Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

by Robert Burns

  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,

&n
bsp; 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.

  Impromptu On Carron Iron Works

  We cam na here to view your warks,

  In hopes to be mair wise,

  But only, lest we gang to hell,

  It may be nae surprise:

  But when we tirl'd at your door

  Your porter dought na hear us;

  Sae may, shou'd we to Hell's yetts come,

  Your billy Satan sair us!

  To Miss Ferrier

  Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.

  Nae heathen name shall I prefix,

  Frae Pindus or Parnassus;

  Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,

  For rhyme-inspiring lasses.

  Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three

  Made Homer deep their debtor;

  But, gien the body half an e'e,

  Nine Ferriers wad done better!

  Last day my mind was in a bog,

  Down George's Street I stoited;

  A creeping cauld prosaic fog

  My very sense doited.

  Do what I dought to set her free,

  My saul lay in the mire;

  Ye turned a neuk-I saw your e'e-

  She took the wing like fire!

  The mournfu' sang I here enclose,

  In gratitude I send you,

  And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose,

  A' gude things may attend you!

  Written By Somebody On The Window

  Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.

  Here Stuarts once in glory reigned,

  And laws for Scotland's weal ordained;

  But now unroof'd their palace stands,

  Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;

  Fallen indeed, and to the earth

  Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.

  The injured Stuart line is gone,

  A race outlandish fills their throne;

  An idiot race, to honour lost;

  Who know them best despise them most.

  The Poet's Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic

  My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I

  believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton. In a MS., where I met the answer, I wrote

  below:-

  With Esop's lion, Burns says: Sore I feel

  Each other's scorn, but damn that ass' heel!

  The Libeller's Self-Reproof^1

  Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name

  Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;

  Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,

  Says, the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel!

  Verses Written With A Pencil

  Over the Chimney-piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.

  Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,

  These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;

  O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,

  Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,

  [Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.-Lang.]

  My savage journey, curious, I pursue,

  Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. -

  The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,

  The woods wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;

  Th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills,

  The eye with wonder and amazement fills;

  The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,

  The palace rising on his verdant side,

  The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste,

  The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste,

  The arches striding o'er the new-born stream,

  The village glittering in the noontide beam-

  Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

  Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;

  The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,

  Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

  Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,

  And look through Nature with creative fire;

  Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,

  Misfortunes lighten'd steps might wander wild;

  And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,

  Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:

  Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her

  [scan,

  And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

  song-The Birks Of Aberfeldy

  tune-"The Birks of Abergeldie."

  Chorus.-Bonie lassie, will ye go,

  Will ye go, will ye go,

  Bonie lassie, will ye go

  To the birks of Aberfeldy!

  Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes,

  And o'er the crystal streamlets plays;

  Come let us spend the lightsome days,

  In the birks of Aberfeldy.

  Bonie lassie, &c.

  While o'er their heads the hazels hing,

  The little birdies blythely sing,

  Or lightly flit on wanton wing,

  In the birks of Aberfeldy.

  Bonie lassie, &c.

  The braes ascend like lofty wa's,

  The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's,

  O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws-

  The birks of Aberfeldy.

  Bonie lassie, &c.

  The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,

  White o'er the linns the burnie pours,

  And rising, weets wi' misty showers

  The birks of Aberfeldy.

  Bonie lassie, &c.

  Let Fortune's gifts at randoe flee,

  They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me;

  Supremely blest wi' love and thee,

  In the birks of Aberfeldy.

  Bonie lassie, &c.

  The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water

  To the noble Duke of Athole.

  My lord, I know your noble ear

  Woe ne'er assails in vain;

  Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear

  Your humble slave complain,

  How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,

  In flaming summer-pride,

  Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,

  And drink my crystal tide.^1

  The lightly-jumping, glowrin' trouts,

  That thro' my waters play,

  If, in their random, wanton spouts,

  They near the margin stray;

  [Footnote 1: Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and

  beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.

  - R.B.]

  If, hapless chance! they linger lang,

  I'm scorching up so shallow,

  They're left the whitening stanes amang, />
  In gasping death to wallow.

  Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

  As poet Burns came by.

  That, to a bard, I should be seen

  Wi' half my channel dry;

  A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

  Ev'n as I was, he shor'd me;

  But had I in my glory been,

  He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

  Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,

  In twisting strength I rin;

  There, high my boiling torrent smokes,

  Wild-roaring o'er a linn:

  Enjoying each large spring and well,

  As Nature gave them me,

  I am, altho' I say't mysel',

  Worth gaun a mile to see.

  Would then my noble master please

  To grant my highest wishes,

  He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,

  And bonie spreading bushes.

  Delighted doubly then, my lord,

  You'll wander on my banks,

  And listen mony a grateful bird

  Return you tuneful thanks.

  The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,

  Shall to the skies aspire;

  The gowdspink, Music's gayest child,

  Shall sweetly join the choir;

  The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,

  The mavis mild and mellow;

  The robin pensive Autumn cheer,

  In all her locks of yellow.

  This, too, a covert shall ensure,

  To shield them from the storm;

  And coward maukin sleep secure,

  Low in her grassy form:

  Here shall the shepherd make his seat,