Nor lament a fickle swain;
But, alas! a friend’s departure,
Fills my heart with piercing pain.
Pond’ring sharpens ev’ry arrow,
Sighing but augments my grief:
Now I mourn, o’erwhelm’d with sorrow,
But next hour may bring relief.
_WRITTEN_
JANUARY FIRST, 1792.
To-day old wrinkl’d Time appears;
A smile adorns his brow,
While to our list of fleeting years,
He adds the ninety-two.
Our fav’rite hopes, that swiftly glide,
Announce his steps too slow,
Lest Disappointment’s hasty stride
Should ev’ry bliss o’erthrow.
He softly creeps along the way,
While we his progress watch:
He turns his back, vain our essay
His bald-pate then to catch.
On his right hand a lovely dame,
In robes of crimson hue;
Her eyes our admiration claim,
Her form attracts our view;
Distant her air, staid, sapient, mild,
A figure fine and tall;
By Wisdom own’d, her legal child,
Who did her Prudence call.
With vermil lips, in accents sweet,
Soft as that falling snow,
These words I heard, the nymph repeat,
Address’d to all below:
“In Virtue’s cause exert your pow’rs,
Let her your actions sway;
Employ with speed the passing hours,
Nor trust another day.”
On his left hand, with tardy pace,
Here walks a maid forlorn;
Lank hunger painted on her face,
Her scanty raiment torn:
Rich Luxury her father deem’d,
Idle her dam confess’d;
In public by no man esteem’d,
In secret much caress’d.
With smirking smile, and speeches fair,
She does us kindly greet;
But sage Experience cries, “Beware!
She’ll prove an arrant cheat.”
This now the lazy warrior finds,
His sword with rust adorn’d;
Half plann’d as yet his dire designs,
His conquests unperform’d.
She’ll spoil the politician’s scheme,
The patriot’s gen’rous toil;
For Sloth is the impostor’s name,
O deign her not a smile.
She whisper’d in young Strephon’s ear,
When Delia seem’d to frown,
That soon she’d change that look severe,
And all his wishes crown.
Lull’d in her soft, alluring chain,
His success did prevent;
Till Delia found an active swain,
And left him to lament.
Poor Chloe’s comrade, air and late,
While pow’rs she had to charm;
Those gone, she feels the sad deceit,
And gives the loud alarm.
In vain each specious art she tries;
Vain the cosmetic aid:
She must be what all ranks despise,
An old forsaken maid.
Sloth, of society the pest,
Of ev’ry bliss the bane,
May we the latent ills detest,
Which form thy direful train.
Our helm let Prudence ever steer;
She’ll shield us from the blast;
And ev’ry new, revolving year,
Remind us of our last.
Direct our course to yonder shore,
Where virtue ever reigns;
Where time and seasons are no more;
Where death is bound in chains.
Unvari’d there the blissful scene,
’Mid seraphims above,
All pure, all placid, and serene,
All harmony and love.
ON A
_VISIT TO Mr. BURNS_.
Is’t true? or does some magic spell
My wond’ring eyes beguile?
Is this the place where deigns to dwell
The honour of our isle?
The charming Burns, the Muse’s care,
Of all her sons the pride;
This pleasure oft I’ve sought to share,
But been as oft deni’d.
Oft have my thoughts, at midnight hour,
To him excursions made;
This bliss in dreams was premature,
And with my slumbers fled.
’Tis real now, no vision here
Bequeaths a poignant dart;
I’ll view the poet ever dear,
Whose lays have charm’d my heart.
Hark! now he comes, a dire alarm
Re-echoes through his hall!
Pegasus[2] kneel’d, his rider’s arm
Was broken by a fall.
The doleful tidings to my ears
Were in harsh notes convey’d;
His lovely wife stood drown’d in tears,
While thus I pond’ring said:
“No cheering draught, with ills unmix’d,
Can mortals taste below;
All human fate by heav’n is fix’d,
Alternate joy and wo.”
With beating breast I view’d the bard;
All trembling did him greet:
With sighs bewail’d his fate so hard,
Whose notes were ever sweet.
[2] The name of the Poet’s horse.
GIVEN TO A LADY
WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE
_A POEM_.
