But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why that GOD the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. XLV. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. [The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reasoning as the poem of "Man was made to Mourn." These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and they might have been spared; for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary?] O THOU, the first, the greatest friend Whose strong right hand has ever been Before the mountains heav'd their heads That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast,. Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood Thou tak'st them off VOL. II. They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd; But long ere night, cut down, it lies All wither'd and decay'd. XLVI. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. [This was not the original title of this sweet poem: I have a copy in the hand-writing of Burns entitled "The Gowan." This more natural name he changed, as he did his own, without reasonable cause; and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burness and his poem "The Gowan," in the first edition of his works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted with tillage-who think that in time and place reside the chief charms of verse; and who feel not the beauty of "The Daisy," till they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who remember only what genius loves to forget.] WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet, The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. I There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelin him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! XLVII. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. [Andrew Aiken, to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liverpool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburg. The poet has been charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than truth to his "Andrew dear;" but surely to conceal one's own thoughts and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hypocritical: it is, in fact, a version of the celebrated precept of prudence, "Thoughts close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was much respected-his name embalmed, like that of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is not likely soon to perish.] I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Let time and chance determine; II. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye: III. I'll no say men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law Are to a few restricked; But, och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife, V. Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: |