by Robert Burns
May hae some pyles o’ caff in; have, piles, chaff
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o’ daffin.
Burns’s Paraphrase of Solomon
(Eccles. vii. 16).
O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, you who, so good
Sae pious and sae holy, so
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell nothing
Your Neebours’ fauts and folly! neighbours’ faults
5 Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, whose, well going
Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
The heapet happer’s ebbing still, heaped hopper
An’ still the clap plays clatter! clapper of a Mill, moving grain.
Hear me, ye venerable Core, group
10 As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door sober
For glaikit Folly’s portals; careless/stupid
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes
Would here propone defences,
15 Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, hapless/unlucky
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer, comparison
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
20 What makes the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in,
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) oft more, remainder
Your better art o’ hidin.
25 Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop, gives, violent beat
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop:
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
30 Right on ye scud your sea-way move fast
But, in the teeth o’ baith to sail, both
It maks an unco leeway. uncommon
See Social-life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
35 Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O, would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
40 Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames,
Ty’d up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names, give
Suppose a change o’ cases;
45 A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,
A treach’rous inclination —
But, let me whisper i’ your lug, ear
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. maybe no
Then gently scan your brother Man,
50 Still gentler sister Woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, go a little wrong
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving Why they do it;
55 And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart,’ tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,
He knows each chord its various tone,
60 Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.
The date of the poem is uncertain. Prose sentiments very similar to those of the poem are to be found in the FCB for March 1784. It may also, with its emphasis on sexual transgression, in particular, female frailty, relate to Betsy Paton and Jean Armour in 1786. In the CB we find the following entry:
I have often observed … that every man even the worst, have something good about them … Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us, examine impartially how many of his virtues are owing to constitution and education; how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but from want of opportunity … how much he is indebted to the World’s good opinion, because the world does not know all; I say any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay the faults and crimes of mankind around him, with a brother’s eye.
From this young man’s somewhat sententious, self-conscious prose, this vivid, knowingly witty, anti-Pharisaical poem emerges. Burns invokes the true spirit of charitable religion against the hypocritical, repressed and repressive, ‘unco guid’. Thus his own epigraph against the ‘Rigid Righteous’ and the ‘Rigid Wise’ is taken from Ecclesiastes, vii.16: ‘Be not righteous over much; neither make thyself over wise: why shouldst thou destroy thyself.’ Thus against the absolutist judgment inherent in Calvinism he propounds the compassion of a Christ who was implicitly opposed to those judge-mentally throwing stones at adulterous women (John: 3–7). The translation of Ecclesiastes into vernacular Scots constitutes, as The First Psalm, an original work in its own right.
While not as obsessed as William Blake with Christ not as lawmaker but lawbreaker (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell and The Everlasting Gospel), Burns does not see in him a spirit not only charitable and empathetic but insurrectionary against conventional social piety. Hence, like himself, a keeper of unconventional company.
Tam Samson’s1 Elegy
First printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787.
‘An honest man’s the noblest work of God.’
Alexander Pope.
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil? old, Devil
Or great M’Kinlay2 thrawn his heel? hurt his ankle
Or Robertson3 again grown weel well/healthy
To preach an’ read?
5 ‘Na, waur than a’!’ cries ilka chiel, no, worse, every one
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’
Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, long, groan
An’ sigh an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, sob, cry alone
An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife an’ wean, clothe, children, child
10 In mourning weed;
To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane, rent in kind
Tam Samson’s dead!
The Brethren o’ the mystic level masons
May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, hang, down/slope
15 While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead; any
Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel, given, terrible blow
Tam Samson’s dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
20 And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the Curlers flock, lochs
Wi’ gleesome speed,
Wha will they station at the cock? — who, mark
Tam Samson’s dead!
25 He was the king of a’ the Core, company of curlers
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, curling terms
Or up the rink like Jehu roar
In time o’ need;
But now he lags on Death’s hog-score, a line across the curling ice
30 Tam Samson’s dead!
Now safe the stately Sawmont sail, salmon
And Trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, spots
And Eels weel-kend for souple tail, well-known, supple
And Geds for greed, pike (fish)
35 Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel we wail fish-basket
Tam Samson dead!
Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a’; whirring partridges
Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw; leg-feathered, boldly crow
Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw, hares, tail, fine well
40 Withoutten dread; without
Your mortal Fae is now awa’, foe, away
Tam Samson’s dead!
That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d
Saw him in shootin graith adorn’d, gear/clothes
45 While pointers round impatient burn’d,
Frae couples freed; from
But, Och! he gaed and ne’er return’
d! went
Tam Samson’s dead!
In vain Auld-age his body batters; old-
50 In vain the Gout his ankles fetters; ankles
In vain the burns cam down like waters, came
An acre-braid! broad/wide
Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters: old, crying, exclaims
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’
55 Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, over, many, moss, limped
An ay the tither shot he thumpit, always, other, he hit
Till coward Death behind him jumpit, jumped
Wi’ deadly feide; feud/rage
Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet, blast
60 Tam Samson’s dead!
When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger,
Wi’ weel-aim’d heed; well-aimed
65 ‘Lord, five!’ he cry’d, an owre did stagger; over
Tam Samson’s dead!
Ilk hoary Hunter mourn’d a brither; each, brother
Ilk Sportsman-youth bemoan’d a father; each
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, the old grey stone, among
70 Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, where, nonsense
Tam Samson’s dead!
There, low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast
75 Some spitefu muirfowl bigs her nest, builds
To hatch an’ breed:
Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest! no more
Tam Samson’s dead!
