My heart for fear gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles! They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man.
But had you seen the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended laug and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hastened to the charge,
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.
"O how deil Tam can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a hunted poor red-coat
For fear amaist did swarf, man."
My sister Kate came up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man:
She swoor she saw some rebels run,
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ;
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebor's blood to spill;
For fear by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes,
And so it goes, you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans man;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets, knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.
*This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787.
THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonths' length again :
I see the old bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer.
Deaf as my friend he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,*
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ;)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver;
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion!
"The passing moment's all we rest on !"
Rest on-for what! What do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone :
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night-
Since then, my honour'd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends:
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale envy to convulse)
Others now claim your chief regard.
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, see page 108.
SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CARRIAGES, &c. TO EACH FARMER, ordering HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &c. AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN THEY HAD.
SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list,
My horses, servants, carts, and graith,
To which I'm free to tak my aith.
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew before a pettle.
My hand-afore,* a guid auld has been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen;
My hand-a-hin, a guid brown filly,
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie;
And your auld borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime :
My fur-a-hin, a guid, grey beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced:
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty,
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie.
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale,
As ever ran before a tail;
An' he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new,
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spindle,
And my auld mither brunt the trundle.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for rantin and for noise;
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowt in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And often labour them completely,
And aye on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the questions tairge them tightly,
"Till, faith; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg)
He'll screed you aff effectual calling,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servant station,
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation !
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
For weans I'm mair than weel contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted:
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace.
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady,
I've said enough for her already,
The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plough. The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough, Kilmarnock.
The hindmost on the right hand, in the plough.
And if ye tax her or her mither,
By the L-d ye'se get them a' thegither!
And now, remember, Mr Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I'm taking.
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit!
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under notet;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,
ROBERT BURNS.
NAE gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair;*
Shall ever be my muse's care;
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my highland lassie, O.
Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O,
I set me down, wi' right good will,
To sing my highland lassie, O.
O were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
1 bear my highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, &c.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I'll love my highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, &c.
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.
Within the glen, &c.
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.
Within the glen, &c
She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour's band!
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine my highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, &c.
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O
* Gentle is used here in opposition to simple, in the Scottish and old English sense of the word. Wae gentle dames-No high-blooded.
OLD Winter with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd;
"What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe ?
My cheerless sons no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil;
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me:"
"Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
Oн wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield hould be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there, Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign; The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
WRITTEN ON THE 25th JANUARY 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share.
ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING
BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY,
AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th
DECEMBER, 1795.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cookery the first in the nation :
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.
WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.
O HAD the malt thy strength of mind, Or hops the flavour of thy wit; Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for S-e were fit. Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
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