The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 40

LXVIII.

LINES

ON

MEETING WITH LORD DAER.

["The first time I saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, "was on the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his work was known to the public." Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary's Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.]

This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at druken 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!

And sic a Lord!--lang Scotch ells twa, Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', As I look o'er my sonnet.

But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r!

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

I sidling 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.

Then from his lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another; Nae honest worthy man need care To meet with n.o.ble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother.

LXIX.

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

["I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend Chalmers, "which I have carded and spun since I pa.s.sed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, 'Fair B----,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The "Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.]

I.

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!

From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labour plies; There Architecture's n.o.ble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail!

And never envy blot their name!

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!

Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine!

V.

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar, Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and ma.s.sy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood a.s.sailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that n.o.ble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!

Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's b.l.o.o.d.y lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply, my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!

VIII.

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!

From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the hanks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

LXX.

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.

[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.]

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!

Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But tak' it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, Some black bog-hole, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!

Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O' this wild warl', Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl.