Chapter V — Descriptive and Narrative Poetry — Robert Burns: How to Know Him by William Allan Neilson

Chapter V Descriptive and Narrative Poetry

The “world of Scotch drink, Scotch manners, and Scotch religion” was not, Matthew Arnold insisted, a beautiful world, and it was, he held, a disadvantage to Burns that he had not a beautiful world to deal with. This famous dictum is a standing challenge to any critic who regards Burns as a creator of beauty. It is true that when Burns took this world at its apparent worst, when Scotch drink meant bestial drunkenness, when Scotch manners meant shameless indecency, when Scotch religion meant blasphemous defiance, he created The Jolly Beggars, which the same critic found a “splendid and puissant production.” We must conclude, then, that sufficient genius can sublimate even a hideously sordid world into a superb work of art, which is presumably beautiful.

But the verdict passed on the Scottish world of Burns is not to be taken without scrutiny. A review of those poems of Burns that are primarily descriptive will recall to us the chief features of that world.

Let us begin with The Cotter’s Saturday Night, Burns’s tribute to his father’s house. Let us discard the introductory stanza of dedication, as not organically a part of the poem. The scene is set in a gray November landscape. The tired laborer is shown returning to his cottage, no touch of idealization being added to the picture of physical weariness save what comes from the feeling for home and wife and children. Then follow the gathering of the older sons and daughter, the telling of the experiences of the week, and the advice of the father. The daughter’s suitor arrives, and the girl’s consciousness as well as the lover’s shyness are delicately rendered. Two stanzas in English moralize the situation, and for our present purpose may be ignored. The supper of porridge and milk and a bit of cheese is followed by a reverent account of family prayers, the father leading, the family joining in the singing of the psalm. And as they part for the night, the poet is carried away into an elevated apostrophe to the country whose foundations rest upon such a peasantry, and closes with a patriotic prayer for its preservation.

The truth of the picture is indubitable. The poet could, of course, have chosen another phase of the same life. The cotter could have come home rheumatic and found the children squalling and the wife cross. The daughter might have been seduced, and the sons absent in the ale-house. But what he does describe is just as typical, and it is beautiful, though the manners and religion are Scottish.

Another social occasion is the subject of Halloween. The poem, with Burns’s notes, is a mine of folk-lore, but we are concerned with it as literature. Here the tone is humorous instead of reverent, the characters are mixed, the selection is more widely representative. With complete frankness, the poet exhibits human nature under the influence of the mating instinct, directed by harmless, age-old superstitions. The superstitions are not attacked, but gently ridiculed. The fundamental veracity of the whole is seen when we realize that, in spite of the strong local color, it is psychologically true for similar festivities among the peasantry of all countries.

Halloween4

over, pastures

road

Upon that night, when fairies light
  On Cassilis Downans 5 dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
  On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is ta’en,
  Beneath the moon’s pale beams;
There, up the Cove,6 to stray an’ rove
  Amang the rocks and streams
          To sport that night;

winding

once

nuts, pull, stalks

keep

Amang the bonnie winding banks
  Where Doon rins wimplin’ clear,
Where Bruce 7 ance ruled the martial ranks
  An’ shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry friendly country-folks
  Together did convene
To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,
  An’ haud their Halloween
          Fu’ blythe that night:

trim

more handsome

show

loyal, kind

love-knots

garter

very shy, chatter

Make

Sometimes

The lasses feat, an cleanly neat,
  Mair braw than when they’re fine;
Their faces blythe fu’ sweetly kythe
  Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs
  Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs
  Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’
          Whyles fast at night.

must, once

shut, eyes, grope, choose

big ones, straight

foolish, lost the way

cabbage

pulled, choice

stalk

bent

Then, first and foremost, thro’ the kail,
  Their stocks 8 maun a’ be sought ance:
They steek their een, an’ grape an’ wale
  For muckle anes an’ straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
  An’ wander’d thro’ the bow-kail,
An’ pou’d, for want o’ better shift,
  A runt was like a sow-tail,
          Sae bow’d, that night.

earth

pell-mell

run

over, shoulder

if, pith

pocket-knives

Then, above

cautious

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
  They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;
The very wee things toddlin’ rin—
  Wi’ stocks out-owre their shouther;
An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour,
  Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
  Wi’ cannie care they’ve plac’d them
          To lie that night.

stole

dodges

squealed

almost

cuddling

The lasses staw frae ‘mang them a’
  To pou their stalks o’ corn;9
But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,
  Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard an’ fast;
  Loud skirled a’ the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
  When kiutlin’ i’ the fause-house 10
          Wi’ him that night.

well-hoarded nuts

comfortably

out of the chimney

The auld guidwife’s well-hoordit nits 11
  Are round an’ round divided,
An’ mony lads’ an’ lasses’ fates
  Are there that night decided:
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,
  An’ burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa, wi’ saucy pride,
  An’ jump out-owre the chimlie
          Fu’ high that night.

watchful

whispers

blazed

chimney

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e;
  Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an’ this is me,
  She says in to hersel:
He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,
  As they wad never mair part;
Till fuff! he started up the lum,
  An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart
          To see’t that night.

cabbage stump

precise Molly

huff

leapt, start

foot

by Jove

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,
  Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie,
An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,
  To be compar’d to Willie:
Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,
  An’ her ain fit it brunt it;
While Willie lap, an’ swoor by jing,
  ’Twas just the way he wanted
          To be that night.

mind

ashes

by stealth, tasted, mouth

corner

Nell had the fause-house in her min’,
  She pits hersel an’ Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
  Till white in ase they’re sobbin:
Nell’s heart was dancin’ at the view:
  She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:
Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonnie mou’,
  Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,
          Unseen that night.

Marian

leaves, gabbing, chat

nearest way

in the dark, groped, beams

frightened

But Merran sat behint their backs,
  Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;
She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks,
  An’ slips out by hersel:
She thro’ the yard the nearest taks,
  An’ to the kiln she goes then,
An’ darklins grapit for the bauks,
  And in the blue-clue 12 throws then,
          Right fear’d that night.

wounded, sweated

know, trifling

kiln-pot

beam-end

ask

An’ aye she win’t, an’ aye she swat,
  I wat she made nae jaukin’;
Till something held within the pat,
  Guid Lord! but she was quaukin’!
But whether ’twas the Deil himsel,
  Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
  She did na wait on talkin
          To spier that night.

puffed, smoke

cinder burnt

worsted

Wee Jenny to her grannie says,
  ‘Will ye go wi’ me, grannie?
I’ll eat the apple 13 at the glass,
  I gat frae uncle Johnie:’
She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
  In wrath she was sae vap’rin,
She noticed na an aizle brunt
Her braw new worset apron
          Out-thro’ that night.

young hussy’s

dare

Devil

tell

delirious

‘Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!
  I daur you try sic sportin’,
As seek the foul Thief ony place,
  For him to spae your fortune!
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
  Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
  An’ lived an’ died deleerit,
          On sic a night.

