Poet Burns, Poet Burns,
Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire, Your Muse is a gipsy
E'en though she were tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
'I' braw new branks, in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin;
Whiles owre a bush, wi' downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets,
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenn'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;
I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm-urged wishes.
Your bonnie face, sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,
Aud, faith, ye'll no be lost a whit,
Though waired on Willie Chalmers.
Auld Truth hersel might swear ye're fair,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder, then, they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na Fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie :
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars:
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin', glowrin' country laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver.
My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.
Forgive the bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom
Inspires my Muse to gie'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours-
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.
EG Nicholson was a good bay mare
PEG As ever trod on airn;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And rode through thick and thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruised she was,
As priest-rid cattle are.
F all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
Of with
Beyond comparison, the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say-"It was no deed of mine;"
But when, to all the evil of misfortune,
This sting is added—“ Blame thy foolish self!”
Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse-
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involvèd others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
Nay, more-that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonising throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace!
Oh, happy, happy, enviable man!
Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul !
ON AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS OF LINCLUDEN
E holy walls, that, still sublime,
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days!
As through your ruins, hoar and grey-
Ruins yet beauteous in decay-
The silvery moon beams trembling fly,
The forms of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Even now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride,
Lifts high its roof and arches wide,
That, knit with curious tracery,
Each Gothic ornament display;
The high-arch'd windows, painted fair,
Show many a saint and martyr there.
As on their slender forms I gaze,
Methinks they brighten to a blaze!
With noiseless step and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight?
Slowly they move, while every eye
Is heavenward raised in ecstasy :
'Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train,
That seek in prayer the midnight fane.
And, hark! what more than mortal sound
Of music breeds the pile around?
'Tis the soft-chanted choral song,
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong :
Till, thence return'd, they softly stray
O'er Cluden's wave, with fond delay;
Now on the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die :
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream,
That glistens in the pale moon's beam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought a while forbear,
And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer.
But, as I gaze, the vision fails,
Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales;
|