To Miss Ferrier Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J.H.Blair.
Nae heathen name shall I prefix,Frae Pindus or Parnassus;Auld Reekie dings them a'to sticks,For rhyme-inspiring lasses.
Jove's tunefu'dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor;But,gien the body half an e'e,Nine Ferriers wad done better!
Last day my mind was in a bog,Down George's Street I stoited;A creeping cauld prosaic fog My very sense doited.
Do what I dought to set her free,My saul lay in the mire;Ye turned a neuk-I saw your e'e-
She took the wing like fire!
The mournfu'sang I here enclose,In gratitude I send you,And pray,in rhyme as weel as prose,A'gude things may attend you!
Written By Somebody On The Window Of an Inn at Stirling,on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.
Here Stuarts once in glory reigned,And laws for Scotland's weal ordained;But now unroof'd their palace stands,Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;Fallen indeed,and to the earth Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.
The injured Stuart line is gone,A race outlandish fills their throne;An idiot race,to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most.
The Poet's Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic My imprudent lines were answered,very petulantly,by somebody,Ibelieve,a Rev.Mr.Hamilton.In a MS.,where I met the answer,I wrote below:-With Esop's lion,Burns says:Sore I feel Each other's scorn,but damn that ass'heel!
The Libeller's Self-Reproof^1
Rash mortal,and slanderous poet,thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;Dost not know that old Mansfield,who writes like the Bible,Says,the more 'tis a truth,sir,the more 'tis a libel!
Verses Written With A Pencil Over the Chimney-piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore,Taymouth.
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,Th'abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,[Footnote 1:These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.-Lang.]
My savage journey,curious,I pursue,Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.-The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,The woods wild scatter'd,clothe their ample sides;Th'outstretching lake,imbosomed 'mong the hills,The eye with wonder and amazement fills;The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,The palace rising on his verdant side,The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste,The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste,The arches striding o'er the new-born stream,The village glittering in the noontide beam-Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,Th'incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,And look through Nature with creative fire;Here,to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,Misfortunes lighten'd steps might wander wild;And Disappointment,in these lonely bounds,Find balm to soothe her bitter,rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her [scan,And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.
song-The Birks Of Aberfeldy tune-"The Birks of Abergeldie."Chorus.-Bonie lassie,will ye go,Will ye go,will ye go,Bonie lassie,will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy!
Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes,And o'er the crystal streamlets plays;Come let us spend the lightsome days,In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie,&c.
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,The little birdies blythely sing,Or lightly flit on wanton wing,In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie,&c.
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's,O'erhung wi'fragrant spreading shaws-The birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie,&c.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi'flowers,White o'er the linns the burnie pours,And rising,weets wi'misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie,&c.
Let Fortune's gifts at randoe flee,They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me;Supremely blest wi'love and thee,In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonie lassie,&c.
The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water To the noble Duke of Athole.
My lord,I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain;Embolden'd thus,I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain,How saucy Phoebus'scorching beams,In flaming summer-pride,Dry-withering,waste my foamy streams,And drink my crystal tide.^1The lightly-jumping,glowrin'trouts,That thro'my waters play,If,in their random,wanton spouts,They near the margin stray;[Footnote 1:Bruar Falls,in Athole,are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful;but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.
-R.B.]
If,hapless chance!they linger lang,I'm scorching up so shallow,They're left the whitening stanes amang,In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi'spite and teen,As poet Burns came by.
That,to a bard,I should be seen Wi'half my channel dry;A panegyric rhyme,I ween,Ev'n as I was,he shor'd me;But had I in my glory been,He,kneeling,wad ador'd me.
Here,foaming down the skelvy rocks,In twisting strength I rin;There,high my boiling torrent smokes,Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying each large spring and well,As Nature gave them me,I am,altho'I say't mysel',Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes,He'll shade my banks wi'tow'ring trees,And bonie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then,my lord,You'll wander on my banks,And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober lav'rock,warbling wild,Shall to the skies aspire;The gowdspink,Music's gayest child,Shall sweetly join the choir;The blackbird strong,the lintwhite clear,The mavis mild and mellow;The robin pensive Autumn cheer,In all her locks of yellow.
This,too,a covert shall ensure,To shield them from the storm;And coward maukin sleep secure,Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,To weave his crown of flow'rs;Or find a shelt'ring,safe retreat,From prone-descending show'rs.