In royal Anna’s golden days,
Hard was the task to gain the bays:
Hard was it then the hill to climb;
Some broke a neck, some lost a limb.
The vot’ries for poetic fame,
Got aff decrepit, blind, an’ lame:
Except that little fellow Pope,
Few ever then got near its top:
An’ Homer’s crutches he may thank,
Or down the brae he’d got a clank.
Swift, Thomson, Addison, an’ Young
Made Pindus echo to their tongue,
In hopes to please a learned age;
But Doctor Johnston, in a rage,
Unto posterity did shew
Their blunders great, their beauties few.
But now he’s dead, we weel may ken;
For ilka dunce maun hae a pen,
To write in hamely, uncouth rhymes;
An’ yet forsooth they please the times.
A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns his name,
Pretends to write; an’ thinks nae shame
To souse his sonnets on the court;
An’ what is strange, they praise him for’t.
Even folks, wha’re of the highest station,
Ca’ him the glory of our nation.
But what is more surprising still,
A milkmaid must tak up her quill;
An’ she will write, shame fa’ the rabble!
That think to please wi’ ilka bawble.
They may thank heav’n, auld Sam’s asleep;
For could he ance but get a peep,
He, wi’ a vengeance wad them sen’
A’ headlong to the dunces’ den.
Yet Burns, I’m tauld, can write wi’ ease,
An’ a’ denominations please;
Can wi’ uncommon glee impart
A usefu’ lesson to the heart;
Can ilka latent thought expose,
An’ Nature trace whare’er she goes:
Of politics can talk wi’ skill,
Nor dare the critics blame his quill.
But then a rustic country quean
To write--was e’er the like o’t seen?
A milk maid poem-books to print;
Mair fit she wad her dairy tent;
Or labour at her spinning wheel,
An’ do her wark baith swift an’ weel.
Frae that she may some profit share,
But winna frae her rhyming ware.
Does she, poor silly thing, pretend
The manners of our age to mend?
Mad as we are, we’re wise enough
Still to despise sic paultry stuff.
“May she wha writes, of wit get mair,
An’ a’ that read an ample share
Of candour ev’ry fault to screen,
That in her dogg’ral scrawls are seen.”
All this and more, a critic said;
I heard and slunk behind the shade:
So much I dread their cruel spite,
My hand still trembles when I write.
EPISTLE
_TO NELL_,
WROTE FROM
LOUDOUN CASTLE.
Dear Nell with your long silence griev’d,
Your welcome missive I receiv’d,
And have in haste tane up the pen,
Some incoherent rhyme to sen’:
As time for study is but scarce,
Accept extemporary verse.
To Loudoun Castle well I got;
It is a most delightfu’ spot.
The house, tho’ built before the flood,
Remains as yet both firm and good:
The more to decorate the place,
Our parents do the portals grace.
There Adam stands, a comely man,
Eve wi’ the apple in her han’:
In Eden’s yard the fruit was sweet,
But here she has not got it eat.
A garden large, and hedges high,
O’er which an eagle scarce could fly;
Odorif’rous flowers of vari’d hue,
In ilka bord’ring walk we view.
Trees in full bloom, fruits excel,
When ripe, the rose’s fragrant smell;
The plains a pleasing prospect yield,
And plenty decks the fertile field.
Each beauteous arbour forms a shade,
As if for contemplation made.
The trees in stately rows appear,
And ev’ry thing seems charming here;
Did not the hungry raven’s throat
So far outvie the blackbird’s note;
Did not the ill forboding owl,
At midnight, from dark caverns howl.
But Nell, in human life you know,
Our sweets are ever mix’d with wo.
In vain for happiness we sue,
While as the meteor keeps in view,
With hearts elate, we grasp the prize;
The charm is fled, the phantom dies!
What stock soe’er the misers have,
The heart will ever something crave;
Which, when possest, not soothes the mind,
But leaves an anxious blank behind.
What tho’ no bags of gold we’ve got?
We may be happy in our lot;
And with our little still content,
Our all perhaps will ne’er be spent:
And while we something have in store,
Why should we sigh or pine for more?
_NELL’S ANSWER._
While you, my friend, in beauteous, rural lay,
The ancient pile, and circling scenes display,
Enthusiastic rapture fires my soul,
And admiration reigns without controul.