One harvest, Sherriffmuir

remember, last night

young girl

grain, extremely

rollicking harvest-home

‘Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,—
  I mind’t as weel’s yestreen,
I was a gilpey then, I’m sure
  I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,
  An’ stuff was unco green;
An’ aye a rantin’ kirn we gat,
  An’ just on Halloween
          It fell that night.

chief harvester

son, child

very

beside himself

sorely

‘Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen,
  A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,
  That liv’d in Achmacalla;
He gat hemp-seed,14 I mind it weel,
  An’ he made unco light o’t:
But mony a day was by himsel,
  He was sae sairly frighted
          That vera night.’

fighting

sow

merely

reached, bag

gave

Then

saw

Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck,
  An’ he swoor by his conscience
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;
  For it was a’ but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught down the pock,
  An’ out a handfu’ gied him;
Syne bad him slip frae ‘mang the folk,
  Sometime when nae ane see’d him,
          An’ try’t that night.

staggering

dung-fork

trails, back

He marches thro’ amang the stacks,
  Tho’ he was something sturtin’;
The graip he for a harrow taks,
  An’ haurls at his curpin:
An’ ev’ry now an’ then, he says,
  ‘Hemp-seed! I saw thee,
An’ her that is to be my lass
  Come after me an’ draw thee
          As fast this night.’

scared, awe-struck

groan

shoulder gave, peep

summersault

He whistled up Lord Lennox’ march,
  To keep his courage cheery;
Altho’ his hair began to arch,
  He was sae fley’d an’ eerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
  An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;
He by his shouther gae a keek,
  An’ tumbl’d wi’ a wintle
          Out-owre that night.

halting

hunchbacked Marian

the sow

Astir

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,
  In dreadfu’ desperation!
An’ young an’ auld come rinnin’ out,
  An’ hear the sad narration:
He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,
  Or crouchie Merran Humphie,
Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;
  An’ wha was it but grumphie
          Asteer that night!

have gone

alone

put

herd-boy, few

sets out

Meg fain wad to the barn gane
  To winn three wechts o’ naething;15
But for to meet the Deil her lane,
  She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
  And twa red-cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
  In hopes to see Tam Kipples
          That very night.

cautious twist

call

Then

rat

dunghill pool

She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,
  An’ owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,
  Syne bauldly in she enters;
A ratton rattl’d up the wa’,
  An’ she cried ‘Lord preserve her!’
An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,
  An’ pray’d wi’ zeal an’ fervour
          Fu’ fast that night

urged

promised

measured with outstretched arms

against leaning over

gnarled

beldam

uttered a curse

shreds, peeling

Off his fists

They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice;
  They hecht him some fine braw ane;
It chanced the stack he faddom’d thrice 16
  Was timmer-propt for thrawin’:
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak
  For some black gruesome carlin;
An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,
  Till skin in blypes cam haurlin’
          Aff’s nieves that night.

lively

woods

gorse, stone heap

careering

shirt-

A wanton widow Leezie was,
  As cantie as a kittlin;
But och! that night, amang the shaws,
  She gat a fearfu’ settlin’!
She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,
  An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin’;
Where three laird’s lands met at a burn,17
  To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
          Was bent that night.

Waterfall

wound

ledge

eddy

peeped

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
  As thro’ the glen it wimpled;
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;
  Whyles in a wiel it dimpled;
Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rays,
  Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle;
Whyles cookit underneath the braes,
  Below the spreading hazel,
          Unseen that night.

ferns, hillside

unhoused heifer

gave a low

almost leapt, sheath

lark high

foot

Amang the brackens on the brae,
  Between her an’ the moon,
The Deil, or else an outler quey,
  Gat up an’ gae a croon:
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool;
  Near lav’rock height she jumpit,
But miss’d a fit, an’ in the pool
  Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
          Wi’ a plunge that night.

1715 Rebellion

empty

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
  The luggies 18 three are ranged;
And every time great care is ta’en,
  To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys
  Sin’ Mar’s year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
  He heav’d them on the fire
          In wrath that night.

wot

strange

smoke

tongues wagging

Then, liquor

Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an’ funny jokes,—
  Their sports were cheap and cheery;
Till butter’d sow’ns,19 wi’ fragrant lunt,
  Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’;
Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,
  They parted aff careerin’
          Fu’ blythe that night.

Foot-Notes to Halloween

[The foot-notes to this poem are those supplied by Burns himself in the Kilmarnock edition.]

In The Twa Dogs we have an entirely different method. Burns here gives expression to his social philosophy in a contrast between rich and poor, and adds a quaint humor to his criticism by placing it in the mouths of the laird’s Newfoundland and the cotter’s collie. The dogs themselves are delightfully and vividly characterized, and their comments have a detachment that frees the satire from acerbity without rendering it tame. The account of the life of the idle rich may be that of a somewhat remote observer; it has still value as a record of how the peasant views the proprietor. But that of the hard-working farmer lacks no touch of actuality, and is part of the reverse side of the shield shown in The Cotter’s Saturday Night. Yet the tone is not querulous, but echoes rather the quiet conviction that if toil is hard it has its own sweetness, and that honest fatigue is better than boredom.

The Twa Dogs

busy

Met

’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearin’ through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.

ears

whelped

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,
Was keepit for his Honour’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;

devil

mongrel

smithy

matted cur, ragged

lanted

But though he was o’ high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent are hour caressin’
E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messan:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stand as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.

other

fellow

The tither was a ploughman’s collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie;
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.

wise, dog

leapt, ditch, wall

pleasant, white-marked

every

shaggy

joyous

buttocks

He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke;
His honest sonsie, bawsent face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place,
His breast was white, his tousie back
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black:
His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,
Hung o’er his hurdles wi’ a swirl.

glad

intimate

moles, dug

merriment

knoll

Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
And unco pack and thick thegither;
Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit;
Whyles mice and moudieworts 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 of the creation.

caesar

at all

rent in kind, dues

calls

stitches

guinea peeps

cramming

servants, belly

rubbish

waste

wonder

put, paunch

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 bonny silken purse
As lang’s my tail, where, through the steeks,
The yellow-letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
And though the gentry first are stechin’,
Yet e’en 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 eats 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.

luath

troubled

digging, ditch

building, wall

clearing

brood, ragged children

hand-labor

thatch, rope

sore

almost

must

knew

stout lads, girls

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh;
A cottar 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 duddy weans,
And nought but his han’-darg to keep
Them right and tight in thack and rape.
And when they meet wi’ sair disasters,
Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer
And they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger;
But how it comes I never kent yet.
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

caesar

badger

endure, abuse

seize, property

must

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 stinking 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; poind their gear:
While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble,
An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

luath

poverty’s

growing

quart of ale

wonderfully

wonder

harvest-homes

ale, foam

smoking, snuff-box

cheerful, talking brightly

too often

well-doing

perhaps, busy

indenturing

They’re no’ 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 sae guided,
They’re aye in less or mair provided;
An’ though fatigued wi’ close employment,
A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
  The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a’ their fireside.
  And whyles twalpenny-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-faced Hallowmas returns
They get the jovial rantin’ kirns,
When rural life o’ every station.
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and 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 ream
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin’ pipe and sneeshin’-mill
Are handed round wi’ right gude-will;
The canty auld folk crackin’ crouse,
The young anes ranting 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 hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play’d.
There’s mony a creditable stock
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi’ some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin’,
For Britain’s gude his soul indentin—

caesar

going

splits

fight with bulls

courses

muddy

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain’s gude!—guid faith! I doubt it!
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
And saying ay or no’s they bid him!
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading.
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais taks a waft,
To make a tour, an’ tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton an’ 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,
Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To make himsel’ look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain’s gude!—for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation, feud, and faction!

luath

way

troubled

money, go, way

those

Devil a bit

wasting, timber

mistress

touch

  Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate?
Are we sae foughten and harass’d
For gear to gang that gate at last?
  O would they stay aback frae courts,
An’ please themselves wi’ country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies,
Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows:
Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer,
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, Master Caesar?
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure;
Nae cauld nor hunger o’er can steer them.
The very thought o’t needna fear them.

caesar

sometimes

hard

gripes, groans

fret

dozens

positive

devil a bit

quarrel

solder

One

downright

live-long, crabbed looks

playing-cards

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.
An’ 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 hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh;
A country lassie 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, and restless.
And e’en their sports, their balls, and races,
Their galloping through public places;
There’s sic parade, sic pomp and 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 whoring,
Neist 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 de’ils and jades thegither.
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil’s picture beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard,
And cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard.
There’s some exception, man and woman;
But this is gentry’s life in common.

twilight

cockchafer

cattle, lowing, lane

ears

By this the sun was out o’ sight,
And darker gloamin’ 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 werena men but dogs;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.

