O Mary, at thy window be; It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor! How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing; I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
THE HOLY FAIR
Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walkÈd forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The rising sun, owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowered abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way. Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining; The third, that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day.
The twa appeared like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes; Their visage withered, lang an'thin, An' sour as onie slaes: The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as onie lambie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, But yet I canna name ye.' Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, An'taks me by the han's, 'Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck Of a' the Ten Comman's A screed some day.
'My name is Fun—your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An'this is Superstition here, An'that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, To spend an hour in daffin: Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, We will get famous laughin At them this day.'
Quoth I, 'Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't: I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!' Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, An' soon I made me ready; For roads were clad frae side to side Wi' monie a wearie body, In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, An' farls baked wi' butter, Fu' crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heapÈd up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show: On every side they're gath'rin, Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy bleth'rin Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the showers, An' screen our countra gentry, There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores, Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin' jads, Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck; An'there a batch o' wabster lads. Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, For fun this day.
Here some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, Anither sighs and prays; On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps, at watch, Thrang winkln on the lasses To chairs that day.
O happy is that man an' blest (Nae wonder that it pride him!) Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, Conies clinkin down beside him! Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkend that day.
Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation; For Moodie speels the holy door Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' Moodie's face To 's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day.
Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin an' he's jumpin! His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, His eldritch squeel an' gestures, O how they fire the heart devout— Like cantharidian plaisters, On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has changed its voice; There's peace an' rest nae langer; For a' the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger: Smith opens out his cauld harangues On practice and on morals; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine Of moral pow'rs an' reason? His English style an' gesture fine Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld pagan heathen, The moral man he does define, But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poisoned nostrum; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has viewed it, While Common Sense has taen the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller niest the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes An'thinks it auld wives' fables; But faith! the birkie wants a manse, So cannilie he hums them, Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him At times that day,
Now butt an' ben the change-house fills Wi' yill-caup commentators; Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, An'there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an'thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair Than either school or college; It kindles wit, it waukens lear, It pangs us fou o' knowledge. Be 't whisky-gill or penny-wheep, Or onie stronger potion, It never fails, on drinkin deep, To kittle up our notion, By night or day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress an'that ane's leuk They're makin observations; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' formin assignations To meet some day.
But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin, And echoes back return the shouts; Black Russell is na spairin: His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints an' marrow; His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, Our verra 'sauls does harrow' Wi' fright that day!
A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit, Filled fou o' lowin brunstane, Whase ragin flame an' scorchin heat Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! The half-asleep start up wi' fear, An'think they hear it roarin, When presently it does appear 'Twas but some neebor snorin, Asleep that day.
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories passed, An' how they crouded to the yill, When they were a' dismissed; How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches, An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day.
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; The lasses they are shyer; The auld guidmen about the grace Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays And gi'es them 't, like a tether, Fu' lang that day.
Waesueks for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething! Sma' need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing! O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel How bonie lads ye wanted, An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel Let lasses be affronted On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, w' rattlin tow, Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon, At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon; Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day.
How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaen As saft as onie flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine, There's some are fou o' brandy; An' monie jobs that day begin, May end in houghmagandie Some ither day.
TO A LOUSE
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 Ower gauze and lace, Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place,
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle; There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle Wi' ither kindred jumping cattle, In shoals and nations, Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rils, snug an'tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it, The vera tapmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' grey as onie grozet; 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—fie! How daur ye do't!
O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursÈd speed The blastie's makin! Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin!
O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us, An' foolish notion; What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, An' ev'n devotion!
FROM EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK
I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer like by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence; Yet what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, 'How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?' But, by your leaves, my learnÈd foes, Ye're maybe wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools? If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs your grammers? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools Or knappin-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes; They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, May touch the heart.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT
My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah, though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The blackening trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes— This night his weekly moil is at an end,— Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin. A cannie errand to a neebor town. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due:
Their master's and their mistress's command The younkers a' are warnÈd to obey, And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: 'And O be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!'
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.
With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave, Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
Oh happy love, where love like this is found! Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've pacÈd much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.'
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns their simple hoard: The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood. The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuek, fell; And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld sin' lint was i' the bell.
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face They round the ingle form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet reverently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care, And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps 'Dundee's' wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page; How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme: How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He Who bore in Heaven the second name Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banishÈd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays; Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' That thus they all shall meet in future days, There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared 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 Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request And He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide, But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.' And certes in fair virtue's heavenly 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 refined!
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 much-loved isle.
O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dared 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!) Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, An' never miss 't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething now to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell— Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!
But mousie, thou art no thy lane In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain For promised joy!
Still, thou art bleat compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tippÈd flow'r, 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 pow'r, Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent-earth Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.