Methinks, while I your charming theme pursue,
That Loudoun castle rises to my view.
I see, or is it fancy that portrays?
The prospect stand before my ardent gaze:
Surpris’d I see a new Elysium rise,
In pomp august, before my wond’ring eyes.
With joy I view the sweetly, vari’d scene,
The winding vale, and groves of vernal green.
The garden will my fancy long detain,
And those fair fields that wave with yellow grain.
The blooming trees that form a sylvan shade,
And those sweet bow’rs for contemplation made.
Would some propitious pow’r but grant my boon,
Send some kind genii with an air-balloon;
Take me aloft, and safe convey with care,
Straight to the bonny blooming banks of Air;
To Loudoun castle soon I’d bend my way,
And all its beauties joyfully survey.
The gothic structure, and its fair domains,
Most amply would compensate all my pains.
With you, dear Jenny, I would pass some hours,
Amongst its shady walks and fragrant bow’rs.
Of poetry and poets talk by turns,
And pleas’d make comments on the far-fam’d Burns.
ANOTHER
_EPISTLE TO NELL_.
While Phœbus did our summer arbours cheer,
And joys Autumnal crown’d our circling year;
Even then my thoughts to you excursions made,
And ardently the bypast scenes survey’d;
Where oft we met in Eccles’ peaceful bow’rs,
While social pleasure mark’d the passing hours.
From these sweet scenes I found myself remov’d,
I fear’d no more remember’d or belov’d.
Forgot by Nell, friendship seem’d sincere,
Such cold neglect, who undisturb’d could bear?
Mild Autumn now resigns to rougher skies,
And frightful storms, in wild commotion, rise.
The tempest howls, while dark December reigns,
And scatters desolation o’er the plains.
Just as the sun bursts from the wintry cloud,
Which oft does now his native glory shroud,
Your welcome letter cheers my anxious soul;
For humour, wit, and friendship grace the whole.
Well pleas’d I find you on Parnassus’ hill;
The more I read, the more I prize your skill.
The Muses coy, you seem to catch with ease,
And unfatigu’d attain the art to please.
Go on, dear Nell, the laureate-wreath pursue,
In time perhaps you may receive your due.
We’ll beat the bushes for the rustic muse,
Where ev’ry dunce her inspiration sues.
’Mongst the vast crowd, let you and I aspire
To share a little of Apollo’s fire.
If Fortune prove, like Cupid, ever blind,
We may perhaps some petty favour find;
But if no more we gain by these our lays,
We’ll please ourselves with one another’s praise.
AN EPISTLE
_TO A LADY_.
_November, 1789._
While Morcham does your much lov’d presence share,
And Lydia’s health claims your maternal care,
O Madam, deign with candour to peruse
A rustic lay, presented by the Muse.
From Loudoun’s plains she now awakes the lyre,
And gladly would to arduous feats aspire.
On the smooth margin of the stream reclin’d,
She fondly hopes to please a taste refin’d.
What tho’ she boast of no peculiar charm,
That would the critic of his force disarm?
She humbly deprecates your doom severe,
And fain would wish to find you partial here.
The Muse alone does this indulgence claim,
Else it were impious such a thought to frame.
Would you from Morcham cast your mental eye,
And the recesses of our castle spy,
You’d see Honoria, in her elbow chair,
A mind at ease, thoughts unperplex’d with care;
With aspect mild, explore the sacred page,
Guide of her youth, and comfort of her age:
In conduct prudent, and in counsel wise;
Her friendship ev’ry virtuous mind must prize.
Then view the pair, in bonds of Hymen blest,
With little Cupid’s flutt’ring round their breast.
The bliss that’s mutual, all their thoughts employ,
Whose social hearts partake no selfish joy.
To please each other proves their constant aim,
While ev’ry act endears the tender claim.
Matilda too, your notice must demand;
To paint would here require a Raphael’s hand:
To trace the radient beauties of her mind,
Shall be a task for nobler pens assign’d.
I’d rather far her little foibles scan,
Though strict inspection finds no more than one.
Such anxious care on others she bestows,
She quite forgets what to herself she owes.