The satirical tendency becomes more evident in The Holy Fair. The personifications whom the poet meets on the way to the religious orgy are Superstition, Hypocrisy, and Fun, and symbolize exactly the elements in his treatment—two-thirds satire and one-third humorous sympathy. The handling of the preachers is in the manner we have already observed in the other ecclesiastical satires, but there is less animus and more vividness. Nothing could be more admirable in its way than the realism of the picture of the congregation, whether at the sermons or at their refreshments; and, as in Halloween, the union of the particular and the universal appears in the essential applicability of the psychology to an American camp-meeting as well as to a Scottish sacrament—

There’s some are fou o’ love divine,
There’s some are fou o’ brandy.

—not to finish the stanza!

The Holy Fair

A robe of seeming truth and trust
  Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison’d crust,
  The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show’d,
  Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
  He wrapt him in religion.
Hypocrisy a la Mode.

fresh

limping, furrows

larks

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
  When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
  An’ snuff the caller air.
The risin’ sun, owre Galston muirs,
  Wi’ glorious light was glintin’;
The hares were hirplin’ down the furrs,
  The lav’rocks they were chantin’
          Fu’ sweet that day.

stared

girls

scudding

gray

went a little

As lightsomely I glowr’d 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.

sloes

hop-step-and-jump

curtsey

The twa appeared like sisters twin,
  In feature, form, an’ claes;
Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
  An’ sour as ony slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
  As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop,
  As soon as e’er she saw me,
          Fu’ kind that day.

most

rent

Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,
  I think ye seem to ken me;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonnie face,
  But yet I canna name ye.’
Quo’ she, an’ laughin’ as she spak,
  An’ taks me by the hands,
‘Ye, for my sake, hae gi’en the feck
  Of a’ the ten commands
          A screed some day.

mirth

‘My name is Fun—your crony 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.’

shirt

porridge

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’ mony a wearie bodie
          In droves that day.

complacent, attire

jogging

strapping youngsters

over

padding, in crowds

slice

cakes

crisp

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 mony a whang,
  An’ farls bak’d wi’ butter,
          Fu’ crump that day.

the elder

planks

gabbling

When by the plate we set our nose,
  Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
A greedy glow’r Black Bonnet throws,
  An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
  On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin’;
Some carryin’ deals, some chairs an’ stools,
  An’ some are busy bleth’rin’
          Right loud that day.

keep off

whispering

weaver

Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
  An’ screen our country gentry;
There racer Jess an’ twa-three whores
  Are blinkin’ at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’ tittlin’ jades,
  Wi’ heavin’ breasts an’ bare neck,
An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,
  Blackguardin’ frae Kilmarnock
          For fun this day.

clothes

soiled

sample

Busy

Here some are thinkin’ on their sins,
  An’ some upo’ their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
  Anither sighs an’ prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
  Wi’ screw’d up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,
  Thrang winkin’ on the lasses
          To chairs that day.

Sits snugly

And his palm

Unacknowledged

O happy is that man an’ blest!
  Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
  Comes clinkin’ down beside him!
Wi’ arm repos’d on the chair-back
  He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
  An’s loof upon her bosom,
          Unkenn’d that day.

climbs to

Satan

his own hot

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 very sight o’ Moodie’s face
  To’s ain het hame had sent him
          Wi’ fright that day.

weird

such

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 lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,
  His eldritch squeal an’ gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
  Like cantharidian plaisters,
          On sic a day!

A New Light

give

But, hark! the tent has chang’d 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.

river-mouth

prim

In guid time comes an antidote
  Against sic poison’d 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 view’d it,
While Common Sense 20 has ta’en the road,
  An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate
          Fast, fast, that day.

rattles by rote

fellow

prudently, humbugs

nearly half

Wee Miller, neist, 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.

outer and inner rooms

ale-cup

rolls

busy

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.

blessings on

learning

crams full

small beer

tickle

Leeze me on drink! it gi’es us mair
  Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
  It pangs us fou o’ knowledge.
Be’t whisky gill, or penny wheep,
  Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinkin’ deep,
  To kittle up our notion
          By night or day.

stir

look

corner

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 cosy i’ the neuk,
  An’ formin’ assignations
          To meet some day.

sounds

roaring

But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,
  Till a’ the hills are rairin’,
An’ echoes back return the shouts;
  Black Russel is na sparin’;
His piercing words, like Highlan’ swords,
  Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell,
  Our very ‘sauls does harrow’
          Wi’ fright that day!

full, flaming brimstone

A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,
  Fill’d 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.

ale

wooden drinking vessels

full portions

lumps

’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
  How mony stories past,
An’ how they crowded to the yill,
  When they were a’ dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,
  Amang the furms and benches;
An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,
  Was dealt about in lunches,
          An’ dawds that day.

jolly, sensible

Then, cheese

rope

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 are by his bonnet lays,
  An’ gi’es them’t like a tether,
          Fu’ lang that day.

Alas!

make dusty

such

Waesucks! 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 mindful, ance yoursel
  How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel
  Let lasses be affronted
          On sic a day!

Bell-ringer, rope

swing, toll

can

gaps, kids

shoes

chat

Now Clinkumbell, wi’ 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.

before

fornication

How mony hearts this day converts
  O’ sinners and o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’ static, gin night, are gane
  As saft as ony flesh is.
There’s some are fou o’ love divine,
  There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
An’ mony jobs that day begin,
  May end in houghmagandie
          Some ither day.

It must be admitted that, as we pass from poem to poem, Scottish manners are becoming freer, Scottish drink is more potent, Scottish religion is no longer pure and undefiled. Yet the poet hardly seems to be at a disadvantage. He certainly is no less interesting; he impresses our imaginations and rouses our sympathetic understanding as keenly as ever; there is no abatement of our esthetic relish.

We have seen the Ayrshire peasant alone with his family, at social gatherings, and at church. We have to see him with his cronies and at the tavern. Scotch manners and Scotch religion we know now; it is the turn of Scotch drink. The spirit of that conviviality which was one of Burns’s ruling passions, and which in his class helped to color the grayness of daily hardship, was rendered by him in verse again and again: never more triumphantly than in the greatest of his bacchanalian songs, Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut. Indeed it would be hard to find anywhere in our literature a more revealing utterance of those effects of alcohol that are not discussed in scientific literature—the joyous exhilaration, the conviction of (comparative) sobriety, the temporary intensification of the feeling of good fellowship. The challenge to the moon is unsurpassable in its unconscious humor. Yet Arnold thought the world of Scotch drink unbeautiful.

Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut

malt

live-long

would not have, Christendom

O, Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na found in Christendie.

drunk

droplet

crow, dawn

brew

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 aye 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!

shining, sky, high

entice

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.

rascal

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!

With greater daring and on a broader canvas Burns has dealt with the same subject in The Jolly Beggars. For the literary treatment of the theme he had hints from Ramsay, in whose Merry Beggars and Happy Beggars groups of half a dozen male and female characters proclaim their views and join in a chorus in praise of drink. More direct suggestion for the setting of his “cantata” came from a night visit made by the poet and two of his friends to the low alehouse kept by Nancy Gibson (“Poosie Nansie”) in Mauchline. The poem was written in 1785, but Burns never published it and seems almost to have forgotten its existence.

It is impossible to exaggerate the unpromising nature of the theme. The place is a den of corruption, the characters are the dregs of society. A group of tramps and criminals have gathered at the end of their day’s wanderings to drink the very rags from their backs and wallow in shameless incontinence. An old soldier and a quondam “daughter of the regiment,” a mountebank and his tinker sweetheart, a female pickpocket whose Highland bandit lover has been hanged, a fiddler at fairs who aspires to comfort her but is outdone by a tinker, a lame ballad-singer and his three wives, one of whom consoles the fiddler in the face of her husband—such is the choice company. The action is mere by-play, drunken love making; the main point is the songs. They are mostly frank autobiography, all pervaded with the gaiety that comes from the conviction that being at the bottom, they need not be anxious about falling. Wine, women, and song are their enthusiasms, and only the song is above the lowest possible level.