When August winds the heather wave,
80 And Sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave,
O’ pouther an’ lead, (gun) powder
Till Echo answer frae her cave, from
Tam Samson’s dead!
85 Heav’n rest his saul, whare’er he be! soul, where’er
Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me: many more
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, two faults
Yet what remead?
Ae social, honest man want we: one
90 Tam Samson’s dead!
THE EPITAPH
Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies, well-
Ye canting Zealots, spare him!
If Honest Worth in heaven rise,
Ye’ll mend or ye win near him. before, get
PER CONTRA
95 Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly young horse
Thro a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie,4 alleys/closes, Kilmarnock
Tell ev’ry social, honest billie person
To cease his grievin,
For yet, unskaith’d by Death’s gleg gullie, sharp knife
100 Tam Samson’s leevin! living
If Mark Twain believed that reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated, Burns builds this boisterous poem on a similar joke. Beginning with a dig at the propensity for theatrical clamour in two of his ‘Auld Licht’ clerical enemies, also savaged in The Ordination, Burns runs a declamatory ‘headline’ through the poem with his multi-voiced proclamations of Tam Sampson’s death whereby men, animals, birds, fish and Death itself join the chorus. Tam’s enormous vigour for field sports is echoed in the vocal, mixed response to his alleged demise; hardly surprisingly the creaturely victims of his energetic skill are ecstatic. Thomas Sampson (1722–95) was a nurseryman, sportsman and Freemason (ll. 13–18) in Kilmarnock. His poetic immortalisation stems from a combination of his eccentric strength of character and Burns’s access to the form and theme of the eighteenth-century Scots comic elegiac tradition with specific relation to Robert Semphill of Beltree’s Piper of Kilbarchan. Burns’s celebration of his aged hunter-killer is uncharacteristic of his general attitude to hunting where, so much of the poetry of the late eighteenth century is suffused with it, the suffering and destruction of creaturely life is dominant. Here this is controlled partly by the comic convention and also possibly by the fact that Tam is an honest man of the people and not a bloodsport-aristocrat. The Epitaph (ll. 91–4) is another attack on the sanctimoniously judgemental and the Per Contra (ll. 95–100) which undercuts the previous ebullient statements of grief may have resulted from Alan Cunningham’s story (ii. 235) that Burns wrote it in response to Sampson’s protest that ‘I’m no dead yet… I’m worth ten dead fowk’. Kinsley pertinently refers here to Ramsay’s To my Friends in Ireland, who on a report of my death,… Elegies, ll. 5–6 (Works, STS, ii, 203):
Dight your Een, and cease your grieving,
ALLAN’s hale, and well, and living …
1 When this worthy old Sportsman went out last muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, ‘the last in his fields’; and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his Elegy and Epitaph. R.B.
2 A certain Preacher, a great favourite with the Million. Vide The Ordination, stanza 2. R.B.
3 Another Preacher, and equal favourite with the Few, who was at that time ailing. For him, see also The Ordination, stanza 9. R.B.
4 Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use for the name of a certain town in the West. R.B.
A Winter Night
First printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787.
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pityless storm!
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?
SHAKESPEARE.
When biting Boreas, fell and doure, the North wind, keen, hard
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, the Sun, gives, stare
Far south the lift, horizon/sky
5 Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift.
Ae night the Storm the steeples rocked, one
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths up-choked, with snowy
10 Wild-eddying swirl,
Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked, vomited
Down headlong hurl.
List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle, windows
I thought me on the ourie cattle, shivering
15 Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle who endure, noise
O’ winter war,
And thro the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, scramble
Beneath a scar. jutting rock (for shelter)
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! each hopping
20 That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, where
An’ close thy e’e? eye
25 Ev’n you, on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost and sheep-cote spoil’d,
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
30 Sore on you beats.
Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, the Moon
Dark-muffl’d, view’d the dreary plain;
Still crouding thoughts, a pensive train, crowding
Rose in my soul,
35 When on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow-solemn, stole —
‘Blow, blow, ye Winds, with heavier gust!
‘And freeze, thou bitter-biting Frost!
‘Descend, ye chilly, smothering Snows!
40 ‘Not all your rage, as now, united shows
‘More hard unkindness unrelenting,
‘Vengeful malice, unrepenting,
‘Than heaven-illumin’d Man on brother Man bestows!
See stern Oppression’s iron grip,
45 ‘Or mad Ambition’s gory hand,
‘Woe, Want, and Murder o’er a land!
‘Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale,
‘Truth, weeping tells the mournful tale,
50 ‘How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side,
‘The parasite empoisoning her ear,
‘With all the servile wretches in the rear,
‘Looks o’er proud Property, extended wide;
‘And eyes the simple, rustic Hind,
55 ‘Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show,
‘A creature of another kind,
‘Some coarser substance, unrefin’d,
‘Plac’d for her lordly use, thus far, thus vile, below!’
‘Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe,
60 ‘With lordly Honor’s lofty brow,
‘The pow’rs you proudly own?
‘Is there, beneath Love’s noble name,
‘Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
‘To bless himself alone!
65 ‘Mark Maiden-Innocence a prey
‘To love-pretending snares,
‘This boasted Honor turns away,
‘Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway,
‘Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray’rs!
70 ‘Perhaps this hour, in Mis’ry’s squalid nest,
‘She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
‘And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!
‘Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
‘Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
75 ‘Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
‘Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
‘Ill-satisfy’d, keen nature’s clam’rous call,
‘Stretch’d on his straw, he lays himself to sleep,
‘While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
80 ‘Chill, o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!
‘Think on the Dungeon’s grim confine,