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 soiled is laid, Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! 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, 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, ruined, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento. But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attainÈd; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strainÈd.
I'll no say men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricket; But, och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure, For still th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it; I ware the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!
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.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause;— Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.
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, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest-driv'n— A conscience but a canker, A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n Is sure a noble anchor!
Adieu, dear amiable Youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser; And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser!
A BARD'S EPITAPH
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 dool, And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng?— Oh, pass not by! But with a frater-feeling strong Here heave a sigh.
Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, 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 And softer flame; 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.
ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neebour's fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water, The heapet happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter,—
Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals; I for their thoughtless, careless sakes Would here propone defences— Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hidin.
Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It maks an unco leeway.
See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences, Or—your more dreaded hell to state— Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases: A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treach'rous inclination— But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance, let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
JOHN ANDEKSON, MY JO
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent: But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo!
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo!
THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS
The lovely lass of Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en to morn she cries, 'Alas!' And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e:
'Drumossie moor—Drumossie day— A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.
'Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see: And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e!
'Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee!'
A RED, RED ROSE
O, my luv is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O, my luv is like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
AULD LANG SYNE
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!
We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, For auld lang syne!
SWEET AFTON
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise! My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair!
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills! There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes! Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
THE HAPPY TRIO
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Bob and Allan cam to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wad na found in Christendie.
Chorus:
We are na fou, we're nae that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And ay we'll taste the barley bree!
Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three!
TO MARY IN HEAVEN
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn, O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace— Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptured scene: The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of wingÈd day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
TAM O' SHANTER: A TALE
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. —GAWIN DOUGLAS.
When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate, While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, That frae November till October Ae market-day thou was nae sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale. Ae market-night Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And ay the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy. As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread— You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in, And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last: The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his gray mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, While glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares: Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze: Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil! The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood, right sair astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shawed the dead in their last dresses, And, by some devilish cantraip sleight, Each in its cauld hand held a light: By which heroic Tam was able To note, upon the haly table, A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape— Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife a father's throat had mangled, Whom, his ain son o' life bereft— The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But withered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach!
But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie: There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, That night enlisted in the core, Lang after kend on Carrick shore (For monie a beast to dead she shot, An' perished monie a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear). Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.— Ah, little kend thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her power: To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jad she was and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, And thought his very een enriched. Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain, And hotched and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!' And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When 'Catch the thief' resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skriech and hollo.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss— A running stream they dare na cross! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty sarks run in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
AE FOND KISS
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae farewell, and then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her, Love but her and love forever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas, forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
DUNCAN GRAY
Duncan Gray cam here to woo (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!), On blythe Yule Night when we were fou (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). Maggie coost her head fu' high, Looked asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh— Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). Duncan sighed baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't an' blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn— Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Time and chance are but a tide (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): Slighted love is sair to bide (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). 'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he, 'For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me!'— Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
How it comes let doctors tell (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): Meg grew sick as he grew hale (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!); Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O her een, they spak sic things!— Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan was a lad o' grace (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!). Maggie's was a piteous case (Ha, ha, the wooing o't!): Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoored his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith— Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
HIGHLAND MARY
Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There Summer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder. But O fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for ay the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary!
SCOTS, WHA HAE
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour! See the front o' battle lour! See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand or freeman fa', Let him follow me!
By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do or die!
IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY
[A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT]
Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an' a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by,— We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Our toils obscure, an' a' that: The rank is but the guinea's stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,— A man's a man for a' that, For a' that, an' a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that: The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord,' Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif for a' that, For a' that, an' a' that, His ribband, star, an' a' that: The man o' independent mind, He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that! But an honest man's aboon his might; Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, an' a' that: The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may (As come it will for a' that), That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, an' a' that: For a' that, an' a' that, It's comin yet for a' that, That man to man, the world o'er, Shall brithers be for a' that.
LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me: I said there was naething I hated like men; The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm to believe me!
He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, And vowed for my love he was dyin: I said he might die when he liket for Jean; The Lord forgie me for lyin, for lyin, The Lord forgie me for lyin!
A weel-stoeket mailen, himsel for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: I never loot on that I kenned it or cared; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less— The Deil tak his taste to gae near her!— He up the Gate Slack to my black cousin Bess: Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her, could bear her! Guess ye how, the jad, I could bear her!
But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowered as I'd seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebours might say I was saucy: My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink, And vowed I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vowed I was his dear lassie!
I spiered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachled feet— But, heavens, how he fell a swearin, a swearin! But, heavens, how he fell a swearin!
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow!
O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST
O, 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 should 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 of the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