Such is the sordid material out of which Burns wrought his greatest imaginative triumph. To take the reader into such a haunt and have him pass the evening in such company, not with disgust and nausea but with relish and joy, is an achievement that stands beside the creation of the scenes in the Boar’s Head Tavern in Eastcheap. It is accomplished by virtue of the intensity of the poet’s imaginative sympathy with human nature even in its most degraded forms, and by his power of finding utterance for the moods of the characters he conceives. The dramatic power which we have noted in a certain group of the songs here reaches its height, and in making the reader respond to it he avails himself of all his literary faculties. Pungent phrasing, a sense of the squalid picturesque, a humorous appreciation of human weakness, and a superb command of rollicking rhythms—these elements of his equipment are particularly notable. But the whole thing is fused and unified by a wonderful vitality that makes the reading of it an actual experience. And, though several of the songs are in English, there is no moralizing, no alien note of any kind to jar the perfection of its harmony. Scottish literature had seen nothing like it since Dunbar made the Seven Deadly Sins dance in hell.

The Jolly Beggars — A Cantata

Recitativo

withered, earth

bat

glancing stroke

hoar-frost

one, gang

rowdy, vagrant

carousal

spare rags

cake-pan

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or, wavering like the baukie bird,
  Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast;
When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
  In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e’en a merry core
  O’ randie, gangrel bodies
In Poosie Nansie’s held the splore,
  To drink their orra duddies.
    Wi’ quaffing and laughing,
      They ranted an’ they sang;
    Wi’ jumping an’ thumping
      The very girdle rang.

mistress

whisky

leered

flushed with drink

smacking

mouth

alms

hawker’s

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,
  An’ knapsack a’ in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi’ usquebae an blankets warm
  She blinket on her sodger;
An’ aye he gies the tozie drab
  The tither skelpin’ kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab,
  Just like an aumous dish;
    Ilk smack still did crack still
      Just like a cadger’s whip;
    Then, swaggering an’ staggering,
      He roar’d this ditty up—

Air
Tune: Soldier’s Joy

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
  And show my cuts and scars wherever I come:
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
  When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum,
          Lal de daudle, &c.

My ‘prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abrám;
And I serv’d out my trade when the gallant game was play’d,
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt’ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb:
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I’d clatter on my stamps at the sound of a drum.

trull

And now, tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tattered rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.

What tho’ with hoary locks I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home?
When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum.

Recitativo

rafters shook

Above

rats, look

inmost hole

nook

shrieked

darling

He ended; and the kebars sheuk
  Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
  An’ seek the benmost bore.
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
  He skirled out Encore!
But up arose the martial chuck,
  And laid the loud uproar.

Air
Tune: Sodger Laddie

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

soldier

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

But the godly old chaplain left him in a lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
He risked the soul, and I ventur’d the body,—
then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.

But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair,
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair;
His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie.

And now I have liv’d—I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup or a song;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!

Recitativo

corner

tinker wench

took

staggered

Then

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk
  Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie;
They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk,
  Between themselves they were sae busy,
  At length, wi’ drink and courting dizzy,
He stoitered up an’ made a face;
  Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on Grizzy,
Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.

Air
Tune: Auld Sir Symon

drunk

court

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou,
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He’s there but a ’prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.

book

went off

have

My grannie she bought me a beuk,
And I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?

wench

crazy

For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft;
But what could ye other expect,
Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

bullock

rebuked

rumpling, fun

I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffing;
I ance was abused i’ the kirk,
For touzling a lass i’ my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court,
A tumbler ca’d the Premier.

Observ’d ye yon reverend lad
Maks faces to tickle the mob?
He rails at our mountebank squad—
It’s rivalship just i’ the job!

fellow

And now my conclusion I’ll tell,
For faith! I’m confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,
Gude Lord! he’s far dafter than I.

Recitativo

next, rough beldam

steal, cash

ducked

woe betide, gallows

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling.
For mony a pursie she had hookit,
An’ had in mony a well been dookit;
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa’ the waefu’ Woodie!
Wi’ sighs and sobs, she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman:—

Air
Tune: O An’ Ye Were Dead, Guidman

Lowland

A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

chorus

Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman!
There’s no a lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John Highlandman.

kilt

two-handed sword

With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,
And gude claymore down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

They banish’d him beyond the sea;
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

But och! they catch’d him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one!
They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.

And now a widow I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne’er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.

Recitativo

markets, toddle

buxom

blown it

A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle,
Wha used to trysts an’ fairs to driddle,
Her strappin’ limb an’ gawsie middle
(He reach’d nae higher)
Had holed his heartie like a riddle,
And blawn’t on fire.

hip

Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e,
He crooned his gamut, one, two, three,
Then, in an Ario’s key,
The wee Apollo
Set aff, wi’ allegretto glee,
His gig solo.

Air
Tune: Whistle Owre the Lave O’t

reach, wipe

rest

Let me tyke up to dight that tear,
And go wi’ me an’ be my dear,
And then your every care an’ fear
May whistle owre the lave o’t.

chorus

I am a fiddler to my trade,
An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was Whistle Owre the Lave o’t.

harvest-homes, we shall

At kirns and weddings we’se be there,
And oh! sae nicely’s we will fare;
We’ll house about, till Daddie Care
Sing Whistle Owre the Lave o’t.

pick

wall

Sae merrily the banes we’ll pyke,
An’ sun oursels about the dyke,
An’ at our leisure, when ye like,
We’ll—whistle owre the lave o’t.

tickle, catgut

such

But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
An’ while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the lave o’t.

Recitativo

tinker

rusty

plover

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,
  As well as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
  An’ draws a roosty rapier—
He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth,
  To spit him like a pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth
  Relinquish her for ever.

hams

snigger

Wi’ ghastly e’e, poor tweedle-dee
  Upon his hunkers bended,
An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
  An’ sae the quarrel ended.
But tho’ his little heart did grieve
  When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,
  When thus the caird address’d her:—

Air
Tune: Clout the Cauldron

patch

My bonnie lass, I work in brass,
  A tinkler is my station;
I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground
  In this my occupation;
I’ve ta’en the gold, I’ve been enroll’d
  In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d when off I march’d
  To go an’ clout the cauldron.

tool-bag

hope

a kind of whisky

dearth

wet, throat

Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,
  Wi’ a’ his noise an’ caperin’;
An’ tak a share wi’ those that bear
  The budget and the apron;
And, by that stoup, my faith an’ houp!
  And by that dear Kilbaigie,
If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant,
  May I ne’er weet my craigie.

Recitativo

so sorely

spirit

The caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair
  In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair,
  An’ partly she was drunk.
Sir Violino, with an air
  That show’d a man o’ spunk,
Wish’d unison between the pair,
  An’ made the bottle clunk
          To their health that night.

urchin

trick

hencoop

spavin

hobbled, leapt

yielded them as lovers

gratis

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft
  That play’d a dame a shavie;
The fiddler rak’d her fore and aft,
  Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight of Homer’s craft,
  Tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie,
He hirpl’d up, an’ lap like daft,
  And shor’d them Dainty Davie
          O’ boot that night.

enlisted

He was a care-defying blade
  As ever Bacchus listed;
Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid,
  His heart she ever miss’d it.
He had nae wish, but—to be glad,
  Nor want but—when he thirsted;
He hated nought but—to be sad,
  And thus the Muse suggested
          His sang that night.

