll no say, men are villains a’;
The real, harden’d wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked; 20
But, Och! mankind are unco weak,
An’ little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
It’s rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife, 25
Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still, th’ important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho’ poortith hourly stare him; 30
A man may tak a neibor’s part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han’, your story tell,
When wi’ a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel’, 35
Ye scarcely tell to ony:
Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,
Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection. 40
The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
Tho’ naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o’ the sin, 45
The hazard of concealing;
But, Och! it hardens a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her; 50
And gather gear by ev’ry wile
That’s justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege 55
Of being independent.
The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border; 60
Its slightest touches, instant pause —
Debar a’ side-pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere, 65
Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended; 70
An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting, 75
It may be little minded;
But when on life we’re tempest driv’n —
A conscience but a canker —
A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
Is sure a noble anchor! 80
Adieu, dear, amiable youth!
Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,” 85
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede,
Then ever did th’ adviser!
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111.
Address to Beelzebub
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M’Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing — LIBERTY.
LONG life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,
Unskaithed by hunger’d Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o’ a life 5
She likes — as butchers like a knife.
Faith you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,
Than let them ance out owre the water, 10
Then up among thae lakes and seas,
They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them, 15
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till (God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed),
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire! 20
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o’er the pack vile, —
An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance —
To cowe the rebel generation, 25
An’ save the honour o’ the nation?
They, an’ be d — d! what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or light o’ day?
Far less — to riches, pow’r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them? 30
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand’s owre light to them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a’ tender mercies, 35
An’ tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet,
They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them! crash them a’ to spails,
An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails! 40
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an’ hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d!
An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats 45
Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts,
Flaffin wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’,
Frightin away your ducks an’ geese;
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 50
An’ gar the tatter’d gypsies pack
Wi’ a’ their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An’ in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle, 55
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han’ assigned your seat,
‘Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate:
Or (if you on your station tarrow),
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 60
A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t;
An’ till ye come — your humble servant,
BEELZEBUB.
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.
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112.
A Dream
Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;
But surely Dreams were ne’er indicted Treason.
On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate’s Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address:
GUID-MORNIN’ to our Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses
On ev’ry new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes.
My bardship here, at your Levee 5
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.
I see ye’re complimented thrang, 10
By mony a lord an’ lady;
“God save the King” ‘s a cuckoo sang
That’s unco easy said aye:
The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d an’ ready, 15
Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,