And here,by sweet,endearing stealth,Shall meet the loving pair,Despising worlds,with all their wealth,As empty idle care;The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms,The hour of heav'n to grace;And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too,at vernal dawn,Some musing bard may stray,And eye the smoking,dewy lawn,And misty mountain grey;Or,by the reaper's nightly beam,Mild-chequering thro'the trees,Rave to my darkly dashing stream,Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs,and ashes cool,My lowly banks o'erspread,And view,deep-bending in the pool,Their shadow's wat'ry bed:
Let fragrant birks,in woodbines drest,My craggy cliffs adorn;And,for the little songster's nest,The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling hope,Your little angel band Spring,like their fathers,up to prop Their honour'd native land!
So may,thro'Albion's farthest ken,To social-flowing glasses,The grace be-"Athole's honest men,And Athole's bonie lasses!
Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.
Written with a Pencil on the Spot.
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,Where,thro'a shapeless breach,his stream resounds.
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,As deep recoiling surges foam below,Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,And viewles Echo's ear,astonished,rends.
Dim-seen,through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,The hoary cavern,wide surrounding lours:
Still thro'the gap the struggling river toils,And still,below,the horrid cauldron boils-Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er,A time that surely shall come,In Heav'n itself I'll ask no more,Than just a Highland welcome.
Strathallan's Lament^1
Thickest night,o'erhang my dwelling!
Howling tempests,o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents,wintry swelling,Roaring by my lonely cave!
[Footnote 1:Burns confesses that his Jacobtism was merely sentimental "except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause,"and a tour through the country where Montrose,Claverhouse,and Prince Charles had fought,was cause enough.Strathallan fell gloriously at Culloden.-Lang.]
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,Busy haunts of base mankind,Western breezes softly blowing,Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of Right engaged,Wrongs injurious to redress,Honour's war we strongly waged,But the Heavens denied success.
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,Not a hope that dare attend,The wide world is all before us-But a world without a friend.
Castle Gordon Streams that glide in orient plains,Never bound by Winter's chains;Glowing here on golden sands,There immix'd with foulest stains From Tyranny's empurpled hands;These,their richly gleaming waves,I leave to tyrants and their slaves;Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle Gordon.
Spicy forests,ever gray,Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil;Or the ruthless native's way,Bent on slaughter,blood,and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,I leave the tyrant and the slave;Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle Gordon.
Wildly here,without control,Nature reigns and rules the whole;In that sober pensive mood,Dearest to the feeling soul,She plants the forest,pours the flood:
Life's poor day I'll musing rave And find at night a sheltering cave,Where waters flow and wild woods wave,By bonie Castle Gordon.
song-Lady Onlie,Honest Lucky tune-"The Ruffian's Rant."A'The lads o'Thorniebank,When they gae to the shore o'Bucky,They'll step in an'tak a pint Wi'Lady Onlie,honest Lucky.
Chorus.-Lady Onlie,honest Lucky,Brews gude ale at shore o'Bucky;I wish her sale for her gude ale,The best on a'the shore o'Bucky.
Her house sae bien,her curch sae clean I wat she is a daintie chuckie;And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed O'Lady Onlie,honest Lucky!
Lady Onlie,&c.
Theniel Menzies'Bonie Mary Air-"The Ruffian's Rant,"or "Roy's Wife."In comin by the brig o'Dye,At Darlet we a blink did tarry;As day was dawnin in the sky,We drank a health to bonie Mary.
Chorus.-Theniel Menzies'bonie Mary,Theniel Menzies'bonie Mary,Charlie Grigor tint his plaidie,Kissin'Theniel's bonie Mary.
Her een sae bright,her brow sae white,Her haffet locks as brown's a berry;And aye they dimpl't wi'a smile,The rosy cheeks o'bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzies'bonie Mary,&c.
We lap a'danc'd the lee-lang day,Till piper lads were wae and weary;But Charlie gat the spring to pay For kissin Theniel's bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzies'bonie Mary,&c.
The Bonie Lass Of Albany^1
tune-"Mary's Dream."
My heart is wae,and unco wae,To think upon the raging sea,That roars between her gardens green An'the bonie Lass of Albany.
This lovely maid's of royal blood That ruled Albion's kingdoms three,But oh,alas!for her bonie face,They've wrang'd the Lass of Albany.
In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde There sits an isle of high degree,And a town of fame whose princely name Should grace the Lass of Albany.