Air
Tune: For A’ That, An’ A’ That

staring crowd

I am a bard of no regard
Wi’ gentlefolks, and a’ that;
But Homer-like, the glowrin’ byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

chorus

much

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
And twice as muckle’s a’ that;
I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.

pond

foams

I never drank the Muses’ stank,
Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;
But there it streams, an’ richly reams!
My Helicon I ca’ that.

thwart

Great love I bear to a’ the fair,
Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

fly, sting

regulate

In raptures sweet this hour we meet
Wi’ mutual love, an’ a’ that;
But for how lang the flee may stang,
Let inclination law that.

crazy

jades

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft,
They’ve ta’en me in, an’ a’ that;
But clear your decks, an’ Here’s the sex!
I like the jads for a’ that.

to it

For a’ that, and a’ that,
And twice as muckle’s a’ that,
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They’re welcome till’t, for a’ that.

Recitativo

walls

emptied, pokes, rags

cover, tails

flaming

over, crowd

untie, choose

So sung the bard—and Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder of applause,
  Re-echo’d from each mouth;
They toom’d their pocks, an’ pawn’d their duds.
They scarcely left to co’er their fads,
  To quench their lowin’ drouth.
Then owre again the jovial thrang
  The poet did request
To lowse his pack, an’ wale a sang,
  A ballad o’ the best;
    He rising, rejoicing,
      Between his twa Deborahs,
    Looks round him, an’ found them
      Impatient for the chorus.

Air
Tune: Jolly Mortals, Fill Your Glasses

See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ragged ring;
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing:

chorus

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation’s care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
’Tis no matter how or where!

mistresses

With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.

Does the train-attended carriage
Thro’ the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?

Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.

wenches

Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here’s to all the wandering train!
Here’s our ragged brats and callets!
One and all cry out Amen!

The materials for rebuilding Burns’s world are not confined to his explicitly descriptive poems. Much can be gathered from the songs and satires, and there are important contributions in his too scanty essays in narrative. Of these last by far the most valuable is Tam o’ Shanter. The poem originated accidentally in the request of a certain Captain Grose for local legends to enrich a descriptive work which he was compiling. In Burns’s correspondence will be found a prose account of the tradition on which the poem is founded, and he is supposed to have derived hints for the relations of Tam and his spouse from a couple he knew at Kirkoswald.

It was a happy inspiration that led him to turn the story into verse, for it revealed a capacity which otherwise we could hardly have guessed him to possess. The vigor and rapidity of the action, the vivid sketching of the background, the pregnant characterization, the drollery of the humor give this piece a high place among stories in verse, and lead us to conjecture that, had he followed this vein instead of devoting his later years to the service of Johnson and Thomson, he might have won a place beside the author of the Canterbury Tales. He lacked, to be sure, Chaucer’s breadth of experience and richness of culture: being far less a man of the world he would never have attained the air of breeding that distinguishes the English poet: but with most of the essential qualities that charm us in Chaucer’s stories he was well equipped. He had the observant eye, the power of selection, command of the telling phrase and happy epithet, the sense of the comic and the pathetic. Beyond Chaucer he had passion and the power of rendering it, so that he might have reached greater tragic depth, as he surpassed him in lyric intensity.

As it is, however, Chaucer stands alone as a story-teller, for Tam o’ Shanter is with Burns an isolated achievement. There are three distinct elements in the work—narrative, descriptive, and reflective. The first can hardly be overpraised. We are made to feel the reluctance of the hero to abandon the genial inn fireside, with its warmth and uncritical companionship, for the bitter ride with a sulky sullen dame at the end of it; the rage of the thunderstorm, as with lowered head and fast-held bonnet the horseman plunges through it; the growing sense of terror as, past scene after scene of ancient horror, he approaches the ill-famed ruin. Then suddenly the mood changes. Emboldened by his potations, Tam faces the astounding infernal revelry with unabashed curiosity, which rises and rises till, in a pitch of enthusiastic admiration for Cutty-Sark, he loses all discretion and brings the “hellish legion” after him pell-mell. We reach the serio-comic catastrophe breathless but exhilarated.

The descriptive background of this galloping adventure is skilfully indicated. Each scene—the ale-house, the storm, the lighted church, the witches’ dance—is sketched in a dozen lines, every stroke distinct and telling. Even the three lines indicating what waits the hero at home is an adequate picture. Though incidental, these vignettes add substantially to what the descriptive poems have told us of the environment, real and imaginative, in which the poet had been reared.

The value of the reflective element is more mixed. The most quoted passage, that beginning

“But pleasures are like poppies spread,”

can only be regretted. With its literacy similes, its English, its artificial diction, it is a patch of cheap silk upon honest homespun. But the other pieces of interspersed comment are all admirable. The ironic apostrophes—to Tam for neglecting his wife’s warnings; to shrewish wives, consoling them for their husband’s deafness to advice; to John Barleycorn, on the transient courage he inspires; to Tam again, when tragedy seems imminent—are all in perfect tone, and do much to add the element of drollery that mixes so delightfully with the weirdness of the scene. And like the other elements in the poem they are commendably short, for Burns nearly always fulfills Bagehot’s requirement that poetry should be “memorable and emphatic, intense, and soon over.”

Tam o’ Shanter — A Tale

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.

Garvin Douglas.

pedlar fellows

thirsty

road

ale

full, mighty

bogs, gaps

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors neibors 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 styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

found

one

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 bonnie lasses).

told, good-for-nothing

chattering, babbler

One

every meal-grinding

money

nag

wizards, dark

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A bletherin’, blusterin’, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi’ the miller
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca’d a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roarin’ 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 drown’d in Doon;
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.

makes, weep

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how many counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

uncommonly

fireside, blazing

foaming ale

Cobbler

loved

roar

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 Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favours secret, 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.

loads

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!

such

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 for ever;
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 nor tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour, he 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 ’twad blawn its last;
The rattling show’rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.

spanked, puddle

song

staring

goblins

ghosts, owls

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 gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares,
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

smothered

birches, big

gorse, pile of stones

found

blaze

chink

By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo’s mither hang’d 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 seem’d in a bleeze;
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

ale

whisky

ale

farthing

strange

brand

window-seat

shaggy dog

squeal

ring

magic trick

holy

-irons

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 ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,
Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle!
But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d,
Till by the heel and hand admonish’d,
She ventur’d forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance!
Nae cotillon 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 touzie tyke, black, grim, and large!
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl.
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw’d 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, unchristen’d bairns;
A thief new-cutted frae the rape—
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red rusted;
Five scymitars, 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 gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.

linked

beldam, steamed

cast, rags, work

tripped deftly, chemise

As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
Till ilka, carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!

those, girls

greasy flannel

These trousers

buttocks

maidens

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!21
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!

Withered (?), wean

Leaping, cudgel

But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

full well

choice

death

barley

short-shift, coarse linen

proud

bought

pounds

But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and walie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after kent on Carrick shore!
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish’d mony a bonnie 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 kent thy reverend grannie
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie
Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches)
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!

stoop

leapt, kicked

fidgeted with fondness

jerked

then

lost

Short-shift

But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r—
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was, and strang);
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d,
And thought his very een enrich’d;
Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,
And hotch’d 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.

fret

herd-boys, nest

the hare’s

weird screech

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’ mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.

devil

endeavor

whole

clutched

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’!22
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 o’ the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they darena 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 gray tail:
The carlin caught 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 inclin’d,
Or cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear;
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

Description in Burns is not confined to man and society: he has much to say of nature, animate and inanimate.

Though within a few miles of the ocean, the scenery among which the poet grew up was inland scenery. He lived more than once by the sea for short periods, yet it appears but little in his verse, and then usually as the great severing element.

And seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin auld lang syne

is the characteristic line. Scottish poetry had no tradition of the sea. To England the sea had been the great boundary and defense against the continental powers, and her naval achievements had long produced a patriotic sentiment with regard to it which is reflected in her literature. But Scotland’s frontier had been the line of the Cheviots and the Tweed, and save for a brief space under James IV she had never been a sea-power. Thus the cruelty and danger of the sea are almost the only phases prominent in her poetry, and Burns here once more follows tradition.