Vouchsafe the charming Celia next a look,
Her mind serene, and in her hand a book:
Eyes, which at will, can pleasure give or pain,
On stupid Humphry Clinker shine in vain.
As through the hall and kitchen now you pass,
Pray deign to peep among the lower class:
The cook’s at work; but, madam, who can know
Whether her hands or tongue more swiftly go?
They’re nimble both; but diff’rent is th’ effect;
One merits praise, the other disrespect.
Poor Mary sighs beneath a load of woes,
Hard and uneasy ev’ry turn she does:
How light soe’er the task, she’ll pond’ring say,
“Ah! Is there not a lion in the way?”
Will seems in haste his master’s boots to clean,
Old James is driving Turkeys o’er the green,
Our crazy-pated dairy-maid just now
Is scribbling o’er these senseless lines to you.
Hark! there’s a call, O pardon what I’ve penn’d;
I’m sure you’re glad my letter’s at an end.
FROM
_SNIPE_,
A FAVOURITE DOG,
TO HIS
MASTER.
_May, 1791._
O best of good masters, your mild disposition
Perhaps may induce you to read my petition:
Believe me in earnest, though acting the poet,
My breast feels the smart, and mine actions do shew it.
At morn when I rise, I go down to the kitchen,
Where oft I’ve been treated with kicking and switching.
There’s nothing but quiet, no toil nor vexation,
The cookmaid herself seems possess’d of discretion.
The scene gave surprise, and I could not but love it,
Then found ’twas because she had nothing to covet.
From thence to the dining-room I took a range sir,
My heart swells with grief when I think of the change there;
No dishes well dress’d, with their flavour to charm me,
Nor even so much as a fire to warm me.
For bread I ransack ev’ry corner with caution,
Then trip down the stair in a terrible passion.
I go with old James, when the soss is a dealing,
But brutes are voracious and void of all feeling;
They quickly devour’t; not a morsel they leave me,
And then by their growling ill nature they grieve me.
My friend Jenny Little pretends to respect me,
And yet sir at meal-time she often neglects me:
Of late she her breakfast with me would have parted,
But now eats it all, so I’m quite broken hearted.
O haste back to Loudoun, my gentle good master,
Relieve your poor Snipy from ev’ry disaster.
A sight of yourself would afford me much pleasure,
A share of your dinner an excellent treasure,
Present my best wishes unto the good lady,
Whose plate and potatoes to me are ay ready:
When puss and I feasted so kindly together;
But now quite forlorn we condole with each other.
No more I’ll insist, lest your patience be ended;
I beg by my scrawl, sir, you’ll not be offended;
But mind, when you see me ascending Parnassus,
The need that’s of dogs there to drive down the Asses.
ON THE
_DEATH OF J----. H----. Esq._
JUNE, 1790.
Ere Phœbus’ beams exhal’d the pearly dew,
While hoary moisture all the fields o’erspread,
Where ozier cypress, and the drooping yew,
Had form’d a musing melancholy shade.
Belinda sat, bedew’d with briny tears,
The echoing grove her deep-fetch’d sighs retain;
Her plaintive note distress’d my list’ning ears,
While in low accents thus she did complain.
“And is the pleasing scene, alas! no more!
Corrosive grief now on my vitals prey!
Distress’d, in sighs I spend the heavy hour,
Nor feel of comfort one auspicious ray!
Now gloomy visions hover round my bed,
More sadd’ning thoughts my waking hours employ!
Hope’s balmy whispers are for ever fled,
And far remov’d is ev’ry gleam of joy!
My former days can never more return;
Each future prospect darkens on my view;
Life’s rugged paths seem dreary and forlorn;
No kindly hand does there sweet flow’rets strew.
Alas! on life’s tempestuous ocean tost,
Become a prey to each high swelling wave,
My ev’ry hope of happiness is lost----
Laid in the silent, solitary grave!
No more, O death! thy pointed shafts I dread!
Thy keenest darts I hourly wish to share;
Since my lov’d Henry’s number’d with the dead,
Nought in this world can now engage my care!
Ah! what to me avails the radiant sky,
The verdant meadow, or the vocal grove?
No kind companion shares the melting joy,
And tunes his lute to melody and love.