But there's a youth,a witless youth,That fills the place where she should be;We'll send him o'er to his native shore,And bring our ain sweet Albany.
Alas the day,and woe the day,A false usurper wan the gree,Who now commands the towers and lands-The royal right of Albany.
We'll daily pray,we'll nightly pray,On bended knees most fervently,The time may come,with pipe an'drum We'll welcome hame fair Albany.
[Footnote 1:Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.]
On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.
"This was the production of a solitary forenoon's walk from Oughtertyre House.I lived there,the guest of Sir William Murray,for two or three weeks,and was much flattered by my hospitable reception.What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world.'Tis lucky that,as we are told,they will be of some avail in the world to come."-R.
B.,Glenriddell MSS.
Why,ye tenants of the lake,For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me,fellow-creatures,why At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,Parent,filial,kindred ties?-Common friend to you and me,yature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,Busy feed,or wanton lave;Or,beneath the sheltering rock,Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious,blushing for our race,Soon,too soon,your fears I trace,Man,your proud,usurping foe,Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in *******'s pride,Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle,from the cliffy brow,Marking you his prey below,In his breast no pity dwells,Strong necessity compels:
But Man,to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,Glories in his heart humane-And creatures for his pleasure slain!
In these savage,liquid plains,Only known to wand'ring swains,Where the mossy riv'let strays,Far from human haunts and ways;All on Nature you depend,And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or,if man's superior might Dare invade your native right,On the lofty ether borne,Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;Swiftly seek,on clanging wings,Other lakes and other springs;And the foe you cannot brave,Scorn at least to be his slave.
Blythe Was She^1
tune-"Andro and his Cutty Gun."
Chorus.-Blythe,blythe and merry was she,Blythe was she but and ben;Blythe by the banks of Earn,And blythe in Glenturit glen.
By Oughtertyre grows the aik,On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;But Phemie was a bonier lass Than braes o'Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe,blythe,&c.
Her looks were like a flow'r in May,Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o'Earn,As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe,blythe,&c.
Her bonie face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lea;The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,As was the blink o'Phemie's e'e.
Blythe,blythe,&c.
[Footnote 1:Written at Oughtertyre.Phemie is Miss Euphemia Murray,a cousin of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.-Lang.]
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,And o'er the Lawlands I hae been;But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe,blythe,&c.
A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk A Rose-bud by my early walk,Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o'dawn are fled,In a'its crimson glory spread,And drooping rich the dewy head,It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest;The dew sat chilly on her breast,Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,The pride,the pleasure o'the wood,Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,Awake the early morning.
So thou,dear bird,young Jeany fair,On trembling string or vocal air,Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents thy early morning.
So thou,sweet Rose-bud,young and gay,Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning.
Epitaph For Mr.W.Cruikshank^1
Honest Will to Heaven's away And mony shall lament him;His fau'ts they a'in Latin lay,In English nane e'er kent them.
song-The Banks Of The Devon tune-"Bhanarach dhonn a'chruidh."How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair!
But the boniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,In the gay rosy morn,as it bathes in the dew;And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!
O spare the dear blossom,ye orient breezes,With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn;And far be thou distant,thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,And England triumphant display her proud rose:
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,Where Devon,sweet Devon,meandering flows.
Braving Angry Winter's Storms tune-"Neil Gow's Lament for Abercairny."Where,braving angry winter's storms,The lofty Ochils rise,Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes;As one who by some savage stream A lonely gem surveys,Astonish'd,doubly marks it beam With art's most polish'd blaze.
[Footnote 1:Of the Edinburgh High School.]
Blest be the wild,sequester'd shade,And blest the day and hour,Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,When first I felt their pow'r!
The tyrant Death,with grim control,May seize my fleeting breath;But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death.
song-My Peggy's Charms tune-"Tha a'chailleach ir mo dheigh."My Peggy's face,my Peggy's form,The frost of hermit Age might warm;My Peggy's worth,my Peggy's mind,Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,Her face so truly heavenly fair,Her native grace,so void of art,But I adore my Peggy's heart.
The lily's hue,the rose's dye,The kindling lustre of an eye;Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill,the pitying tear,The generous purpose nobly dear,The gentle look that rage disarms-These are all Immortal charms.
The Young Highland Rover tune-"Morag."Loud blaw the frosty breezes,The snaws the mountains cover;Like winter on me seizes,Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over.
Where'er he go,where'er he stray,May heaven be his warden;Return him safe to fair Strathspey,And bonie Castle-Gordon!