Again, the scenery of Ayrshire was Lowland scenery, with pastoral hills and valleys. On his Highland tours Burns saw and admired mountains, but they too appear little in his verse. Though not an unimportant figure in the development of natural description in literature, he had not reached the modern deliberateness in the seeking out of nature’s beauties for worship or imitation, so that the phases of natural beauty which we find in his poetry are merely those which had unconsciously become fixed in a memory naturally retentive of visual images.

Not only do his natural descriptions deal with the aspects familiar to him in his ordinary surroundings, but they are for the most part treated in relation to life. The thunderstorm in Tam o’ Shanter is a characteristic example. It is detailed and vivid and is for the moment the center of interest; but it is introduced solely on Tam’s account. Oftener the wilder moods of the weather are used as settings for lyric emotion. In Winter, a Dirge, the harmony of the poet’s spirit with the tempest is the whole theme, and in My Nannie’s Awa the same idea is treated with more mature art:

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay;
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa.

Many poems are introduced with a note of the season, even when it has no marked relation to the tone of the poem. The Cotter’s Saturday Night opens with November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;

The Jolly Beggars with

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird;

The Epistle to Davie with

While winds frae off Ben-Lomond blaw,
An’ bar the doors wi’ drivin’ snaw,

though in this last case it is skilfully used to introduce the theme. These introductions are probably less imitations of the traditional opening landscape which had been a convention since the early Middle Ages, than the natural result of a plowman’s daily consciousness of the weather.

For whether related organically to his subject or not, Burns’s descriptions of external nature are to a high degree marked by actual experience and observation. Even remembering Thomson in the previous generation and Cowper and Crabbe in his own, we may safely say that English poetry had hardly seen such realism. Its quality will be conceived from a few passages. Take the well-known description of the flood from The Brigs of Ayr.

all-day

thaws

melted snow rolls

flood

way (to the sea)

devil if

muddy splashes

When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains,
Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,
Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil,
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source,
Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate,
Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate;
And from Glenbuck, down to the Ralton-key,
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea;
Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!
And dash the gumlie jaup up to the pouring skies!

Any reader familiar with Gavin Douglas’s description of a Scottish winter in his Prologue to the twelfth book of the Æneid will be struck by the resemblance to this passage both in subject and manner. It is doubtful whether Burns knew more of Douglas than the motto to Tam o’ Shanter, but from the days of the turbulent bishop in the early sixteenth century down to Burns’s own time Scottish poetry had never lost touch with nature, and had rendered it with peculiar faithfulness. It is interesting to note that while The Brigs of Ayr is Burns’s most successful attempt at the heroic couplet, and though it contains verses that must have encouraged his ambition to be a Scottish Pope, yet it is sprinkled with touches of natural observation quite remote from the manner of that master. Compare, on the one hand, such couplets as these:

Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,—

and

old age, sorely worn-out

heap of stones

And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn
I’ll be a brig when ye’re a shapeless cairn!

and

Forms like some bedlam statuary’s dream,
The craz’d creations of misguided whim;

and

Ravens, sort, ticklish

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and clergy are a shot right kittle;

couplets of which Pope need hardly have been ashamed, with such touches of nature as these:

Except perhaps the robin’s whistling glee,
Proud o’ the height o some bit half-lang tree:

and

The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree:
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently crusting, owre the glittering stream.

These examples of his power of exact, vigorous, or delicate rendering of familiar sights and sounds may be supplemented with a few from other poems.

intervales

linnets

dodging, gambols

coos

O sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy,
While thro’ the braes the cushat croods
Wi’ wailfu’ cry!

Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me
When winds rave thro’ the naked tree;
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
Dark’ning the day!

Epistle to William Simpson.

Halloween.

Closely interwoven with Burns’s feelings for natural beauty is his sympathy with animals. The frequency of passages of pathos on the sufferings of beasts and birds may be in part due to the influence of Sterne, but in the main its origin is not literary but is an expression of a tender heart and a lifelong friendly intercourse. In this relation Burns most often allows his sentiment to come to the edge of sentimentality, yet in fairness it must be said that he seldom crosses the line. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he had no need to force the note; it was his instinct both as a farmer and as a lover of animals to think, when he heard the storm rise, how it would affect the lower creation.

windows

shivering

onset

-sinking, scramble

List’ning the doors and winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.

Each hopping

eye

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Where wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,
An’ close thy e’e?

A Winter Night.

A number of his most popular pieces are the expression of this warm-hearted sympathy, a sympathy not confined to suffering but extending to enjoyment of life and sunshine, and at times leading him to the half-humorous, half-tender ascription to horses and sheep of a quasi-human intelligence. Were we to indulge further our conjectures as to what Burns might have done under more favorable circumstances, it would be easy to argue that he could have ranked with Henryson and La Fontaine as a writer of fables.

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785

sleek

hurrying rush

loath

plough-staff

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
O what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad na be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring 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!

odd ear, 24 sheaves

rest

I doubt na, whiles, 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,
And never miss’t!

frail

bitter

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 winds 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 past
Out thro’ thy cell.

stubble

Without, holding

endure

hoar-frost

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

alone

Go oft askew

leave

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain
For promis’d joy.

Still thou art blest compar’d 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 Louse — On Seeing One on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church

where are, going, wonder

swagger

such

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin’ ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho’ faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

wonder

saint

foot

Ye ugly, creepin’, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner!
How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Quick, temples settle

i.e. comb

Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne’er dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

keep

fal-de-rals

Now haud ye 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 very tapmost tow’ring height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.

gooseberry

rosin

deadly, dust

breech

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and 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 dress your droddum!

flannel cap

perhaps, ragged

undervest

balloon bonnet

dare

I wad na been surpris’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flannen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On’s wyliecoat;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie,
How daur ye do’t?

abroad

little wretch

Those

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin’!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin’!

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n devotion!

To a Mountain Daisy — On Turning One Down With a Plough in April, 1786

must

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 bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet
Wi’ spreckl’d 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 rear’d above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

walls

shelter

barren

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 snawy bosom sun-ward 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,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight
Shall be thy doom!

The Auld Farmer’s New-Year Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare, Maggie

On Giving Her the Accustomed Ripp of Corn to
Hansel in the New Year

welcome with a present

handful, belly

hollow-backed, knobby

colt

Across, lea

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
I’ve seen the day,
Thou could hae gane like ony staggie
Out-owre the lay.

drooping

glossy

excite

Once

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee dappled, sleek, an’ glaizie,
A bonnie gray:
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

stately, compact, limber

earth

pool

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,
An’ set weel down a shapely shank,
As e’er tread yird;
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like ony bird.

as dowry

wealth

strong

It’s now some nine-an-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s meere;
He gied me thee, o’ tocher dear,
An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,
An’ thou was stark.

mother

sly

unmanageable

tractable, good tempered

very attractive

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin’ wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie,
Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
An’ unco sonsie.

much

bore

have challenged

That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride;
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could braggèd wide
For sic a pair.

can only halt

stagger, salmon-boat

goer

wind

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble
For heels an’ win’!
An’ ran them till they a’ did wobble
Far, far behin’.

skittish

dull

snort, neigh

aloof

When thou an’ I were young and skeigh,
An’ stable-meals at fairs were driegh,
How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skriegh
An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
An’ ca’t thee mad.

full of corn

wedding-races

went

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow
For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
Where’er thou gaed.

short-rumped

perhaps have beat, spurt

wheeze

willow

The sma’, drooped-rumpled hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur’d thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle,
An’ gart them whaizle;
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O’ saugh or hazel.

near horse of hindmost pair

hide or tow traces

eight, going

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aucht hours gaun,
On guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
For days thegither.

plunged, stopped, capered

chest

rooty hillocks, roared, cracked

fallen gently over

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,
Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit,
An’ slypet owre.

dish

edges

ere

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I kenn’d my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

were restive

steepest

leapt, jumped

jogged along

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it;
Thou never lap, an’ stenned, an’ breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But, just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov’t awa.

plough-team, issue

Besides, more, away

worst

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
The very warst.

day’s work

Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
Wi’ something yet.

bushel

quarter-peck

And think na, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’;
For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

totter

attentive, change

reserved plot

stretch, sides

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether
To some hain’d rig,
Where ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

To the evidence of Burns’s warm-heartedness supplied by these kindly verses may appropriately be added the Address to the Deil. Burns’s attitude to the supernatural we have already slightly touched on. Apart from the somewhat vague Deism which seems to have formed his personal creed, the poet’s attitude toward most of the beliefs in the other world which were held around him was one of amused skepticism. Halloween and Tam o’ Shanter show how he regarded the grosser rural superstitions; but the Devil was another matter. Scottish Calvinism had, as has been said, made him almost the fourth person in the Godhead; and Burns’s thrusts at this belief are among the most effective things in his satire. In the present piece, however, the satirical spirit is almost overcome by kindliness and benevolent humor, and few of his poems are more characteristic of this side of his nature.