He was----but oh! no language can express----
What my lov’d Henry ever was to me:
My joy in health, my support in distress,
My lover, friend, and tender husband he.
For me a parent’s love he did forego,
With all the pleasures of his native shore:
On me alone did ev’ry care bestow;
He saw me happy, and he wish’d no more.
Keen recollection animates my pain,
And all my pleasures past augment my woes;
Yet fond remembrance shall those joys retain,
While vital life within this bosom flows.”
Thus spoke Belinda, on the turf reclin’d;
No ray of hope her sadd’ning fancy cheer’d:
When from a thicket, as by heav’n design’d,
A nymph celestial in her sight appear’d.
Her flowing robes wav’d in the ambient air;
A flow’ry wreath her modest temples grac’d;
Her presence kindly smooth’d the brow of care,
And all the horrors of the scene effac’d.
Array’d in heav’nly smiles she onward came;
Vain phantoms her superior pow’r confest:
She view’d the sad, dejected, mournful dame,
And thus in soothing accents her address’d.
“Do not Belinda at thy fate repine,
Nor by thy tears augment the pond’rous load;
The lovely youth must be no longer thine:
He’s gone, such is the sov’reign will of God.
He’s gone to flourish in a fairer soil,
A plant too noble for this noxious clime:
Where virtue must triumphant ever smile,
He’ll share of joys extatic and sublime.
Vain are thy sorrows, vain the sighs of those,
Who did his favour or his friendship share:
He’s gone beyond the reach of human woes,
Above the weight of ev’ry worldly care.
Pure were the virtues center’d in his breast,
With unassuming rectitude they sway’d:
His tongue the dictates of his heart express’d,
While his mild manners more than words convey’d!
But human bliss is of a transient date,
Nor permanent thy woes, tho’ now severe:
Soon shall you meet in a celestial state,
And then no more the pangs of parting fear.
ON THE
_BIRTH OF J----. H----. Esq.’s SON_.
NOVEMBER 15, 1790.
Dear lovely babe, with hearts elate,
We hail thy natal hour:
Here does the Muse impatient wait,
Libations kind to pour.
Upon a theme so new, so sweet,
She now attempts to sing:
No foreign aid she needs invite,
To touch the vocal string.
But while with anxious thoughts on thee,
And ardent look, I gaze,
Can I the valiant hero see,
To animate my lays?
The plodding philosophic eye,
Shall I attempt to scan?
Or in thy infant smiles descry
The politicians plan?
Too hard the task, my humble muse
Can boast of no such art;
Though hope, on flutt’ring pinions does
All this and more impart.
While fondl’d by a mother kind,
Thou checks the falling tears,
When thy lov’d father to her mind
In ev’ry charm appears.
His features sweet, attractive, mild,
Each soft, each winning grace,
She does in thee, her darling child,
With fond remembrance trace.
And that the virtues he possess’d
May in thy bosom glow,
She does indulgent heav’n request,
Who mitigates her wo.
May he, on whom her hope relies,
Protect thy lovely form,
While sudden blasts impetuous rise
In life’s tempestuous storm.
For thee, be calm the rolling flood,
Be still the blust’ring wave:
May’st thou be bless’d with every good
A mother’s heart can crave.
ON A
GENTLEMAN’S
PROPOSING TO TRAVEL 300 MILES
_TO SEE J----. H----. Esq.’s CHILD_.
Is it true! does Alonzo from London propose
A visit to Scotia’s bleak plain,
Ere the beams of bright Sol have dispersed our snows,
Or the warblers enliven’d their strain?
Does the city prove irksome, insipid the ball,
Nor the theatre claim a delay?
Is it friendship or int’rest that ushers the call,
Which he seems in such haste to obey?
I ask’d, and in whispers, by Fame I was told,
That his heart was by int’rest unmov’d,
That the ties of pure friendship were stronger than gold,
And it’s exquisite charms he had prov’d.
But ah! he is gone, whose reception so kind,
Would have fully compensate his toil!
Can the sight of a babe give solace to his mind,
Or reward the fatigue by a smile?
Let the trifling vain clamours of stoics be mute,
While friendship directeth the scales:
Let them wonder, but never attempt to dispute,
While self o’er their feelings prevails.
