They roar an' cry a' throu'ther;
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin
Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther;
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour,
Wi' joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
Wi' cannie care, they've placed them
To lie that night.
The lasses staw frae mang them a'
To pou their stalks o' corn;[33]
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast;
Loud skirl'd a' the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
When kiuttlin' in the fause-house[34]
Wi' him that night.
The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits[35]
Are round an' round divided;
An' monie 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,
And jump out-owre the chimlie
Fu' high that night.
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.
Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie;
An' Mallie, 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, and swoor, by jing,
'Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.
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, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou',
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't,
Unseen that night.
But Merran sat behint their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks,
And slips out by hersel':
She through the yard the nearest taks,
An' to the kiln she goes then,
An' darklins graipit for the bauks,
And in the blue-clue[36] throws then,
Right fear't that night.
An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat,
I wat she made nae jaukin';
'Till something held within the pat,
Guid L--d! 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.
Wee Jenny to her graunie says,
"Will ye go wi' me, graunie?
I'll eat the apple[37] at the glass,
I gat frae uncle Johnnie:"
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae vap'rin',
She notic't na, an aizle brunt
Her braw new worset apron
Out thro' that night.
"Ye little skelpie-limmer's face!
I daur you try sic sportin',
As seek the foul Thief onie place,
For him to spae your fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For monie a ane has gotten a fright,
An' liv'd an' died deleeret
On sic a night.
"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 fifteen:
The simmer had been cauld an' wat,
An' stuff was unco green;
An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat,
An' just on Halloween
It fell that night.
"Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen,
A clever, sturdy fellow:
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean,
That liv'd in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed,[38] I mind it weel,
And he made unco light o't;
But monie a day was by himsel',
He was sae sairly frighted
That vera night."
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.
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 that night."
He whistl'd 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.
He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,
In dreadfu' desperation!
An' young an' auld cam 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!
Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,
To win three wechts o' naething;[39]
But for to meet the deil her lane,
She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
An' twa red cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That vera night.
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 rattled up the wa',
An' she cried, L--d preserve her!
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a',
An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour,
Fu' fast that night.
They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice;
They hecht him some fine braw ane;
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,[40]
Was timmer-propt for thrawin';
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak,
For some black, grousome carlin;
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke,
'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin'
Aff's nieves that night.
A wanton widow Leezie was,
As canty as a kittlin;
But, och! that night, amang the shaws,
She got a fearfu' settlin'!
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn,
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin,
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,[41]
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
Was bent that night.
Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As through the glen it wimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays,
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;
Whyles cookit underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel,
Unseen that night.
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 mist a fit, an' in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi' a plunge that night.
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three[42] are ranged,
And ev'ry 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.
Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,
Their sports were cheap an' cheery;
Till butter'd so'ns[43] wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin';
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted aff careerin'
Fu' blythe that night.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 28: 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.]
[Footnote 29: Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.]
[Footnote 30: 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.]
[Footnote 31: The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert,
the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.]
[Footnote 32: 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.]
[Footnote 33: 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 come
to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.]
[Footnote 34: When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green
or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., 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.]
[Footnote 35: Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and
lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and
according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one
another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.]
[Footnote 36: 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
clue off the old one; and towards the latter end, something will hold
the thread; demand "wha hauds?" i.e. who holds? an answer will be
returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your
future spouse.]
[Footnote 37: 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.]
[Footnote 38: 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 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."]
[Footnote 39: 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 through all the attitudes of letting down corn
against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an
apparition will pass through 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.]
[Footnote 40: Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack,
and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you
will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal
yoke-fellow.]
[Footnote 41: 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, some time 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.]
[Footnote 42: 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.]
[Footnote 43: Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always
the Halloween supper.]
* * * * *
XXVI.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
A DIRGE.
[The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his
letters to Mrs. Dunlop: "I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother
lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere he
died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry,
while my mother would sing the simple old song of 'The Life and Age of
Man.'" From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her
distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy
by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment
coincide closely with "Man was made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart,
that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.]
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy'd a man whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"
Began the rev'rend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.
"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time had added proofs
That man was made to mourn.
"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want--oh! ill-match'd pair!--
Show man was made to mourn.
"A few seem favorites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest:
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn!
Thro' weary life this lesson learn--
That man was made to mourn.
"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!
"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave--
By Nature's law design'd--
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?
"Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend--
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn."
* * * * *
XXVII.
TO RUIN.
["I have been," says Burns, in his common-place book, "taking a peep
through, as Young finely says, 'The dark postern of time long
elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness,
weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What
strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what
prostrate ruins in others!" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had
its origin in moments such as these.]
I.
All hail! inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low'ring and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Though thick'ning and black'ning,
Round my devoted head.
II.
And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's prayer!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped
Within thy cold embrace!
* * * * *
XXVIII.
TO
JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK.
ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS
[This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the
Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly
Beggars, in 1801; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's
Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which
the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the
West.]
O Goudie! terror of the Whigs,
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin', looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.
Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition:
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water:
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;
See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
An' gasps for breath.
Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a gallopin' consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption
Death soon will end her.
'Tis you and Taylor[44] are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel,
An' twa red peats wad send relief,
An' end the quarrel.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 44: Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.]
* * * * *
XXIX.
TO
J. LAPRAIK.
AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.
_April 1st, 1785._
(FIRST EPISTLE.)
["The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, "was produced
exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term
derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their
spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument
is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of
meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking,
or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement
was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the
phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk
of going with their rokes as well as women."]
While briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whidden seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.
On Fasten-een we had a rockin',
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin',
And there was muckle fun an' jokin',
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife;
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.
I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel,
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel,
Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spier't,
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd
He had injine,
That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine.
That, set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel',
Or witty catches,
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death
At some dyke-back,
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith
To hear your crack.
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,
Tho' rude an' rough,
Yet crooning to a body's sel',
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae poet in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet what the matter?
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're may-be wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire!
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I'se no insist,
But gif ye want ae friend that's true--
I'm on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel;
As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends an' folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me;
Tho' I maun own, as monie still
As far abuse me.
There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses--Gude forgie me!
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;
May be some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair;
I should be proud to meet you there!
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,
An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware
Wi' ane anither.
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water;
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better,
Before we part.
Awa, ye selfish, warly race,
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack!
I dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
"Each aid the others,"
Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whissle,
Your friend and servant.
* * * * *
XXX.
To
J. LAPRAIK.
(SECOND EPISTLE.)
[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at
Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic worshipper
of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western
bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his
distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, beginning
"When I upon thy bosom lean."
He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved
that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled
power of soul.]
_April 21st_, 1785.
While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake,
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e'enin's edge I take
To own I'm debtor,
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,
For his kind letter.
Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs,
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs
Their ten hours' bite,
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
I would na write.
The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
This month' an' mair,
That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,
An' something sair."
Her dowff excuses pat me mad:
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad!
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud,
This vera night;
So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.
"Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,
Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts,
An' thank him kindly?"