Address to the Deil

Hoofie

Splashes, dish

scald

O thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Mick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Hangman

spank, scald

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damnèd bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeal!

flaming pit

backward

shy, afraid

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far kenn’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’, tho’ yon lowin’ heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Stripping

Whyles rangin’ like a roarin’ lion
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin’;
Whyles on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’,
Tirlin’ the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin’,
Unseen thou lurks.

weird

I’ve heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.

sedate

beyond

elders

When twilight did my grannie summon
To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin’,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortrees comin’,
Wi’ heavy groan.

squinting

pond

clump of rushes

moan

Ae dreary windy winter night
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin’ light,
Wi’ you mysel I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight
Wi’ waving sough.

fist

weird, harsh

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch stoor ‘quaick, quaick,’
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake
On whistlin’ wings.

ragwort

disturbed

Let warlocks grim an’ wither’d hags
Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

churn

i.e. , the butter

petted, twelve-pint cow

dry, bull

Thence country wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen
By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the bill.

husbands, cocksure

tool

magic

crisis

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

thaws, hoard

-spirits

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin’ icy boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ ‘nighted travelers are allur’d
To their destruction.

bog-, goblins

An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.

must

straight

When masons’ mystic word an’ grip
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.

ago, garden

sward

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
And all the soul of love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r;

scheming

trick

shake

Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
‘Maist ruin’d a’.

flurry

smoky rags, scorched wig

smutty

squinted

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
‘Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu’ joke?

holding

loosed, scold

of all

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’,
While scabs an’ blotches did him gall
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul,
Was warst ava?

fighting

heat, Lowland

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin’ fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

Hoofs

roistering

hurrying

dodging

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin’,
A certain Bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin’,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’,
An’ cheat you yet.

mend

perhaps

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake:
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!

Somewhat akin in nature is Death and Doctor Hornbook. The purpose is personal satire, Doctor Hornbook being a real person, John Wilson, a schoolmaster in Tarbolton, who had turned quack and apothecary. The figure of Death is an amazingly graphic creation, with its mixture of weirdness and familiar humor; while the attack on Hornbook is managed with consummate skill. Death is made to complain that the doctor is balking him of his legitimate prey, and the drift seems to be complimentary; when in the last few verses it appears that in compensation Hornbook kills far more than he cures.

Death and Doctor Hornbook

known

fib

Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n ministers, they hae been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times to vend,
And nail’t wi’ Scripture.

going

great

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell
Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer comes oursel
‘S a muckle pity.

village age, cheerful

full

staggered, heed

clear

The clachan yill had made me canty,
I wasna fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes kent aye
Frae ghaists an’ witches.

stare

above

The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre;
To count her horns, wi’ a’ my pow’r,
I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four
I cou’d na tell.

secure

run

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin’ down on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff, wi’ a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

meet

put, ghostly dread

across one shoulder

hung

-toed fish-spear

I there wi’ Something does forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Gear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d leister on the ither
Lay large an’ lang.

devil a belly, at all

sides of an ox’s bridle

Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava:
And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’
As cheeks o’ branks.

Good-evening, mowing

sowing

going

‘Guid-een,’ quo’ I; ‘Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin?’
It seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’,
But naething spak;
At length says I, ‘Friend, wh’are ye gaun?
Will ye go back?’

hollow

frightened

heed, fellow

advise, harm

big knife

It spak right howe: ‘My name is Death,
But be na fley’d.’—Quoth I, ‘Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie:
I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith,
See, there’s a gully!’

knife

ticklish

if mischievous

Over

‘Gudeman,’ quo’ he, ‘put up your whittle,
I’m no design’d to try its mettle;
But if I did—I wad be kittle
To be mislear’d—
I wad na mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard.’

give us, agreed

road

‘Weel, weel!’ says I, ‘a bargain be’t;
Come, gies your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our shanks an’ tak a seat—
Come, gies your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house.’

must

‘Ay, ay!’ quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
‘It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to nick the thread,
An’ choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An’ sae maun Death.

well-nigh

butchering

stop, scare

worst

‘Sax thousand years are near-hand fled,
Sin’ I was to the hutching bred;
An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid
To stap or scaur me;
Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,
An’ faith! he’ll waur me.

village

second stomach, tobacco pouch (Author of Domestic Medicine )

children

poke

‘Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the clachan—
Deil mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan!
He’s grown sae well acquaint wi’ Buchan
An’ ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin’,
And pouk my hips.

Devil a thing

‘See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart—
They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a fart;
Damn’d haet they’ll kill.

last night

rang, bone

‘’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane—
Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain—
But deil-ma-care!
It just play’d dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.

Devil a bit

cabbage stalk

‘Hornbook was by wi’ ready art,
And had sae fortified the part
That, when I lookèd to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart
O’ a kail-runt.

upset

‘I drew my scythe in sic a fury
I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O’ hard whin rock.

cabbage-leaf

‘E’en them he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face he ne’er had kenn’d it,
Just sh— in a kail-blade, and send it,
As soon’s he smells’t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells’t.

‘And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles,
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,
A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,
He’s sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

‘Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o’ the seas;
The farina of beans and pease,
He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fortis, what you please,
He can content ye.

Besides

‘Forbye some new uncommon weapons,—
Urinus spiritus of capons;
Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per se;
Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae.’

the grave-digger’s

those

grazing-plot, daisies

split

‘Wae’s me for Johnny Ged’s Hole now,’
Quoth I, ‘if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew
Sae white and bonnie,
Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew;
They’ll ruin Johnie!’

groaned, weird

ditch

The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,
And says: ‘Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear;
They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.

straw ( i.e. , bed)

oath

cloth

‘Where I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood or want o’ breath,
This night I’m free to tak my aith
That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith,
By drap and pill.

weaver by

fists

aching

slid quietly

‘An honest wabster to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne’er spak mair.

botts

commotion

pet-ewes

‘A country laird had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An’ pays him well:
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel.

raised, belly

‘A bonnie lass, ye kenn’d her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame;
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook’s care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.

sample

‘That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill an’ slay,
An’s weel pay’d for’t;
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey
Wi’ his damn’d dirt.

Next, wager

‘But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye be speaking o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited sot
As dead’s a herrin’:
Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin’!’

struck

beyond, twelve

got us to our feet

But, just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais’d us baith:
I took the way that pleas’d mysel,
And sae did Death.

A few miscellaneous poems remain to be quoted. These do not naturally fall into any of the major glasses of Burns’s work, yet are too important either for their intrinsic worth or the light they throw on his character and genius to be omitted. The Elegies, of which he wrote many, following, as has been seen, the tradition founded by Sempill of Beltrees, may be exemplified by Tam Samson’s Elegy and that on Captain Matthew Henderson. Special phases of Scottish patriotism are expressed in Scotch Drink, and the address To a Haggis; while more personal is A Bard’s Epitaph. In this last we have Burns’s summing up of his own character, and it closes with his recommendation of the virtue he strove after but could never attain.

