A GREAT number of poems have been written on the death of Burns, some of them of considerable poetical merit. To have subjoined all of them to the present edition, would have been to have enlarged it to another volume at least; and to have made a selection, would have been a task of considerable delicacy.
The editor, therefore, presents one poem only on this melancholy subject: a poem which has not before appeared in print. It is from the pen of one who has sympathized deeply in the fate of Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its author-the Biographer of "Lorenzo de Medici." Of a person so well known, it is wholly unnecessary for the editor to speak; and, if it were necessary, it would not be easy for him to find Janguage that would adequately express his respect and his affection.
REAR high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread,
And, SCOTIA, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red.
But ah! what poet now shall tread
Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign,
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,
That ever breath'd the soothing strain!
As green thy towering pines may grow,
As clear thy streams may speed along,
As bright thy summer suns may glow,
As gaily charm thy feathery throng;
But now, unheeded is the song,
And dull and lifeless all around,
For his wild harp lies all unstrung,
And cold the hand that waked its sound.
What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise
In arts, in arms, thy sons excel;
Tho beauty in thy daughters' eyes,
And health in every feature dwell;
Yet who shall now their praises tell,
In strains impassion'd, fond and free,
Since he no more the song shall swell
To love, and liberty, and thee.
With step-dame eye and frown severe
His hapless youth why didst thou view?
For all thy joys to him were dear,
And all his vows to thee where due;
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew,
In opening youth's delightful prime,
Than when thy favouring ear he drew
To listen to his chanted rhyme.
Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies
To him where all with rapture fraught;
He heard with joy the tempest rise
That waked him to subliner thought;
And oft thy winding dells he sought,
Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe perfume,
And with sincere devotion brought
To thee the summer's earliest bloom.
But ah! no fond maternal smile
His unprotected youth enjoy'd,
His limbs inur'd to early toil,
His days with early hardships tried:
And more to mark the gloomy void,
And bid him feel his misery,
Before his infant eyes would glide
Day dreams of immortality.
Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd,
With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil,
Sunk with the evening sun to rest,
And met at morn his earliest smile.
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile
The powers of fancy came along,
And sooth'd his lengthend hours of toil,
With native wit and sprightly song.
-Ah! days of bliss, too swiftly fled,
When vigorous health from labour springs,
And bland contentment smooths the bed,
And sleep his ready opiate brings;
And hovering round on airy wings
Float the light forms of young desire,
That of unutterable things
The soft and shadowy hope inspire.
Now spells of mightier power prepare,
Bid brighter phantoms round him dance;
Let Flattery spread her viewless snare,
And Fame attract his vagrant glance;
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance,
Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone,
Till, lost in love's delirious trance,
He scorns the joys his youth has known.
Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze,
Expanding all the bloom of soul;
And Mirth concentre all her rays,
And point them from the sparkling bowl;
And let the careless moments roll
In social pleasure unconfined,
And confidence that spurns control
Unlock the inmost springs of mind:
And lead his steps those bowers among,
Where elegance with splendour vies,
Or Science bids her favour'd throng,
To more refined sensations rise:
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys,
And freed from each laborious strife
There let him learn the bliss to prize
That waits the sons of polish'd life.
Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high
With every impulse of delight,
Dash from his lips the cup of joy,
And shroud the scene in shades of night; And let Despair, with wizard light, Disclose the yawning gulf below,
And pour incessant on his sight
Her spectred ills and shapes of woe:
And show beneath a cheerless shed,
With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes,
In silent grief where droops her head,
The partner of his early joys;
And let his infants' tender cries
His fond parental succour claim,
And bid him hear in agonies
A husband's and a father's name.
'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds;
His high reluctant spirit bends;
In bitterness of soul he bleeds,
Nor longer with his fate contends.
An idiot laugh the welkin rends
As genius thus degraded lies;
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends
That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes.
-Rear high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread,
And SCOTIA, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoins red;
But never more shall poet tread
Thy airy height, thy woodland reign,
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,
That ever breath'd the soothing strain.
"TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,1
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at haine,
Forgather'd ance upon a time,
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honor's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin':
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,2
Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke;
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack and thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and showkit;
Whyles mice and moudie worts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
And worried ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression,
About the lords o' the creation.
I've aften wonder'd honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.'
Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell:
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse,
As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,
The yellow-letter'd Geordid keeks.
Frae morn to c'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling: An' though the gentry fast are stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie, Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eat a dinner, Better than ony tenant man
His honour has in a' the lan':
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in
I own it's past my comprehension.
Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like;
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.
And when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want of masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger:
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then, to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
Lord, man! our gentry care sae little
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinding brock.
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash;
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them, point their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble
And hear it a,' an' fear and tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches:
But surely poor folk maun be wretched!
They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think,
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gi'es them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sac guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided:
And though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their gruseie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.
And whyles twalpennic worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation's comin, And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, rantine kirns,
When rural life, o' every station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love Blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth,
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling reain,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring stream;
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie anld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' through the house.
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hac said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.'
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo`k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greec to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the fester
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins thrang a-parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain's guid! guid faith I doubt it;
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An' saying aye or no's they bid him;
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading,
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To make a tour, and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, and see the worl'.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles.
Wh re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of carnival signoras,
For Britain's guid! for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sac monie a braw estate?
Are we sac foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last?
O wad they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themselves wi' countra sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, and the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows,
Except for breakin' o' their trimmer,
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit, they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Maister Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a live of pleasure;
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them,
The very thought o't need na fear them.
Lord, man! were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy em.
It's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
And fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themselves to vex them,
An' aye the less they hac to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them:
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right enough;
A country lassic at her wheel;
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel;
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy;
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless;
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,
There gallopin' through public places;
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring
The ladies arm in arm, in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jades thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and plaitie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-langs nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd benks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard,
And cheat like only unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, inan an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night;
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;
When up they gat and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
SCOTCH DRINK.
Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief an' care;
There let him bouse, and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.
Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.
LET other poets raise a fracas,
'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus,
And crabbit names and stories wrack us,
And grate our lug,
I sing the juice Scotch beare can mak us,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink:
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious facm,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
And aits set up their awnic horn,
And pease and beans at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood In souple scones, the wale o' food! Or tumblin' in the boiling flood
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin',
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin'
But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' lite gae down hill, scrievin',
Wi' rattlin' glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear:
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Thou even brightens dark Despair
W' gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' Gentles thou crects thy head.
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need,
The poor man's wine;
Ilis wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o' public haunts:
Bout thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.
That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reeking on a New-year mornin
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath.
An' ploughmen gather with their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz and freath
In the lugget caup!
Then Burnewin3 comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
The brawnie, banic, ploughman chiel'.
Brings hard owrehip, with sturdy wheel,
The strong forehaminer,
Till block and studdie ring and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour.
When skrilin' weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a socials night,
Or plack frae them.
When necbors anger at a plea,
And just as wud and wud can be,
How easy can the barley bree
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason;
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
And hardly, in a winter's season,
E'en spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' mony a pain and brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O''hauf his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, who wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chiefs, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless deevils like mysel'!
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch
O' sur disdain,
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch,
Wi' honest men.
O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes-they rattle i' their ranks
At 'ither's **
An' screechin' out prosaic verse,
An' like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction.
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On Aquivitæ:
An' rouse them up to strong conviction
An' move their pity.
Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,5
The honest, open, naked truth;
Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth,
His servans humble:
The muckle devil blaw ye south,
If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an' gloom!
Speak out, and never fash your thumb!
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom
Wi' them wha grant 'em:
If honestly they canna come,
Far better want 'em.
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