XVII. XXI. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. XVIII. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart: Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! XLIV. THE FIRST PSAL M. And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease, [This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet's works. It cannot be regarded as one of his But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of GOD;"1 And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd! XX. O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their muchloy'd Isle. 1 Pope. but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.] THE man, in life wherever plac'd, Nor from the seat of scornful pride Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees But he whose blossom buds in guilt 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 Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place! 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, Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood Thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, 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 handwriting 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, 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 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 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 Low i' the dust. 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 whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, To mis'ry's brink, 'Till wrenched of every 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. [Andrew Aikin, 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. Petersburgh. 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, But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps, turn out a sermon. II. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 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. Ay free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Tho' naething should divulge it: VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. VIII. The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip, Let that ay be your border: IX. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev❜n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, X. When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Or if she gie a random sting, But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, XI. Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' Than ever did th' adviser! XLVIII. TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH. [A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and 'persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it coarse and vulgar—those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.] HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie! I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 'Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dross your droddum! I wad na been surpris'd to spy But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie! How daur ye do't? O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, O wad some Power the giftie gie us What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, XLIX. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. [The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree "Brutes!-damned brutes." "I dreamed that I was dead," said the rustic satirist to his superior," and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's friends gang, I chappit, and 'Wha are ye, and where d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. 'Awawi' you,' cried Satan; 'ye canna come here: hell's fou o' his lordship's damned brutes already.'"'] O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! 1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Frae ony unregenerate heathen, I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Yon sang,2 ye'll sen't wi cannie care, Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, 'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt; Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't; Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had taen a note, I scorn'd to lie; But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this niest year. 2 A song he had promised the author. |