O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
[Illustration: Man Protectively Embracing Woman]
Or, as he meets the wind--still bleak, though now it is midday,--a cold
wind charged with latent snow,--its chilly breaths are crystallized into
a very jewel of song.
O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or were I Monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen.
Presently he turns his horse's head towards Dumfries. It is market-day
in the town, and a score of friends give him clamorous welcome. They may
not fully appreciate Rob's mental equipments, but they greet him as the
best of good companions: and in a little while he forms the leading
spirit of some excited group, discussing matters social and political.
For Burns takes the keenest interest in current events: and, though most
of his poems may be of a more ephemeral interest, he is capable, when
deeply stirred, of expressing himself with a stern and lofty patriotism.
It may be inspired by the events of the present: it often is evoked by
glories of the past.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to Victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power--
Chains and Slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a Slave?
Let him turn and flee!
* * * * *
Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!--
Let us Do--or Die!!!
Seated in the inn among his cronies, "as market-days are wearing late,"
the dour and bitter looks of the poet are exchanged for glowing eyes and
laughing lips, while he recites some of the lines which he has wedded to
old and familiar melodies. As Moore, a little later, secured for the
Irish airs a world-wide reputation, by supplying them with words of a
more popular character than their own--so Burns re-wrote the songs of
his country. Thousands of people who never heard of "The Highland
Watch's Farewell" have carolled that melody to his delightful verses,
My heart is sair--I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for Somebody;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake o' Somebody:
Oh-hon! for Somebody!
Oh-hey! for Somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake o' Somebody.
Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on Somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my Somebody!
Oh-hon! for Somebody!
Oh-hey! for Somebody!
I wad do--what would I not?
For the sake o' Somebody.
As time wears by, Burns pulls out a manuscript from his pocket, and
reads his latest poem to a hilarious audience: a very masterpiece, they
acclaim it. The legend and the scenery are awhile familiar to them: but
they have never heard the tale told thus before, as Burns has immortalized
it in "Tam o' Shanter."
... 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!
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 takes the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
* * * * *
Weel mounted on his grey meare Meg
(A better never lifted leg),
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er an auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry.
* * * * *
... The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
* * * * *
... And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillion, brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
(_Tam o' Shanter._)
But now it is time that Burns, like his hero, should take the homeward
road. He calls for his horse, parts from his boisterous comrades, and
rides out into the wintry evening. Nithsdale is a land of lovely sunsets:
and against the rose and gold of heaven, the poet sees the homely
cottage-smoke of earth, thin spirals of blue vapour, speaking of happy
hearths and labour ended. It is several years since Burns, standing with
Douglas Stewart upon the Braid Hills, declared that to him the worthiest
object in the whole bright morning landscape was the cluster of smoking
cottages. But still he regards them with affection and enjoyment: and
chiefly his eyes are bent towards that quiet homestead which holds his
own dear folk. All the peace which that stormy heart can find is set and
centred there: despite all previous fugitive fancies for Jessie, and
Peggie, and Phemie, and the rest, he has found calm happiness with his
Jean, the most devoted of wives.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between:
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair,
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
She comes out into the twilight to meet him, and his emotion shapes
itself, on the instant, into song.
This is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho' the lassie be;
Weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e'e.
I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place;
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are lovers' een,
When kind love is in the e'e.
It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her e'e.
The servants, sitting at the same table, according to Scottish farm
custom, share his simple evening meal: and subsequently, before the
children's bedtime, the master speaks with seriousness to his household,
and reads aloud some passages from the Holy Book.
Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
"And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
"And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
"Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
"Implore His counsel and assisting might:
"They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."
* * * * *
Then homeward all take off their several way,
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.
(_The Cotter's Saturday Night._)
_Painting by Dudley Hardy_.