Tam Samson’s Elegy

twisted

worse, everybody

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson again grown weel,
To preach an’ read?
‘Na, waur than a’!’ cries ilka chiel,
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’

groan

weep alone

clothe, child

rent in kind

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane,
An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane,
An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean,
In mourning weed;
To death, she’s dearly paid the kane,—
Tam Samson’s dead!

slope

stunning blow

The Brethren o’ the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu’ bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;
Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel,—
Tam Samson’s dead!

ponds

mark

When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the curler’s flock
Wi’ gleesome speed,
Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson’s dead!

gang

He was the king o’ a’ the core
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,23
Or up the rink like Jehu roar
In time o’ need;
But now he lags on Death’s hogscore,24—
Tam Samson’s dead!

salmon

pikes

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail,
And eels weel kent for souple tail,
And geds for greed,
Since dark in Death’s fish-creel we wail
Tam Samson’s dead!

whirring partridges

leg-plumed, confidently

hares, tail

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’;
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw,
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa’,—
Tam Samson’s dead!

attire

That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d
Saw him in shootin graith adorn’d,
While pointers round impatient burn’d,
Frae couples freed;
But oh! he gaed and ne’er return’d!
Tam Samson’s dead!

brooks, lakes

weeping

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters;
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev’ry auld wife, greeting clatters
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’

moss

feud

blast

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behin’ him jumpit
Wi’ deadly feide;
Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet,
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi’ weel-aim’d heed;
‘Lord, five!’ he cried, an’ owre did stagger;
Tam Samson’s dead!

nonsense

Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father;
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head,
Where Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’

builds

There low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast
Some spitfu’ muirfowl bigs her nest,
To hatch and breed;
Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest!
Tam Samson’s dead!

powder

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave
O’ pouther an’ lead,
Till Echo answer frae her cave
‘Tam Samson’s dead!’

remedy

One

‘Heav’n rest his saul, where’er he be!’
Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Ae social honest man want we:
Tam Samson’s dead!

the epitaph

Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies:
Ye canting zealots, spare him!
If honest worth in heaven rise,
Ye’ll mend ere ye win near him.

Per Contra

nooks

fellow

unharmed, nimble knife

Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly
Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie,
Tell ev’ry social honest billie
To cease his grievin’,
For yet, unskaith’d by Death’s gleg gullie,
Tam Samson’s livin’!

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson, A Gentleman Who Held the Patent for His Honours Immediately From Almighty God

big, gallows-rope

Drag, smithy

hedgehog

anvil

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi’ a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie
O’er hurcheon hides,
And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie
Wi’ thy auld sides!

gone

one

He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e’er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil’d.

stars

mounds

eagles

children

Ye hills, near neibors o’ the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

each, dove

woods

winding

heaps

fall

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming strang wi’ hasty stens
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o’ flow’rs.

hares, scudding

At dawn when ev’ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev’n when beans their fragrance shed
I’ th’ rustling gale,
Ye maukins, whiddin’ thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.

crop

cloud

partridge

Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood—
He’s gane for ever!

Boom

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

corncrakes

those

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o’ day,
‘Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay;
And, when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

owls

haunted

stare

wakeful

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r,
What time the moon wi’ silent glow’r
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!

cheerful

eyes

Must

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains;
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.

catch

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay green flow’ry tresses shear
For him that’s dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the naked warld, declare
The worth we’ve lost!

starlets

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,
Ne’er to return.

O Henderson! the man! the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone for ever?
And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Life’s dreary bound?
Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around?

Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great,
In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!
But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow’s fate
E’er lay in earth.

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, an’ deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An’ minds his griefs no more.

Solomon (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7).

ear

barley

Let other Poets raise a fracas
‘Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drunken Bacchus,
An’ crabbed names an’ stories wrack us,
An’ grate our lug;
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

winding, dodge

cream

foam

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
To sing thy name!

flat river-lands

oats, bearded

Commend me to

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An’ aits set up their awnie horn,
An’ pease an’ beans at een or morn,
Perfume the plain;
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou King o’ grain!

chews, cud

soft cakes, choice

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o’ food!
Or tumblin’ in the boiling flood
Wi’ kail an’ beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.

belly

careering

Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’;
Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’,
But, oil’d by thee,
The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin’
Wi’ rattlin’ glee.

muddled Learning

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
Wi’ gloomy smile.

makest palatable

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind, in time o’ need,
The poor man’s wine,
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Without, frolics

saints

Thou art the life o’ public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,
By thee inspir’d,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.

foamest

smoking

bowl, cup

whisky

tasty sugar

That merry night we get the corn in!
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin’ on a New-Year mornin’
In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,
An’ gusty sucker!

implements

froth

two-eared cup

The Blacksmith

blow

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,
O rare to see thee fizz an’ freath
I’ th’ lugged caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev’ry chaup.

iron

bony, fellow

anvil

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owre-hip, wi’ sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel
Wi’ dinsome clamour.

squalling babies

dolts

Midwife

small coin

When skirlin’ weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright
How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight—
Wae worth the name!
Nae Howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

lawsuit

mad

-brew

When neibors anger at a plea,
An’ just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel!
It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee
To taste the barrel.

blame

throat

ask

Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason;
But mony daily weet their weasan’
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter’s season,
E’er spier her price.

illness

Robs, stupid, drunken oaf

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash?
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.

penniless

becomes

meddle

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel’
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

ladder

face, growl

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch
Wi’ honest men!

creakings

O Whisky! soul o’ plays an’ pranks!
Accept a bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes—they rattle i’ their ranks
At ither’s arses!

cough

Thee, Ferintosh!25 O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips an’ barkin’ hoast
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa!

These

stills

spies

brimstone

Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize—
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn’d drinkers.

Whole breeches, oatmeal cake

plenty

Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill,
An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,
Tak’ a’ the rest,
An’ deal’d about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

To a Haggis

jolly

Above

Paunch, guts

worthy

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

buttocks

skewer

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill;
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need;
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

wipe

skill

-smoking

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin’, rich!

spoon

well-swelled bellies soon

burst

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,
‘Be-thankit!’ hums.

sicken

disgust

Is there that o’er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

feeble, rush

fist, nut

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

ample fist

crop

thistle

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed—
The trembling earth resounds his tread!
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.

watery stuff

splashes, porringers

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

A Bard’s Epitaph

Too

bashful, cringe

woe

Is there a whim-inspired 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,
O, 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.

Notes

4 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands: particularly, those aerial people, the fairies, are said, on that night to hold a grand anniversary.

5 Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.

6 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.

7 The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great Deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.

8 The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.

9 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will want the maidenhead.

10 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.

11 Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quickly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.

12 Whoever would with success try this spell must strictly observe these directions. Steal out all alone to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the pot, a clue of blue yarn: wind it in a new clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, wha hauds? i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.

13 Take a candle and go alone to a looking glass: eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.

14 Steal out; unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp seed; harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, “Hemp seed, I saw [sow] thee, Hemp seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “come after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, “come after me and harrow thee.”

15 This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors; taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the Being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country-dialect, we call a wecht; and go thro’ all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass thro’ the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.

16 Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your conjugal yoke-fellow.

17 You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, where “three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and sometime near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.

18 Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another; and leave the third empty: blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony, a maid: if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.

19 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.

20 The rationalism of the New Lights.

21 Woven in a reed of 1,700 divisions.

22 Lit., a present from a fair; deserts and something more.

23 In curling, to guard is to protect one stone by another in front; to draw is to drive a stone into a good position by striking it with another; to wick a bore is to hit a stone obliquely and send it through between two others.

24 The line a curling stone must cross to stay in the game.

25 Forbes of Culloden was given in 1690 liberty to distil grain at Ferintosh without excise. When this privilege was withdrawn in 1785, the price of whisky rose—hence Burns’s lament.

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