My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';"
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax inae, I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
Tl. vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,.
An' wi' the weary warl' hae fought!
An' monie an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.
An' think na, my auld, trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvin';
For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither:
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some, ain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET
AT CHURCH.
HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rills, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose
As plump and grey as onie gazet: [out,
O, for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell red smeddum;
I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy,
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat:
But Miss's fine Lunardi,8- fie!
How dare ye do't!
O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin'!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!
O, wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion!
Is there a whim-inspirèd fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing cool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this aréa throng? O, pass not by!
Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle: But, with a frater-feeling strong,
There ye may creep an' sprawl an' sprattle
Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer,
8 Lunardi made two ascents in his bal. loon from the Green of Glasgow in 1785.
7 My plough-team now are all thy It appears that a certain fashion of ladies' thildren.
bonnets was named from the aeronaut.
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career
Wild as the wave?
Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow,
But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name!
Reader, attend! Whether thy soul Soars Fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole In low pursuit;
Know, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH
PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.
WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my powe
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckled breast,
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM,
ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
The purpling East.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:
While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his agèd head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:
So long, sweet Poet of the year,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast
While Scotia, with exulting tear, [won;
Proclaims that Thomson was her son.
LEFT BY THE AUTHOR IN THE ROOM He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn!
WHERE HE SLEPT AT THE HOUSE
OF A REVEREND FRIEND.
O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above!
I know Thou wilt me hear;
When for this scene of peace and love
I make my prayer sincere.
The hoary sire, the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleased to spare!
To bless his little filial flock,
And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush;
Bless him, Thon God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!
The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,-
Thou know'st the snares on every hand, —
Guide thou their steps alway!
When, soon or late, they reach that coast,
O'er life's rough ccean driven,
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in Heaven!1
9 Edwin is the hero's name in Beattie's Minstrel.
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exiled!
Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,
Wi toddlin' din,
Or foaming strang, wi hasty stens,
Frae linn to linn!
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flowers.
down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were 1 The first time Robert heard the spin-left in the room where he slept.-GIL net played upon was at the house of Dr. BERT BURNS. Lawrie, then minister of Loudoun. Dr. Lawrie had several daughters: one of them played; the father and mother led
4 That is, eagles; so called, from their flying without that motion of the wings common to most other birds.
At dawn, when every grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head;
And you, ye twinkling starnies b. ight, My Matthew mourn!
At even, when beans their fragrance shed, For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight,
I' the rustling gale;
Ye maukins whiddin' thro' the glade,
Come, join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling through a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood! Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great,
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clamouring craiks, at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far worlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets frae your ivy bower,
In some auld tree or eldritch tower,
What time the Moon, wi' silent glower,
Sets up her horn,
Wail through the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains:
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my cen the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.
Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear
For him that's dead!
Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked world declare
The worth we've lost!
Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!
But by thy honest turf I'll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E'er lay in earth.5
ON SENSIBILITY.
SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well!
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.'
5 Captain Henderson was a retired soldier, of agreeable manners and upright character, who mingled in the best society of Edinburgh. In a letter to Dr. Moore, February, 1791, Burns speaks as follows: "The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics: they can be of service to their friends after they have passed the bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the liv ing."
Burns one day received a letter from Mrs. Dunlop, of which some of the senti ments charmed him so much, that he forthwith wrote these verses on sensibil
AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS.
YE holy walls, that, still sublime,
Resist the crumbling touch of time;
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days!
As thro' your ruins hoar and grey,-
Ruins yet beauteous in decay,-
The silvery moonbeams 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 breathes 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 moonbeam,
Suspend their dashing oars, to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought awhile forbear,
And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer.
But, as I gaze, the vision fails,
Like frost-work touch'd by southerngales;
The altar sinks, the tapers fade,
And all the splendid scene's decay'd:
In window fair the painted pane
No longer glows with holy stain,
But through the broken glass the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale;
ity, and sent them to his "dear and much
honoured friend."
The bird of eve flits sullen by,
Her home these aisles and arches high!
The choral hymn, that erst so clear
Broke softly sweet on Fancy's ear,
Is drown'd amid the mournful scream
That breaks the magic of my dream!
Roused by the sound, I start and see
The ruin'd sad reality! 8
TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE
I MIND it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;
And tho' forfoughten sair enough,
Yet unco proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,
The tither stookèd raw,
Wi' clavers an' haivers
Wearing the day awa'.
Even then a wish, (I mind its power,)
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I, for puir auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd the weeding-heuk aside,
An' spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,
My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but1 blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.
But still the elements o' sang,
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
8 Lincluden Abbey, the beautiful ruins of which prompted these beautiful lines, was founded in the time of King Malcolm the Fourth, on the banks of the river Cluden, not far from Dumfries.
9 This was Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, a lady of much taste and talent; a painter and a poetess. Her sketches with the pencil are said to have been very beauti. ful; and her skill in verse is approved by published specimens.
1 But, again, in the sense of without See page 578, note 1.
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