In vain let them guess what Alonzo must know,
Since friendship each action inspires;
His presence will tend to alleviate wo,
That done, it is all he desires.
_VERSES_
WRITTEN ON A FOREIGNER’S VISITING THE GRAVE
OF A SWISS GENTLEMAN, BURIED AMONG THE
DESCENDENTS OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE,
GUARDIAN OF SCOTLAND IN
THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
Our regal seat to Edward fallen a prey,
Our Chief’s insulted corse his victim lay;
Our ruin’d land no monument could raise;
Yet grateful bards still sung his heart-felt praise.
Long ages hence her hero still she’ll mourn;
Still her brave sons with emulation burn.
His spirit guarding still our native place,
Proclaims this mandate to his latest race:
“Let sacred truth bid living fame be thine;
“Ne’er trust for honour to a sculptur’d shrine.
“Those modest merits marbles ne’er impart,
“Love writes them deepest on the human heart.”
Thus mid thy race did their lov’d Henry dwell,
Whose dust shall mix thy memory with Tell[3]:
Truth, honour, spirit, animate that form,
Which beauty, grace, and symmetry adorn.
Here that rich blossom dropp’d, scarce fairly blown;
The friend, the husband, father we bemoan!
Wail by the grave a mother’s cheerless throes,
And share a widow’s agonizing woes!
Dear youth, thy name to latest time descends,
Where gentle virtues made mankind thy friends.
From no vain marble need you borrow fame;
Truth, love and friendship, here embalm thy name.
A parent’s silver hairs bestrew thy shrine;
Her griefs were mortal, but her joys sublime:
In tears we mourn the body laid to rest;
She hails thy spotless soul ’mid angels blest.
[3] A famous Swiss chief
FROM
_PHILANDER TO EUMENES_.
With pleasure I your welcome letter read,
While Cupid for a little from me fled.
With freedom write, dispel your trivial fears;
There’s nought presumptuous in your song appears;
Tho’ strange th’ ideas which you now convey,
While you our lovely females thus portray.
No doubt, there are, in the promiscuous crowd,
The worthless fair, the virtuous and the good;
The haughty nymph, the maid of humble mind;
Th’ imperious, yea, the gentle and the kind;
Such as an adamantine heart could charm,
And furious tygers of their rage disarm.
In all vicissitudes of human life,
Man’s greatest blessing is a virtuous wife:
Her smiles can’t fail to sooth his anxious breast,
Diffusing joy, while various cares molest:
Her prudent counsel swift relief can bring,
As Abigail appeased Isr’el’s king.
Nor need I thus the sacred annals trace,
In Britain’s Isle they claim the highest place;
When dire oppression, with uplifted hand,
His yoke extended o’er our native land,
Our sires to abject slavery were doom’d,
Our mothers all their ancient claims resum’d:
You’ll say my speeches do me partial prove,
And so ascribe the cruel cause to love.
Are you alone exempt from such a guest?
Are you of every antidote possess’d
T’ effect a cure, or mitigate the pain?
Then may the archer cast his shafts in vain.
Of late dear friend I did such valour boast;
But by one fatal glance the field was lost.
While you are free of dangers, still beware;
Be warn’d by me, and shun th’ alluring snare.
It is by some deem’d cowardice to fly,
But sure it more ignoble is to die:
To die, I’m frantic, sir; what did I say?
Reason once more resume thy wonted sway;
Kind heaven defend us from such dire alarms;
Who would a victim fall to female charms?
I find I’m better while your lines I read,
I’m almost from my Gallic fetters free’d.
As you alone were partner of my grief,
Pray now congratulate my quick relief.
I would not by prolixity offend;
Both bound and free, Philander is your friend.
_SYLVIA AND ARMEDA._
ARMEDA.
Why dost thou Sylvia pensive sit?
Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow?
Oft hast thou cheer’d us by thy wit,
Why thus reserv’d and sullen now?
Hast thou thy little lap-dog lost?
Can Celia’s dress excite envy?
Is Flavia now the fav’rite toast,
Or dost thou for a lover sigh?
SYLVIA.
Be Flavia still the toast of beaux;
Such trifles ne’er could give me pain:
But know the cause of all my woes,
The dear Alonzo’s left the plain.