The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 12

"A countra 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.

"A bonnie la.s.s, ye kend 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.

"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 paid for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d--mn'd dirt:

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though 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'!"

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: Buchan's Domestic Medicine.]

[Footnote 7: The grave-digger.]

XVI.

THE TWA HERDS:

OR,

THE HOLY TULZIE.

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns, "with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause."]

O a' ye pious G.o.dly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the d.y.k.es?

The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, O! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle And think it fine: The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle Sin' I ha'e min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, To wear the plaid, But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,-- O sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height, And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or n.o.bly fling the gospel club, And New-Light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in.

Sic twa--O! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet, An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi'en, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein'!

An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree.

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset; There's scarce a new herd that we get But comes frae mang that cursed set I winna name; I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, We thought ay death wad bring relief, But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cow the lairds, And get the brutes the powers themsels To choose their herds;

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France: Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, M'Gill's close nervous excellence, M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, And guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

XVII.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

"And send the G.o.dly in a pet to pray."

POPE.

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in ma.n.u.script were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward observances, and, what is known by the name of a "professing Christian." He experienced, however, a "sore fall;"

he permitted himself to be "filled fou," and in a moment when "self got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.]

O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to h.e.l.l, A' for thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts and grace, A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just d.a.m.nation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plunged me in h.e.l.l, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whar d.a.m.ned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly l.u.s.t; And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin.

O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi' Meg-- Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O! may't ne'er be a livin' plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi' Lizzie's la.s.s, three times I trow-- But Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I came near her, Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.