The trees,now naked groaning,Shall soon wi'leaves be hinging,The birdies dowie moaning,Shall a'be blythely singing,And every flower be springing;Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,When by his mighty Warden My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey,And bonie Castle-Gordon.
Birthday Ode For 31st December,1787^1
Afar the illustrious Exile roams,Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;An inmate in the casual shed,On transient pity's bounty fed,Haunted by busy memory's bitter tale!
Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,But He,who should imperial purple wear,Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head!
His wretched refuge,dark despair,While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,And distant far the faithful few Who would his sorrows share.
False flatterer,Hope,away!
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,To prove our loyal truth-we can no more,And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,Submissive,low adore.
Ye honored,mighty Dead,Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,Your King,your Country,and her laws,[Footnote 1:The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward.]
From great Dundee,who smiling Victory led,And fell a Martyr in her arms,(What breast of northern ice but warms!)To bold Balmerino's undying name,Whose soul of fire,lighted at Heaven's high flame,Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim:
Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie,It only lags,the fatal hour,Your blood shall,with incessant cry,Awake at last,th'unsparing Power;As from the cliff,with thundering course,The snowy ruin smokes along With doubling speed and gathering force,Till deep it,crushing,whelms the cottage in the vale;So Vengeance'arm,ensanguin'd,strong,Shall with resistless might assail,Usurping Brunswick's pride shall lay,And Stewart's wrongs and yours,with tenfold weight repay.
Perdition,baleful child of night!
Rise and revenge the injured right Of Stewart's royal race:
Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell,Till all the frighted echoes tell The blood-notes of the chase!
Full on the quarry point their view,Full on the base usurping crew,The tools of faction,and the nation's curse!
Hark how the cry grows on the wind;
They leave the lagging gale behind,Their savage fury,pitiless,they pour;With murdering eyes already they devour;
See Brunswick spent,a wretched prey,His life one poor despairing day,Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
Such havock,howling all abroad,Their utter ruin bring,The base apostates to their God,Or rebels to their King.
On The Death Of Robert Dundas,Esq.,Of Arniston,Late Lord President of the Court of Session.
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;Down from the rivulets,red with dashing rains,The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan;The hollow caves return a hollow moan.
Ye hills,ye plains,ye forests,and ye caves,Ye howling winds,and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard,unseen,by human ear or eye,Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly;Where,to the whistling blast and water's roar,Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss,thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice,the high vicegerent of her God,Her doubtful balance eyed,and sway'd her rod:
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow,She sank,abandon'd to the wildest woe.
Wrongs,injuries,from many a darksome den,Now,gay in hope,explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,And stifle,dark,the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark Ruffian Violence,distained with crimes,Rousing elate in these degenerate times,View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark,injur'd Want recounts th'unlisten'd tale,And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours the unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills,ye brown unsightly plains,Congenial scenes,ye soothe my mournful strains:
Ye tempests,rage!ye turbid torrents,roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,To mourn the woes my country must endure-That would degenerate ages cannot cure.
Sylvander To Clarinda^1
Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady,under the signature of "Clarinda"and entitled,On Burns saying he 'had nothing else to do.'
When dear Clarinda,matchless fair,First struck Sylvander's raptur'd view,He gaz'd,he listened to despair,Alas!'twas all he dared to do.
Love,from Clarinda's heavenly eyes,Transfixed his bosom thro'and thro';But still in Friendships'guarded guise,For more the demon fear'd to do.
That heart,already more than lost,The imp beleaguer'd all perdue;For frowning Honour kept his post-
To meet that frown,he shrunk to do.
His pangs the Bard refused to own,Tho'half he wish'd Clarinda knew;But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan-
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?
That heart,where motley follies blend,Was sternly still to Honour true:
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend,Was what a lover sure might do.
[Footnote 1:A grass-widow,Mrs.M'Lehose.]
The Muse his ready quill employed,No nearer bliss he could pursue;That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd-
"Send word by Charles how you do!"
The chill behest disarm'd his muse,Till passion all impatient grew:
He wrote,and hinted for excuse,'Twas,'cause "he'd nothing else to do."But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed,the boldest mark of love,For thee that deed I dare uo do!
O could the Fates but name the price Would bless me with your charms and you!
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,If human art and power could do!
Then take,Clarinda,friendship's hand,(Friendship,at least,I may avow;)And lay no more your chill command,-
I'll write whatever I've to do.
Sylvander.