Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 43

Fragment Of Song

The night was still, and o'er the hill The moon shone on the castle wa'; The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang Around her on the castle wa'; Sae merrily they danced the ring Frae eenin' till the c.o.c.k did craw; And aye the o'erword o' the spring Was "Irvine's bairns are bonie a'."

Epigram On Rough Roads

I'm now arrived--thanks to the G.o.ds!-- Thro' pathways rough and muddy, A certain sign that makin roads Is no this people's study: Altho' Im not wi' Scripture cram'd, I'm sure the Bible says That heedless sinners shall be d.a.m.n'd, Unless they mend their ways.

[Footnote 8: A compliment to the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, on the Feal or Faile, a tributary of the Ayr.]

[Footnote 9: Mrs. Stewart of Stair, an early patroness of the poet.]

[Footnote 10: The house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

Prayer--O Thou Dread Power

Lying at a reverend friend's house one night, the author left the following verses in the room where he slept:--

O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love, I make this prayer sincere.

The h.o.a.ry Sire--the mortal stroke, Long, long be pleas'd to spare; To bless this little filial flock, And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth.

In manhood's dawning blush, Bless him, Thou G.o.d of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish.

The beauteous, seraph sister-band-- With earnest tears I pray-- Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide Thou their steps alway.

When, soon or late, they reach that coast, O'er Life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heaven!

Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr

Tune--"Roslin Castle."

"I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land."--R. B.

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor.

The scatt'red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn By early Winter's ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal, deadly sh.o.r.e; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!

My peace with these, my love with those: The bursting tears my heart declare-- Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

Address To The Toothache

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, An' thro' my lug gies mony a tw.a.n.g, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor's sympathy can ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee--thou h.e.l.l o' a' diseases-- Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup!

In a' the numerous human dools, Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools,-- Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools, Thou bear'st the gree!

Where'er that place be priests ca' h.e.l.l, Where a' the tones o' misery yell, An' ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore, a shoe-thick, Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A townmond's toothache!

Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1

This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third,

[Footnote 1: At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprackl'd up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts, Nay, been b.i.t.c.h-fou 'mang G.o.dly priests-- Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!-- I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord!--stand out my shin, A Lord--a Peer--an Earl's son!

Up higher yet, my bonnet An' sic a Lord!--lang Scoth ells twa, Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', As I look o'er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth's magic pow'r!

To show Sir Bardie's w.i.l.l.yart glow'r, An' how he star'd and stammer'd, When, goavin, as if led wi' branks, An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidying shelter'd in a nook, An' at his Lordship steal't a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee, An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, The gentle pride, the lordly state, The arrogant a.s.suming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman.